Masks
by L. Mouse
Summary: After Egypt, the Autobots cannot remain a secret. Can they make a new home for themselves on Earth? Can they defend Earth from a new threat? Ensemble cast, with numerous mechs imported from G1. Note warnings.
1. Chapter 1

* * *

Author's notes:

This was really supposed to be a shorter story! I just can't write 'short' for the life of me.

I don't generally put that many warnings on my stories, but I will for this one. Bluntly, it's got a threesome in it, and it's got slash, in that 'slash' involves alien robots without true genders, who are using male pronouns. The threesome is the obvious one. Eventually. After lots of angst and personal growth.

* * *

Nobody, not even Bumblebee, remembered about the contents of the metal ammunition case in 'Bee's's trunk for four hectic days following the attempt by Decepticons to destroy the world.

There was just so much to do. For twenty-four hours they remained on the aircraft carrier. There were debriefings, Autobot meetings, Autobot meetings with Sam, soldier-plus-Autobot meetings, and meetings with the soldiers _and _Sam, and all of this taking place amid a series of badly needed repairs for all the 'bots. He'd personally taken quite a bit of damage and when Ratchet summoned him to the makeshift med bay tent on deck, repairs took several hours. At least Ratchet also managed to cobble together a new fix to his badly damaged voice box using a jury-rigged human made part and some plasma.

He'd taken battle damage from Megatron years ago. The replacement part for a proper repair was on order, had been for what felt like forever, and _might _arrive on the next transport ship. Maybe.

Sam probably hadn't slept much for days before the final fire fight, and yet, after Bee got Ratchet's all clear to return to duty, he discovered that Sam was still up and on his feet. Sam and Optimus were out on the deck, in the dark, having some sort of interview with some sort of general with lots of braids on his shoulders. Bee didn't recognize him. Bee didn't care. Bee wouldn't have cared if the man was the president himself, at this point. Sam had clearly had enough. So, for that matter, had 'Bee.

Sam was clutching a coffee cup in one hand, and rubbing his eyes with the other, and he looked like death warmed over. He was visibly swaying on his feet -- literally weaving back and forth, and as Bee walked across the metal flight deck. He purposefully made lots of noise, yet Sam barely looked up and only gave him the faintest ghost of a smile of greeting. The human had showered and had been given a pair of fatigues at some point, but he was still covered in bruises. That was ample evidence and reminder that Sam had literally _died_ out there on the desert sands. And yet they were asking more of him.

Bee gave Optimus a look of reproach, wrapped a hand around Sam's shoulders, and addressed both the high-ranking officer (whoever the hell he was) and Optimus with a firm, "Sam needs some sleep."

Optimus blinked his optics a couple of times and ran a hand over his face in a gesture that he'd certainly deliberately copied from humans. Optimus's face lacked much expression and he tried to make up for it with copied human body language. Optimus said, "Bee has a point. I believe Sam needs some rest. Shall we continue this tomorrow?"

Bee figured Optimus needed a recharge just about as much as Sam did, actually, as well as some major repairs. He said, "They're waiting for you in the repair tent, Big Boss."

Optimus looked like he wanted to decline the suggestion. Bee, who had known Optimus for almost as long as he'd been alive -- which was a good bit longer than human civilization had existed -- met his leader's eyes with a silent look. He knew Optimus would keep going until he physically couldn't, and Ratchet had to _carry _the boss bot to the tent. He also knew they needed Optimus in good working order, both mentally and physically fit. Megatron was still out there somewhere. Bee wasn't about to tell Optimus to go get fixed. He didn't have Ratchet's bravado, or temper. But he hoped Optimus would take his muted suggestion, because it was so crystal clear that he'd pushed himself far enough.

They both blinked simultaneously, and Optimus said, "I do need repairs and I believe everyone else is done. General Heinz, we can continue this discussion tomorrow ..."

Bee practically sagged in place with relief.

"I still had a few more questions, if you wouldn't mind. We can wrap this up after that," Heinz cut Optimus off. The general didn't sound like a man used to being argued with, and he was apparently not afraid of robots.

Bee had just faced down the last Prime without flinching too much. He wasn't any more afraid of generals than he was of Mrs. Witwicky's annoying toy dogs. Also, in his experience, when it came to the military and the Autobots, "a few questions" was generally "a few hundred questions" and would take _hours_. He searched through his music files and came up with an appropriately pithy clip, "Beat it, just beat it ..."

The general went first white, then red. Before he could protest, however, Bumblebee firmly but gently steered Sam several feet away from the officer. Then he transformed, popped open the passenger side door, and was gratified when Sam tumbled into the seat without complaint and with only a mumbled, "Thanks, Bee ..." Sam was asleep before Bee could even tint the windows all the way dark.

He never did think about the metal case, and its contents, in his trunk. He was too busy worrying about Sam, who muttered and cried out in his sleep with vicious nightmares. And he had hours of auto-repair sequences to run through himself before he could take time to recharge. Ratchet had fixed the worst of the gross damage, but he had myriad tiny circuits and relays to fix, or route around, plus quite a few dents and dings that needed to be healed. Long experience on the battlefield had taught him to do his repairs first, rest later, no matter how tempting several hours of dreaming was. He could, if forced, fight sleepy. Fighting while broken was harder.

And to his frustration, somewhere along the way, a repair conflicted with the damned voicebox, rendering him mute again ... he was still running diagnostics on that when Optimus announced they were moving out the next morning. His Cybertronian circuits didn't want to play nice with earth technology, and were throwing up errors and refusing to talk to the voice box's chip and claiming the output voltage was wrong, and he just couldn't puzzle out a solution to the problem. He thought the voicebox might be about to crap out again completely.

He finally got his recharge on the plane, and never did get his slagging voice working.

The next day and a half was occupied by getting home -- they might have taken a direct flight to Egypt, but the trip back was longer and far more tedious, with multiple stops at multiple military bases. Along the way, there were press conferences. The secret was well and truly out of the bag, and somewhat to Bee's surprise, someone very high up the chain of command in the military authorized Optimus and Sam to talk to the media. Indeed, they were being encouraged. Bumblebee got the distinct impression that this was called "damage control" -- somebody On High had decided that since they couldn't hide the existence of the robots anymore, at least they could let Optimus be charismatic and dramatic in public. Given that Optimus's charisma and sense of drama knew no bounds, and given the human love for such theatrics, Bumblebee figured it was a reasonably workable plan. It certainly appealed to him more than hiding in a garage.

But somewhat to his relief Bee's malfunctioning voicebox gave him a perfect and very welcome excuse to avoid the media. He would prefer to remain low profile, or at least as low profile as a large yellow robot that turned into a Camaro could manage. Let Optimus be the face of the 'bots. He was better at it.

Sam returned after one of those interviews to the transport plane with a laptop computer in his hands. He flung himself into onto a bench beside Bumblebee and grumbled, "The President wants Optimus to have a Myspace page. And a Twitter account. And there was something about Youtube ... Optimus suggested that _I _design them."

"I have an aircard," Bee pointed out because Sam sounded frazzled, and Optimus had been pushing him hard all day. All the Autobots had both internal cellular and wireless modems. The most complicated part of getting the Autobots internet access had been figuring out how to pay for the cell phone bills without the accounts being traceable by the military or Megatron.

The Big Boss was just too busy, however, to do more than use his to make actual cel phone _calls_. Optimus could certainly figure out the very crude programming languages that the humans used in one human heartbeat. However, dealing with human computers took time and patience as transmission and processing speeds were very painfully slow. On the other hand, Bumblebee generally had lots of free time. It wouldn't stress his processors at all to guard Sam and simultaneously deal with a world wide computer network that had transmission speeds measured by the freaking _gigabyte_. They were still using binary on this world and quantum computers were mostly theoretical!

_And we really need to make sure our cell cards are compatible with global systems_, Bee thought, ruefully. Half the drama in Egypt and Jordan could have been avoided if they'd picked a cell phone carrier that worked overseas. Autobot body armor was very resistant to EMP. Arcee was supposed to be working on that project, as well as getting them fitted for satellite phones. Human technology just simply left much to be desired ...

Sam had given him a startled look in reaction to his words. It was a measure of how tired Sam was, however, that his response came slowly. "Hey, you fixed your speech synthesizer. Cool."

It had been fixed for about twelve hours, but the men with the cameras didn't need to know that. As far as anyone official knew, he was still mute. Bumblebee shrugged. He'd finally found the source of the glitch, with a little help from Ratchet and Arcee. He could talk for now, at least until the next time the damned chip burned out.

"You know how to design web pages ...?" Sam trailed off, stared at him, then slapped himself in the forehead. "Of course you do. You're probably loads better at it than I am, given the amount of time I know you spend online. Have at it, Bee. This project's all yours."

And so Bumblebee spent the next several hours getting the Autobots an online presence. It was less of a surreal exercise than one would expect; he and Optimus and the others had been together so long that this was not the first time they'd made contact with an alien race.

Humans were quickly becoming one of his most favorite species. Emotionally and intellectually, they were so much like Autobots it was sometimes unnerving. For other races, however, he had handled PR before. _Not _the public speaking part, thank you very much, because that was Optimus's job and Optimus could keep it, but the behind-the-scenes make-it-all-run-smoothly parts. Those he was good at. While he was working on the pages, he also got the contact information for the various media outlets from Optimus and made sure to pass his e-mail address on to them. Optimus was too busy to be checking his gmail ten times a day. Bumblebee, entrusted with Sam-watching, generally had lots of free time.

He did all that, and he still didn't think about the metal ammo case in his trunk. The contents remained silent. If asked where the contents had ended up he would have responded with a puzzled and fuzzy, "Did we leave him in Egypt?" He had a vague memory of Mikaela tossing something in his trunk after that last firefight, but he hadn't entirely been sure what it was as his circuits had been thoroughly rattled and his processor had not been firing on all cylinders at the time. Whatever she had thrown in his trunk was small enough that he could subspace it when he transformed, and he had been too busy to get curious about it.

They arrived back in the United States early in the morning, three days after they'd saved the world. There was another press conference. Optimus was charismatic, Sam was tired, the soldiers were soldierly. Bumblebee kept his vocalizer off, nobody asked him any questions, and he was happy with that.

Then they had a funeral to plan, for Jetfire, and human funerals to attend. The Autobots paid their respects by video links to the human funerals to avoid a media frenzy, but they _did _make a point of honoring all of the dead. After they'd done that, they interred the old Decepticon in his final resting place. At that funeral, out of respect for Jetfire, Optimus only allowed one cameraman -- but he _did _allow, and even insist, on a single reporter.

"Ironhide," he'd said, sounding tired, when Ironhide had tried to object to the presence of the reporter, singular, "I would prefer privacy too, but if the humans see that we mourn our dead as they do, it will help them see us as people and not mere alien machines. And humanity has a right to pay their respects to him as well, as he has saved their world for them. I think Jetfire would not mind the reporter."

Bumblebee personally suspected that Jetfire's resting place might someday become a shrine. For now, it was on military land, and they were deliberately restricting access. The body held secrets that the Autobots were not yet ready to share with hostile human governments. They'd stripped it of anything they didn't want the _Americans _to have, as they did not exactly trust their human host country's government.

Pretty much every TV channel in the world carried the feed of the funeral. A picture of Optimus, on one knee beside the tomb, head bowed, made the front page of most major news magazines.

And after that was done, finally, at last, Bumblebee could actually _rest_. It had been six days of nonstop, utter, complete and total chaos. Bee's heart was broken, for the fallen humans and for Jetfire, and only after everything was done and he had a moment to actually sit down and _think _did it all hit him. Friends had died. _Optimus _had died, and Sam had brought him back.

And Sam had died. And then Sam had come back, which was a much more remarkable thing than any robot being revived.

And the world had nearly been destroyed, the sun gone. Humans -- _his _humans -- had nearly died a cold, miserable, agonizing death on a sunless Earth. Oh, they might have been able to save their friends, in the short term, but humans were so frail. Could humans survive the hard radiation of the void between stars, even with tons of shielding? He wasn't sure. Perhaps if they had decades to prepare a ship, and life support systems, and to select a group of humans who mentally and physically could withstand the rigors. If the Fallen had succeeded, they would have only had days, not years. The entire race might have been destroyed.

He liked humans. He had, from the moment he'd heard their music and their laughter, and had realized they'd found a kindred species. And they'd come so close to losing the entire race -- not just his humans, but all humans.

Suddenly, Bumblebee couldn't stay in the hanger even one second longer. He transformed and rolled out, not entirely sure where he was headed at first. However, they'd buried Jetfire on a peaceful riverbank on base land, and it was there that Bumblebee found himself driving.

"Hey, old timer," he said aloud, to the tomb, because his voice box _was _working for the moment, "how's it going?"

It was a stupid, inane thing to say, but Jetfire wasn't exactly going to respond back with snark, so Bee parked beside the grave. There had not been much left after Optimus had borrowed Jetfire's parts and then they'd further stripped him of classified bits -- just a chassis and some random pieces of silvery metal. Those remains were interred in a deep concrete crypt. The top of the crypt had both the Decepticon and Autobot emblems etched in it, plus a stylized line drawing of Earth, and a single word in the Autobot language that roughly translated to _With Honor_.

He sat there alone, or so he thought, for a good hour. He needed the peace and quiet to think, and to process everything that had happened, and ...

"Hey!"

Bumblebee jumped.

"Hello?" A thin, small voice complained from somewhere in the vicinity of Bumbebee's back tires, "Hello? Warrior Goddess?"

For a moment, he thought he'd run over somebody. Then he remembered, finally, at last: Wheelie.

Meditation rudely interrupted, Bumblebee ejected the box from his trunk with a quick shake and a partial transformation. Wheelie protested the treatment with scream. "Auuugh! I thought the fighting was over!"

Bumblebee transformed the rest of the way, and picked the metal box up off the ground. He squinted at the latch, and then managed to get it open by flicking it a couple of times with his finger. Wheelie took one look at Bee looming over him and tried to run. Bumblebee stepped on his chain, bringing the Decepticon up short. Grimly, he said, "You've been in my trunk for _days_."

"You could have let me out any time," Wheelie cowered. "I thought it was still dangerous out there!"

Bumblebee contemplated just squishing the Decepticon. Wheelie had helped them, yes, but he'd done so under threat of death or dismemberment. And he'd done rude things to Mikaela's foot. He was just _annoying. _'Bee had no problems with killing little Decepticons -- he'd eliminated a few tens of thousands of the obnoxious pests over his lifetime. If you wanted to fight with Optimus, you couldn't be squeamish about necessary killing. Over that time, he'd met a few like Wheelie, who pretended to be allies until they could betray the Autobots for whatever tiny scrap of approval they might earn from the Decepticon commanders.

_Fangface_, he recalled, with a mental flinch.

Wheelie was cringing against Jetfire's tomb.

The pest had been in his trunk through several dozen classified meetings, one or two emotionally sensitive conversations with Optimus and Sam, and a few instances of flirting with Mikaela that he heartily hoped Wheelie had not recorded, because the occasional bit of outrageous flirting with Mikaela was simply fun and far more innocent than Sam would likely assume. It wasn't as if the joking between them would, or could, ever go _anywhere ... _Wheelie could easily have saved any or all of that audio.

Given the first bit -- the fact that the Decepticon would have overheard considerable sensitive information -- he was almost morally obligated to destroy him.

"Please! I'll be good! Don't kill me!" Wheelie had his good eye irised shut and his hands held up defensively.

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Bumblebee demanded, leaning over -- close enough to swat the Decepticon flat, but not so close that Wheelie could strike back with a surprise attack. He had a healthy respect for the fighting abilities of even the tiniest of Decepticons. "You've been in my trunk for six days."

"I was scared!" Wheelie was begging. "I didn't hear the girl. She would protect me! Did she die? Please tell me she didn't die ... _don't kill me!_"

Bumblebee withdrew a bit, considering. Wheelie's fear was legitimate, enough to crack the little mech's normal sarcastic bluster. Bumblebee was _still _tempted to just squish him. The 'bot was pressed up against the concrete of the tomb. Bumblebee could just smack him with the palm of his hand, crack his spark container wide open, and be done with it. He had overheard sensitive information, he was a Decepticon, and that should have been all Bumblebee needed to know.

"Jetfire said ... Jetfire said I didn't _have _to be a bad guy." Wheelie peered up at Bumblebee through his own fingers. He was visibly shaking, and Bee figured if he wasn't standing on Wheelie's chain, the Decepticon would have been long gone.

"Damnit." His sentimentality could get them killed, but he couldn't bring himself to kill the Decepticon specifically _because _he was plastered against Jetfire's tomb. Bumblebee reached down. Wheelie shrieked. Bee, however, simply closed his hand around the tiny robot and picked him up. He held the little 'bot up at nose level. "Do anything to hurt my friends and I will personally step on you. Is that clear?"

"I-I-I understand," Wheelie stammered. He was cowering again.

Bumblebee unceremoniously dropped the Decepticon back to the ground. He transformed and popped the passenger door. "Get in. _Don't _make me regret this."

Wheelie was silent, hunched in the seat, for several moments, as Bumblebee navigated his way back to the the hanger. Finally he said, "What happened to the Warrior Goddess?"

"Mikaela went home. She'll be back this weekend." Bumblebee paused, considered the question, then added, "Hump her foot again and I will render you for scrap."

"But I like her ..."

Bumblebee started to slow down and pull over. He didn't actually intend to squish Wheelie at this point, but the threat worked -- Wheelie went quiet. _Good_, Bumblebee thought. The robot's very voice, nevermind his cringing, grated on Bumblebee's nerves. Bee thought, irritably. _This is all probably an act -- in ten thousand years, he'll be another Starscream. He's just picking the side he thinks is most likely to win right now. It's not about right or wrong. It's about self interest._

He kept an eye on Wheelie with an optic sensor in the cab. The little robot was now hiding in the footwell, and he was still shaking. _Slag it. A Decepticon would have absolutely no problems with terminating a similar Autobot youngling_.

_I guess that's what makes me an Autobot. I won't do it. Even if I know he's going to betray us eventually, I _will not _kill a being who is asking to join our fight. Particularly not a child._

* * *

Optimus might not have much expression on his face, but he could sure manage to express incredulity with his voice. "He was in your trunk how long?"

"Six days." Bee met Optimus's gaze, then looked sharply away. He'd screwed up. Optimus would probably have a few stern words with him as soon as they had a moment alone, face to face, out of earshot of anyone else. There would only be a few -- Optimus could pack quite a lecture into one or two sentences. _I'm disappointed in you, Bumblebee. I always expect more from you. _He could hear Optimus's words already. He wasn't looking forward to that discussion, because he _had _let Optimus down.

Optimus turned his attention to Wheelie, who was hiding behind Bumblebee's foot. "What is your name, youngling?"

Wheelie peered out, then said with some surprise, "Hey! You're Optimus Prime! I'm in the presence of the greatest and most glorious leader ever known to our kind!"

"He answers to Wheelie, according to Mikaela." Bumblebee reached down, picked the little Decepticon up between thumb and forefinger, and held him up for Optimus to see. "Says he wants to join us. Jetfire inspired him, I guess."

Optimus made a noise similar to a human clearing his throat. Bee drooped, realizing he had let his leader down again, and this time he wasn't sure how or why. He suspected he'd find out later.

"I apologize for how they have treated you," Optimus said, holding a hand out, palm up. Bumblebee dropped the Decepticon into Optimus's fingers. Optimus did not close his fist around Wheelie as Bumblebee expected, however. He simply held his hand up, flat, at eye level with himself. The chain pooled around Wheelie's feet, and Wheelie's shaking had stopped. Optimus studied him, then said, "You've been injured."

"The Warrior Goddess did it. Badge of honor."

"Wheelie, how old are you?" Optimus asked, voice amazingly gentle.

"Thir-thirteen earth years. Not counting time in stasis." He seemed surprised enough by the question to give a straight answer, and Wheelie also looked like he was relaxing a bit, in reaction to Optimus's utter calm. That time in stasis must have been considerable, but given the number of small, fierce little Decepticons they'd run in to, Optimus had said he suspected the Decepticon leadership of stockpiling young, disposable mechs.

Because of that, and because of his general behavior, 'Bee had believed Wheelie was young, but had never thought he was _that _young.

Optimus extended one finger, tilting Wheelie's head up with a gentle push under his vocal parts. Wheelie didn't look afraid at all, even though Optimus could have crushed him like a mosquito if he'd so chosen. The diameter of Optimus's finger was bigger than Wheelie's whole head. "Your optic sensor is ruined. We will need to make you a new one. I'm afraid, little one, that we do not have any parts in your size. It will take a few days to fabricate what we need, and as Bee can attest, I cannot guarantee that repairs made using human technology will work as they are supposed to. But we will do what we can. We may even be able to give you temporary vision using a human camera. It must be miserable to be unable to see in three dimensions."

"What's in this for you?" Wheelie stared at Optimus in utter astonishment. He rested his hands on the tip of one of Optimus's half-curled fingers.

Optimus smoothed Wheelie's fingers out straight with an impossibly gentle touch. Some appeared to be twisted and unstable; you couldn't tell at first glance, but it was clear they were uneven on closer examination. When Optimus prompted Wheelie to make a fist, a couple fingers stuck out at awkward angles. Optimus said quietly, "You've broken some joints. Those we can fix immediately. The human machine shop here is very good."

Wheelie glanced at his hands, head tilted a little to one side to compensate for his limited field of vision. "_Why_? What do you want from me?"

"As long as you are under my command, I will see that you are repaired. It is part of my duty as your leader. And -- I hate to see anyone suffer."

"But I was a Decepticon and Megatron would have just destroyed me if I was this badly hurt. He did others. He said they weren't worth fixing and he didn't want to listen to them complain." The words came tumbling out in a panicked rush. "I thought ... I thought for sure you would just eliminate me. That's why I hid. I thought you'd destroy me because I was a Decepticon, or if not that, because I was _broken_. That's why I didn't say anything to Bee! I wasn't spying, I swear, I swear, I swear ..." Wheelie paused, collected himself, and said, "Right now? You'll fix me _now_?"

The little Decepticon suddenly seemed to bounce in place. "Now I'm _sure _I was fighting for the wrong side. Autobots have a much better benefits package!"

Optimus laughed. "Wheelie, I cannot imagine deliberately leaving any of my people unrepaired if I have the resources available to fix them. Come with me, I'll take you to the repair hanger."

"You'll take me _personally_?"

"Would you prefer Bee show you to the shop?" Optimus said, sounding a little confused.

"No! He threatened to step on me!" Wheelie shot Bumblebee a glare full of hate.

"Bee!" Optimus exclaimed, but there was amusement in his voice. This, at least, wasn't a scolding. "You didn't."

"I said I'd step on him if he caused harm to any of us," Bumblebee clarified. Surely Optimus couldn't fault him for that statement. He'd heard Optimus say worse in the heat of battle. None of them were boyscouts, including Optimus Prime.

"Hmm. I do not believe that you will ever need to make good on that threat." Optimus lifted Wheelie to his shoulder. The little Decepticon scrambled up, and clung to one of Optimus's windows like a very small monkey. Bumblebee winced, because he didn't trust Wheelie, and if he had a weapon Optimus had just allowed him in lethally close range. Wheelie was tiny, but he was certainly far from harmless.

_Damn, but Optimus likes kids_, Bumblebee thought, watching the two of them. _Unfortunately, this kid is one of the enemy. I can't trust him. Not until he proves himself. Jetfire's the exception. Most Decepticons are just looking out for their own self interest when they say they want to become Autobots. _


	2. Chapter 2

Sam leaned on the catwalk's railing, watching as the twins chased each other around the hanger. They were arguing about something, but the discussion had long ago devolved into cussing and swearing. He'd missed the beginning -- he had been plowing through an avalanche of e-mail -- but he suspected the cause of the fight was moot.

Optimus, Bee, and the other senior Autobots were off somewhere having a meeting about weapons, and Optimus had made it quite clear that, as much as he was fond of Sam, and grateful to him, he had a firm and unwavering commitment to keep Autobot weapons technology out of human hands. Sam wasn't welcome, nor was anyone who wasn't part of Optimus's closest inner circle of commanders. Sam had been somewhat surprised to realize that Optimus considered Bumblebee one of those commanders: it had only been in retrospect that Sam had realized that Optimus would not have trusted his safety to just any rank and file 'bot. 'Bee had asked to stay with him, but Optimus would have assigned someone anyway, if 'Bee had not.

Among the 'bots left behind were Arcee, the twins, Ratchet (who was an inner-circle commander, but who was pointedly not interested in weapons tech beyond knowing which way to point his guns when he had to), and a new Autobot that Sam didn't know even by name yet, and who seemed to be recharging. All three of Arcee were pointedly ignoring the fight between the twins while she -- they? --- worked on repairs to a very large gun. Pronouns confused him when it came to a 'bot with one consciousness and three bodies.

The new robot, who had taken the shape of an ATV and was supposedly a medic who specialized in carbon-based life forms, was silent and motionless by the stairs. Sam had seen him transform earlier. He wasn't much taller than a human, and had slim, nimble fingers and a mobile face with far more expression to it than what Sam was used to. However, at the moment, the newcomer appeared to be recharging -- though Sam wondered how anyone could sleep through the racket the twins were making. Likely, he was just pretending to be oblivious.

Sam had initially felt a little rejected when Optimus had told him to stay behind, but on retrospect, he decided he didn't much mind being excluded from Optimus's meeting. He had a head full of Cybertronian data that made him a target for the Decepticons. Add some knowledge of Autobot tech, and every human government on earth would be after him as well. Optimus had likely come to the same conclusion, because he'd made a point of telling Bee and Sam, in front of several Earth officers, that Sam wasn't welcome when the discussion turned to arms and that he would never give _any _human information about Autobot technology. Including Sam Witwicky. Not. Ever.

The twins switched over to the Cybertronian language as Sam watched. He understood about twenty words of Cybertronian -- all of them obscene, all of them utterly unpronounceable by humans. He'd learned them because Bee cussed under his breath when they played video games together, and he'd started asking for translations. He was pretty sure Mudflap had just called his brother the slagged son of a sparkless drone, which was essentially used as the equivalent of "you fucking bastard!" in English.

"Yo! Mudflap!" He shouted down, deliberately distracting himself from deeper thoughts, "If your brother's the son of a sparkless drone, doesn't that apply to you, too, since you're twins?"

That earned him a very human insult back: one upraised middle digit. From _both _'bots. Simultaneously. Then they were off again, tumbling wildly across the floor. The fight was getting out of hand. They were entirely capable of taking the whole hanger down, and they could do it by accident. Sam stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The twins paused in fighting, and looked up.

"Knock it off," he said, firmly, pitching his voice to carry, "It's embarrassing watching the two of you. Have some dignity."

Both robots drooped, muttered apologies, and went back to their corner, where they appeared to be playing some sort of board game. Skids grumbled, loud enough for everyone to hear, "He's been hanging out with Optimus too much ..."

But they _listened_.

"How do you do that?" Major Lennox's voice behind Sam made him jump. In a lower voice, he said, "They irritate the _hell _out of me."

"Guilt. Guilt works beautiful on all of the Autobots. Ordering them around doesn't work," Sam admitted freely, with a laugh, while not commenting on Lennox's observation of Skids and Mudflap. The Autobots had gone to great lengths to imitate both human body language and human speech. He knew they'd processed a heck of a lot of human movies. Unfortunately, he suspected that the twins had watched the wrong movies ... And that was a reminder that, however human they seemed, they weren't. They were copying a media stereotype without understanding all the cultural ramifications behind it.

He really needed to take both of them aside and have a chat about the impression they were presenting. And if that failed, he might want to have a talk with Optimus. Fortunately, the twins had not been in the public eye yet. If they couldn't pick a different role model, it might be good to _keep _them out of sight.

Lennox shook his head. "They don't take human orders well, you're right. Not from us, at any rate. I'll have to remember the bit about the guilt."

Sam shrugged. "Just give my mother the credit. I learned that trick from her."

He leaned over the railing and watched as one third of Arcee went wheeling across the room to retrieve a tool from a locker against the wall. It appeared to be a perfectly normal hammer and looked tiny in her hands. She rolled back and started banging on the gun with a purpose. By the colors, he thought the weapon belonged to Optimus.

Lennox, also watching, observed, "I still can't believe the three of them are one person ... I'd sure love to know more about Autobot biology, but the 'bots aren't talking."

"You mean the male versus female thing?" Sam asked, with a grin.

"Yeah, that."

"They wouldn't tell you what that's about??"

"I didn't, uh, ask, actually." Lennox looked like he had indigestion. "It didn't seem diplomatic. But when I questioned how they reproduced, Ironhide said the stork brought little 'bots. I assumed it was a culturally inappropriate question."

Sam snickered. He could picture the scene perfectly, including Ironhide's grouchy delivery. "Okay, the next time you've got a question like that? Ask Ratchet, not Ironhide. I know there's some sort of way to get a new spark into suitable body, but I don't know all the details. Ratchet could probably provide them. Bring a notebook, and maybe a tape recorder, and be prepared for a lecture."

"Oh."

"As far as the robot male-versus-female thing goes, that one I did ask Ratchet, because I was curious. Apparently, they really are asexual by design, but they determined humans would be both uneasy with that, and less likely to see them as 'people' rather than 'things.' So they chose to assume the identity of the sex they identified the most with, and that they had the most attributes of." He shrugged. The whole thing had made sense to him when Ratchet had explained it. He still thought of the guys as 'guys' because it was just _easier. _"Our Autobots are warriors by nature. Most of them chose 'male' but Arcee's a little different, and she's quite a bit more like we would call girly. So she decided to take on a female identity. I suspect if you looked at a sampling of civilian mechs, there would be a lot more girls."

"That's ... weird." Lennox stared down at Arcee.

"Yeah, particularly when you hear Ratchet claim 'Bee had a hard time choosing." Sam had laughed his ass off at that comment, and had teased Bumblebee mercilessly about it for days. Bee, at least, was in tune with human culture enough to understand why he was being teased, which made it even more fun.

"Anyway. Optimus seems to think you'll be working with the 'bots long term."

"Huh? Yeah, I guess." He was going to go back to college too, but he thought he could balance both. He'd actually suggested dropping college, and both his father and Optimus had reacted with dismay to the idea. He had been thoroughly doubleteamed by the pair of them -- his father had been convinced that someday the Autobots would be out of his life somday and he would need a career after that. Optimus had both agreed with Mr. Witwicky that there might come a day when the Autobots would leave Earth, but he had also said, "And that day may be long after your death, Sam Witwicky. In that case, if you want to be a part of my team, I need you to learn some useful skills in your college."

Point taken. He'd changed his major to pre-law. His father had laughed. His mother had shrieked for glee at the thought of a lawyer son. His logic was that the Autobots didn't need another scientist. And they could easily get all the human warriors they could ever possibly want. But they just might need help with legal matters. He was not, however, looking forward to those classes ...

Lennox frowned. "We'll need to get you set up with quarters here on base."

"If you don't mind," Sam said, "I'd rather stay in my dorm."

"Is that safe?" Lennox scowled at him. "Megatron could still be ..."

"... after me, yeah, I know, I know. But I'll have 'Bee with me, and they're talking about sending Arcee as well, because when she breaks apart one of her sections could fit into a human building." Sam trailed off as the hanger doors opened, below. Ratchet had rolled into the hanger. Ratchet transformed, which put his head even with with their eye level up on the catwalk. Lennox took a step back, reflexively. Sam, who considered Ratchet second only to Bee in the category of warm-fuzzy 'bots despite Ratchet's sometimes biting wit, leaned forward over the rail. "What's up, Ratchet?"

"Optimus wants to know if you'd babysit."

"I do _not _need a babysitter!" Wheelie's indignant voice came from Ratchet's closed fist. Ratchet opened his hand and dropped the Decepticon at Sam's feet. Wheelie scrambled back up his feet and announced in what was definitely not an indoor voice, "I'm an Autobot now! I should be in the slagging meeting!"

"Sorry, kid." Ratchet shrugged expressively. "That meeting's for the senior command only."

"I thought he liked me." Wheelie plunked himself down on the ground, arms folded, and seemed to be pouting.

"Sorry, Sam," Ratchet transformed and headed for the door.

Lennox, who'd watched the whole exchange with bemusement, studied Wheelie intently. Wheelie glared back up at him with one good eye and one clearly jury-rigged camcorder tied on with plastic zip ties. Wheelie demanded, "What are _you _looking at?"

"Now, Wheelie, do you think Optimus would like to hear you talk that way to your hosts?" Sam reached down, picked Wheelie back up and put him on his feet much as one might manhandle a toddler, and then gave him a shove towards the steps.

"No." Wheelie still sounded like he was sulking.

"Come on, I suppose I can find out how good you are at video games ..." Sam sighed. He might get the twins involved, as well. Personally, he wasn't sure why Optimus was even allowing the shrimp to hang around, and by the suspicious looks from the rest of the team, he thought the other 'bots were even more concerned than he was.

"I'm going to kick your _aft _at Dungeon War!" Wheelie shouted the name of a popular multi-player gaming site, and ran down the stairs ahead of him. Sam followed him to Optimus's trailer, which had several computers installed in it. He'd yet to meet a mech who didn't like video games. Pretty much all the Autobots were obsessing over Burnout, at the moment, which Mikaela found absolutely hilarious, and Sam had to admit was amusing. Someone on the team had made a semi look _just _like Optimus, right down to the flames, with a bit of hacking, and Optimus himself had chuckled when he'd seen the results.

Wheelie turned out to have a very high level character on Dungeon War, as did Sam, and they kicked butt for about an hour. Sam was mildly surprised to find that he was enjoying himself. Then, however, an even badder character showed up, with the scren name of Starscream. The Decepticon commander wasn't even bothering to hide his identity, which somehow irritated Sam. You'd think the Decepticons would try to be subtle.

Decepticons. Subtle. Not happening.

Wheelie yelped and frantically logged off, "Oh, shit, now he'll know I'm alive!"

Sam suggested, with some amusement at the thought of Decepticons playing recreational games, "You could always tell him you were being held captive in an old ammo case, but you convinced us you were a good guy, so we adopted you. And then you could offer to spy for the Decepticons. Starscream would probably believe that because that would be something _he _would do."

Wheelie's glare was positively deadly. "I wouldn't betray you people! You're nuts!"

Sam scratched his jaw. He'd been at least partly ribbing the little Decepticon, but now he wondered if the 'bot was protesting too much. He also doubted that the Decepticons cared all that much about Wheelie. The Decepticons clearly considered Wheelie and his kind to be disposable and inconsequential and had likely imported mechs like Wheelie by the gross.

"I wouldn't! I swear, I wouldn't! ... Wait, wait, I could feed them disinformation!" Wheelie spun around in his seat to face Sam. He pointed at the bright, shiny, brand new Autobot logo attached to his chest. "I'm loyal! I can do this! Lemme talk to Optimus ... he'll agree, it's a _good _idea!"

Before Sam could grab him, Wheelie bolted for the trailer door. Down the ramp he went, transforming in mid leap into what appeared to be a toy RC car -- but it was a toy car that rapidly outpaced Sam. _Damnit! _Apparently, Ratchet had either upgraded Wheelie's speed, fixed something that had been slowing him down, or the little runt had actually been holding back at the Smithsonian.

"Arcee, help!" He shouted as he ran past all three of her. "Gotta catch that 'bot!" One of them -- her -- whatever -- reacted. The pink portion of Arcee separated from the other two, transformed, and raced beside him. He slowed only long enough to fling a leg over the motorcycle's saddle, and yelled, "Go! Catch him!"

"Put a helmet on! Humans are breakable!" Arcee countered, coming to a complete halt. There was a helmet hanging off the handlebars that he could have sworn was not there a moment before. "Optimus's orders."

He growled something rude under his breath at overprotective Autobots in general -- he'd have to be a complete idiot to fall off a sentient motorcycle -- then he jammed the helmet onto his head, grabbed a tight hold onto her handlebars, and shouted, "Go!"

Wheelie was at least a half mile ahead. Arcee laid down rubber, or possibly, in light of Autobot technology, charred the asphalt. He wasn't sure if the smoke cloud she was leaving behind her was melting tires or burning tar! She accelerating so hard he struggled to maintain his seat. He suspected she was laughing at him. And then he knew it when she said, with a snicker in her voice, "Glad for the helmet now, kid?"

The helmet had speakers that transmitted her voice to his ears. It also had a plastic faceplate that was noisily being splattered with bugs.

"Yes ma'am," he agreed, "helmet good. Now _get that 'bot_!"

Wheelie, unfortunately, was smaller and more agile than Arcee. He was able to swerve and dart back and forth, and Arcee lost ground each time. Then he dodged through a drain pipe in a block wall. Arcee transformed in mid leap and vaulted the fence -- Sam clutched wildly at her shoulders and wondered when he'd ever thought Arcee might be overprotective. She hadn't even warned him. He smacked the faceplate of the helmet against her back, bit his lip, nearly lost his grip, and swore at her, "Fuck! Slow down! It's not _that _important!"

"I'm going to blast that little Decepticon into bits!" She sounded like she meant it. Then he realized she'd raised her gun up and was taking aim.

"What? NO! Arcee, stop! Don't kill him!"

She ignored him, and he saw disaster looming. She might not be able to catch Wheelie, but he'd watched her blow things up before. She had formidably good aim.

"Arcee, _stand down_!" Optimus's voice, rumbling across the base at a very high volume, accomplished what Sam couldn't. Arcee skidded to a halt and spun around to face her leader, who was looming over all three of them -- Wheelie, spotting Optimus, had spun about and made a beeline for him. Sam was consistently amazed at how fast Optimus could move when he put his mind to it. Wheelie, with a squeak of terror, hid behind one of Optimus's legs. Sam managed to suppress a similar yelp as he dropped off Arcee's back. Before he ever rode with her again, he decided he would definitely need to set some ground rules. And possibly have 'Bee or Optimus give her a stern lecture on the actual capabilities of the human body. Clearly, she didn't understand _how _breakable humans were!

Optimus crouched and held a hand out. Wheelie dove into it, transforming as he did, and pointing angrily at the two of them. "They were trying to kill me!"

"Arcee? Why were you pointing a weapon at Wheelie?" Optimus's voice was frighteningly calm. Sam took a reflexive step back. Arcee also rolled backwards, and a good bit farther than he did. He'd never seen Optimus really angry at one of his own Autobots before, but suspected he was about to. He was, frankly, scary. Sam decided then and there that he never wanted to be on the receiving end of that anger.

"He ran away!" She rolled even farther back.

"Was not! Wanted to talk to Optimus!" Wheelie folded his arms and glared at both of them.

"Sorry, Optimus ..." Sam stripped the helmet off. His fingers hurt. "My fault. I told her to 'get him' but I didn't specify I wanted him alive. I just didn't want him disrupting your meeting."

Optimus transferred Wheelie to his shoulder, then crouched to be on eye level with Arcee. "This wasn't about Wheelie, and it wasn't about Sam, was it?"

She met his glare with a frown, and said something in Cybertronian that Sam didn't have a prayer of understanding. Optimus replied in English, "Wheelie is not Megatron. And he states he wishes to become one of us. You will treat him as an ally, _not _as an enemy. Is that perfectly and completely and totally clear?"

"Yes, sir." She hung her head.

"I am deeply disappointed in you." Optimus took two strides forward, caught her face in his hand and made her look up at him. "You would have _killed _one of our own! I have outcast Autobots for less than this."

"I ..." She started to speak in English, then again said something in Cybertronian. Since all the 'bots were totally fluent in English to the point that they claimed it didn't matter which language they spoke, Sam assumed whatever she had said was something she didn't want him to hear -- or that he wasn't meant to hear. It was either a state secret or a personal one. Even odds which. Whatever it was, however, made Wheelie flinch. Optimus's body language changed as well, in alien and unreadable ways. He was not trying to communicate to a human. Sam had no idea what he was thinking or which way his emotions had gone.

"I also need you here." Optimus wouldn't let her pull away. "Arcee, you have talents which we truly need if we are to defeat Megatron once and for all. Your gifts with science and with surveillance are _needed_. But I cannot have you taking your grief and anger at others out on this little one."

"He's no innocent."

"Perhaps not." Optimus finally let her go. She rolled backwards, and wouldn't meet his eyes. "But neither are any of us. Go back to work, Arcee. I need that gun repaired by tomorrow, if possible. There's reports coming in of Decepticon base in the South America that we're going to take out."

"Yes, sir." She fled in a hurry, zooming off between two buildings and back in the general direction of the hanger.

Sam was somewhat glad that she hadn't offered him a return ride. After that crazy trip he'd rather walk.

"Arcee was once four, not three," Optimus said, quietly, in explanation to both Wheelie and Sam. "Megatron hurt her badly. Which does not excuse what she did here, but what I said is true: I need her. And she will not make the same error of judgment twice."

He held a hand up, inviting Wheelie to stand in his palm. Wheelie, who looked visibly shaken, did so. "Little one, what did you want to tell me so very badly?"

"I ..." Had Wheelie been human, he would have taken a deep breath. As it was, he drew himself up, stood square, and said, "I'd like to be a double agent. Sir."

Optimus nodded, as if the thought had occurred to him as already. "It might be dangerous. When they learn the truth -- and they will, someday -- you will earn the ire of Megatron himself. He is a formidable enemy. As it stands, I do not think they would care much about your alliance, or even notice that you are gone."

"I ..." Wheelie hesitated, then made a jerky gesture towards the camcorder they'd strapped on as a temporary replacement for his damaged eye. "I think I get 'danger,' boss."

"Mmm. So you do. What did you have in mind?" Optimus sounded like he was taking Wheelie very seriously, much to Sam's surprise. Sam had thought the whole thing was a bad idea -- at the very least, they had no idea if Wheelie was for real or just being opportunistic.

"I'd like to feed Starscream enough good intel that he thinks I'm on his side. He can't keep his mouth shut -- he gossips. He'll tell me things you _need _to know." Wheelie glanced down at Sam. "You can have the boy keep an eye on me if you want. I know none of you trust me. You trust him, though. The boy can watch. I'll talk to Starscream in web games."

"That's not a bad idea, Wheelie," Optimus said, and Wheelie practically wriggled in place like an excited dog, he was so clearly pleased by the praise. "And yes, I will have Sam watch you -- you are correct in believing that I do _not _trust you yet."

Wheelie's expression change, closing down. Sullenly, he said, "You can, you know."

Optimus stared off towards the horizon for a moment. What he was seeing in that instant, Sam coudn't begin to guess, except that he knew the 'bots had a long and savage history with the Decepticons, "I wish that I could take you at your word. However, I have a greater responsibility to everyone who I lead -- I cannot allow the risk that you are deceiving us. The stakes are far too high. Those I trust, like Bumblebee and Ironhide, I have known for a very long time. Or, as Sam has, they have proven themselves in combat by risking their own lives. Sam saved mine, at great risk to himself. None of that applies to you, at this time."

Wheelie said, bitterly, "And I'm just a Decepticon. The emblem means nothing. Is that it?"

Optimus's voice was very gentle. "It means, Wheelie, that you have an opportunity to earn my trust, and the affection and trust of the others, and to truly become a member of this team. It is up to you to do. However, I believe the project you have suggested is a good first start."

Wheelie relaxed a bit, looked up, and said, somewhat defiantly, "I'll prove you all wrong, you know. You think I can't be trusted. Gonna prove I _can_."

"The question becomes," Optimus said, including Sam in the discussion with a quick glance in his direction, "what sort of legitimate information we can have Wheelie pass on to Starscream in the beginning. We need Wheelie to feed him real intelligence, but obviously, nothing that would harm our mission. Sam, what do you think?"

Sam blinked in surprise at the question. Optimus was asking for his input? No, he decided, Optimus was testing him. Optimus likely already had something in mind, but he wanted to see what Sam would come up with. And it occurred to him that a good answer might impress Optimus -- Sam realized he did want to earn Optimus's respect, as well as his trust.

Had it only been a week and a half ago that he'd screamed that this was not his war? Well, it had just gotten a lot more personal. Megatron had kidnapped his parents. Megatron's ancestor had tried to _destroy the whole entire world. _He figured it was his war now.

"He could feed Megatron names of the new 'bots. Doc, for starters," Sam said, after a little thought. "Of course, if there's anyone really massively powerful who joins up, we'll make a point of not saying anything. Why spoil a nasty surprise?"

Optimus chuckled. Clearly, Sam was on the right track.

Sam continued, "But Doc isn't going to be much use in a fight, and I don't think Megatron would even be surprised that you'd hired on another medic. Telling Megatron about Doc would be a good start."

Optimus nodded thoughtfully. "No, Megatron would not be surprised. He knows me well enough to predict Doc's hiring. Doc has worked with me before, on other worlds, and Megatron knows that I care about the organic life forms -- humans, in this case -- who work with me. It would be logical for Megatron to assume that Doc is either already here, or on his way."

Sam grinned in reaction to the unstated praise. He'd gotten the answer right. "Also, Wheelie could provide Megatron with some information about our movements. Megatron is probably not going to attack us directly in the near future -- he's still licking his wounds, and he's crazy, not stupid."

This got him another nod from Optimus, and a snicker from Wheelie. It was clear that Wheelie found insulting comments about Megatron very amusing.

Optimus nodded. "That's certainly a possibility. Actually -- we're planning to take out a Decepticon base tomorrow morning, in South America. Wheelie could warn them of our arrival. That would establish his credibility in Megatron's eyes, would it not, Wheelie?"

"Yeah, but you could get hurt!" Sam protested, even as Wheelie started to agree.

Optimus was silent for a moment. "It is a small base. Our intelligence indicates that it mostly contains insecticons and one predacon. Our concern is not the size of the base, rather, it is the potential for it to grow larger. Even with warning, they will pose little threat, and we could time the alert so that they knew we were coming, but did not have a chance to send reinforcements."

"That is a risky plan, Optimus," Sam said, a bit worried. If the base held more bad guys than they thought, they could fly into a trap. If the Decepticons had reinforcements closer than intelligence suggested, they could arrive before the Autobots were gone.

Optimus's voice held a low chuckle when he said, "Indeed, it is. Sam, why do you think I might consider such a dangerous plan? Remember, Megatron has a temper and he takes losing battles personally. It is not about the loss of life or the injured allies for him. It is simply a personal insult when he loses."

"Oh." Sam suddenly got it. "You're setting a trap, aren't you? That's sneaky and underhanded and absolutely brilliant."

"And dishonorable," Wheelie was scowling -- something he did frighteningly well.

"War," Optimus said, "is not about honor. War is about winning. Megatron's actions nearly caused the destruction of this world. I am not above setting up an ambush if it saves many human lives in the end. -- Yes. Wheelie, if you will, pass on word about tomorrow's raid to Starscream at oh-eight-hundred hours. We will be within an hour of the base at that time, and should be long gone before Megatron's reinforcements arrive."

"Megatron's gonna be _pissed_," Wheelie predicted.

"And even more so, when we repeat this routine three or four times," Optimus confirmed that Sam's guess had been correct with his next words. "We want him angry enough to be irrational and brash. When he is suitably enraged, you will give one more alert, advising him that a small contingent of Autobots is about to attack. We will give him time to set a trap. I can virtually guarantee that he will be there in person. However, rather than a tiny force, the attack will include as many soldiers as they will assign us, plus every Autobot on this world -- including you, if you would like to come and fight with us, Wheelie. You are small, but I believe you have a few nasty surprises for your enemies, and no love for Megatron, correct?"

Wheelie nodded happily, and somewhat frenetically. "I can do that!"

And then he dove off Optimus's hand and zipped off between two builds, peeling out as he went. Sam watched him go, then asked Optimus quietly, "Will he actually be any use in battle?"

Optimus's response was a bit chiding, and made Sam flush with embarrassment, "There are Autobots who would ask the same thing about you, Sam. I would correct them every time. If not for you, I would not _be _here today to issue that correction."

Oh. Right.

Optimus added, "Please go track Wheelie down now, before anyone else decides to shoot him. And -- I do mean what I said about not trusting him until he's proven his loyalty beyond all doubt. Unfortunately, we have been betrayed before. Keep an eye on what he says, and do not allow him to communicate with Starscream in Cybertronian if there is not an Autobot observing."

"Yes, sir." Sam tossed Optimus an impromptu salute.

"And Sam," Optimus added, "Be careful. I am trusting you to ensure he does not betray us."

Oh. Sam looked up at Optimus, as the enormity of that responsibility hit him. "Optimus, are you sure you want _me _to supervise him?"

"I think you are truly the best choice for that responsibility." Optimus started to turn away, then twisted back and added, "Please take him to school with you. It will do him good to see humans from the perspective of you and your friends. He has never known friendly humans before."

Sam couldn't quite keep a grin off his face as he hurried after Wheelie. He wasn't overly excited about the idea of taking Wheelie to school, but Optimus's trust in him made him want to skip rather than walk back to the hanger.


	3. Chapter 3

As she turned into the dorm's parking lot, Mikaela spotted Bumblebee immediately. Bee, in Camero form, stood out among the usual student assortment of vehicles. There were wealthy students, and some of them drove expensive cars, but few of those kids would have bought a Camero. They either drove big-ass lifted pickups that Mikaela mentally lumped in the category of, "Vehicles that are compensating for the owner's inadequacies," or they drove zoomy little convertibles that she tagged as "can't get a girl any other way" cars. The rest of the kids owned clunkers, one of which -- an ancient '78 Thunderbird -- was parked immediately next to the Camero. The number of students driving sports cars like the Camero were few, and _none _of those vehicles were neon yellow.

Bee's cheery paint was a splash of sunshine amid a sea of white, silver, black, candy apple red, maroon, and subdued blues and greens.

She parked her own car several spaces down from Bee -- her wheels were forty-plus year old primer-grey Mustang that she'd recently picked up at auction and was restoring for resale. She was a bit surprised that the Mustang had made it all the way from the shop to the college without breaking down -- she had a box of tools and several repair parts for the likely suspects for a breakdown, including a starter. She'd had to whack the starter this morning with a hammer to get the Mustang moving. At least starter-abuse was easy enough, as the Mustang had no hood at the moment, because she'd removed it for sanding. The rear window was just a sheet of clear plastic attached with duct tape. The front window had a crack, too, and she heartily hoped no cop spotted that before she got a chance to replace it.

She'd paid a hundred bucks for the Mustang. Aside from a plethora of repairs, it needed rust cut out and she wasn't real sure about the integrity of the motor mounts, but -- bad spot on the starter aside, it _did _run -- and she figured she could turn a profit on it with a lot of elbow grease and some junkyard crawling.

She envied Sam purely on a practical level and thought he'd been nuts to tell Bumblebee to stay . Bumblebee was never going to break down by the side of the road. And Sam didn't have to pay for gas at $3 a gallon for a vehicle that got seven miles to the gallon (and, currently, about seven miles to the quart of oil -- she had a case of Valvoline in the trunk).

Bee played a clip of "My Girl" as she walked over. He popped the driver's side door in clear invitation to stop and visit. Likely, he was bored and glad for some company, and his cheery, flirtacious greeting made her laugh. She swung herself easily into the driver's seat. "Hey, Bee."

"Mikaela, hi!" he sounded excited. His voice made her grin. His voice box was working for once. It had to drive Bee crazy to randomly lose his ability to speak, given that he generally had a comment for anything and everything. "Wanna go for a spin? Sam's in class for the next couple of hours."

"Aren't you supposed to be his bodyguard?" It seemed out of character for Bee not to take that duty seriously. He'd lived in Sam's garage for almost a year.

"It's Arcee's shift," Bee said. "And she kicks aft. She's guarding both entrances to the lecture hall. And Sam won't be out of class for four hours."

"Bored, huh?" She said, knowingly.

"Completely and totally. Sam even has Wheelie with him right now, per Optimus's orders. I'm all alone out here. But hey! We kicked Decepticon tails yesterday," he informed her, with what sounded like glee. "Took out a couple hundred insecticons. It was quite a _raid_!"

She groaned appreciatively at the pun. Raid. Insecticons. Raid. Right. "You swatted them, huh?"

"They were bugging us," Bee said, mock-defensively.

"Defeating them has to sting Megatron's ego."

Bee laughed outright, "This Bee _loves _stinging Megatron!"

She snickered. Then she sobered. "Bee, I've missed you. You know that, right? I've spent all fricking week dealing with drama with my Dad. Aside from the fact that he's shooting heroin again, he wants me to break off all contact with you and Sam. He says it's too dangerous. He says you're scary evil aliens and you're going to kidnap me and ..."

"I'm sorry." Bee sounded genuinely upset, which didn't surprise her. Bee's sensitivity had been a bit of a surprise in the beginning, when she'd thought of them as very advanced robots. Somewhere along the line they'd just become friends, and _people_, and if they were made of silicon and steel rather than water and carbon, who cared? "Do you think it would help if I spoke to him? I really wish he'd treat you better. And treat himself better."

"Probably wouldn't help." She sighed. Bee talking to her dad, while the thought was amusing, was not a good idea. "He'd probably shoot you with a twelve gauge. And somebody might get hurt by the ricochets." It went without saying that a shotgun wasn't going to do much damage to an Autobot.

"Felons are not allowed to own guns, right?" Bee sounded genuinely irritated

"No, he's not!" She huffed a sigh. "I tell you, drama. And it's my gun, but he's swiped it. If his parole officer knew, they'd send him to jail."

"You own a gun, Mikaela?" Bee sounded both impressed and pleased. She'd never mentioned the weapon to him -- she'd been halfway afraid he might disapprove. Bee could be ferociously protective. But then again, for all his warmth and self-deprecating humor, at his core he was a warrior and his own weapons of choice were integrated with his forearms and had a caliber big enough that she'd seen him clean mud out of the barrels by sticking multiple fingers into them during a pause in a fight. Perhaps she shouldn't have worried about his reaction to a dinky little Mossberg twelve gauge with a three-cartridge chamber.

She sighed again. "It wouldn't do anything against Megatron, but something Wheelie's size? I figured a face full of buckshot might slow something like that down a bit. Wheelie's lucky that the gun was on the other side of the room when he showed up or he might be missing both eyes. Plus, Decepticons aside, the shop's in a bad neighborhood ... and I don't like my Dad's friends much, Bee. I really don't."

She couldn't quite keep a pathetic quaver out of her voice as she spoke to him. She wouldn't tell this to Sam because Sam had enough on his plate and she didn't want him going all boyfriend-protective with her. This was particularly because Sam, for all that he'd just literally saved the world, wasn't exactly a fighter. Her dad's friends, or the neighborhood gangsters, or even her _dad_, would make very short work of him. And now her father had claimed her gun for his own.

Bee was silent for a long moment, longer than just thinking before responding would require. She was a bit distracted and lost in morbid thoughts and didn't notice this until he said, "Mikaela, I just asked Optimus, and he agrees. We've been looking out for Sam, but you're important to us too -- and Megatron could easily make a target out of you as well, either to send a message or because he knows Sam would come to your rescue no matter what the cost was. There would be no stopping Sam, and we, of course, would help him."

She blinked at him. Sometimes she almost forgot he was a robot, and when he did things like that -- she assumed he'd just made a quick cell phone call -- it was a startling reminder. "Oh, no, my father would absolutely flip out."

"Less than he would if Megatron showed up on your doorstep?" Bee pointed out. "You're three hours away, Mikaela. Four, during rush hour. Five, if there's a wreck on the highway."

"Is there any one 'bot who could even stand up to Megatron and hold him off that long?" she said, dispiritedly. "I guess we could run like hell."

Bumblebee was silent for a good long while. She wasn't sure if he was talking to Optimus on the cell phone, or just thinking about an answer to that. Finally, however, he said, "Will you come with me? Optimus wants you to meet someone."

"_Me_?"

"We've got a bit of a dilemma. You might be able to help us out with it. I promise we'll be back by the time Sam's out of class." Bee's voice was subdued, though she wasn't sure why. Had she hurt his feelings with her hesitation? She didn't think so, but something was bothering him. Normally, he was a good bit bouncier than this.

"Okay, I'll bite."

"Thanks, Mikaela." Bee started his engine and rolled out, and she settled back into his comfortable seat. After a moment, Bumblebee began to play music -- she blinked, thinking for a moment that he was saying something to her, but it was simply _music_. Of all the Autobots, he seemed to be the most in tune with human culture. She didn't recognize the musician, but the tune was soothing and the song mellow.

"Bee, do Autobots have music?"

"We sure do!"

"What does it sound like?" She asked, a bit uncertainly. The Autobots could be a bit wary when it came to divulging information about their own culture. Surely, this was safe, however.

He switched tracks, and suddenly the music filling the Camaro was richly exotic -- little to her surprise, it sounded computerized, but there was harmony and melody to it, and an unearthly scale of notes that soared across a dozen octaves. She'd heard the Cybertronian language many times, often in the form of short bursts of obscenities from the 'bots, or numerical or scientific phrases that didn't translate easily into English, but it took her a moment to realize that this wasn't simply musical notes. It was _words_. "Is that ... singing?"

He waited for the song to end before answering, quietly, "That was me. Before the war began."

"Oh." He'd had a life before the war with the Decepticons. She'd never thought about that much. And he sounded so very sad when he said that.

"Bee added, "That was thousands of human lifetimes ago."

"Do you think the war will ever be over?" She found her words were almost as soft as his were.

He was quiet for so long that she didn't think he'd answer. When he did respond, it wasn't with words, but with that strange, soaring, alien melody again. She thought he was saying he wanted the war to end, he wanted to go back to the life he'd had before, but he didn't actually have an answer to her question. Would there be anything left for him to go _back _to at the end of the war? Would he survive? Perhaps there were no words to express his thoughts at the moment.

Then, suddenly cheerful, he said, "I was thinking of putting that out on the Youtube page. I just didn't know how it sounded to human ears. Guess you like it. So I will. Put in on the page, I mean. You're not covering your ears and screaming so I guess it's okay."

"Youtube what?" He had a _Youtube _page?

"Optimus requested we put one up. It was, apparently, on the US president's suggestion."

"Wait, you have a Youtube page for all the Autobots? As yourselves?" She stared incredulously at Bumblebee's radio -- which was the closest thing to a face he had on the Camero's dash. It was that, or raise her eyebrows at the Autobot logo on his steering wheel. "This was okay'd by ... _what_? You're kidding me, Bee."

She wouldn't put it past him to pull her leg like that -- he had a truly mischevious sense of humor -- but his response was fairly serious, albeit delivered with a bit of bouncy enthusiasm. "We posted some vids of ourselves! Google says we had over a million hits. Each." Bumblebee's laugh was infectious, she found herself grinning, and shaking her head in disbelief all at once.

"Isn't the military freaking out?" She wanted to know.

"Oh, sure. But the orders come from On High that we are no longer required to hide. We are, however, apparently in deep crap if any humans get hurt, or there's much property damage, that can't completely be attributed it to Megatron." He let out a low whistle. "Real high. Like all the way to the top high. Like Optimus has actually been talking directly with the US president and has his Blackberry number and a very clear request that he keep the prez in the loop about Megatron. Also lots of other heads of state are working with us now, but it's his base we're living in, so we're letting your president call at least some of the shots. We like to be cooperative and it doesn't matter _that _much to the mission if the general public knows we exist, or not. It may actually be quite useful if they know who the good guys are -- at least that way, they know which direction to run!"

"That's ... quite an improvement." She'd seen the interviews, but wasn't aware that they'd been done with government approval.

"We like your new president lots more than Chimpy."

She sputtered a laugh at his tone, which was more than a little snarky. "I'll bet. They treating you a little warmer?"

Bumblebee laughed. "Yeah, things have thawed lots."

"That's nnnn-_ice_."

* * *

Bumblebee took her to the base, which occupied a sprawling patch of land outside the city. It was mostly abandoned, a victim of budget cuts and urban sprawl in the 90's, and the Autobots had it to themselves except for few guards and the NEST team. Given the scale of Autobot training exercises, this was probably a good thing. She'd seen hand-to-hand combat drills between the 'bots that had ranged over miles of terrain. Ironhide actually had the power to chuck Optimus airborn, and did, on a regular basis.

The gate guards stepped out of their booth as Bumblebee rolled up. In the past he'd had them ride in the back and had materialized the hologram of a young soldier in the driver's seat. Today, however, he didn't bother. Instead, Bumblebee greeted the soldiers with a warm, "Afternoon, men!"

"Hey, Bee!" The men chorused, as Bumblebee rolled the window down so they could see Mikaela was the only passenger. The older of the two spotted her and said, "Miss Bane, correct? I'll need to see some ID, but you've already got clearance to enter. Just stay with Bee or one of the other 'bots or a human officer."

She handed him her driver's license. Bee said cheerfully, while the man copied down the information on her license, "Nice day, isn't it?"

"Gorgeous," he replied. Both soldiers seemed at ease with Bumblebee. The older man asked, "Hey, Bee, are you blowing things up tonight?"

"Probably not. We've got a new 'bot arriving in a few minutes!" Bumblebee sounded completely bouncy now. "Watch the sky for the light show! I'll be busy getting him settled in. But we should have time tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, then," the man waved Bee through the gates after handing Mikaela her license back.

"See you tomorrow?" she asked.

"Firepower demonstrations," Bee said, with a laugh in his voice. "I've never met a soldier yet, of either of our species, who doesn't love watching big guns go boom. And it helps Arcee and Inferno calibrate our weapons and the humans we fight with need to know what our guns can, and can not, do."

"New bot?" She added, curiously and belatedly.

"Yeah, an old friend." Bee said. Instead of turning towards the hangers and low office buildings in the distance he hung a right, and followed the road down to a fairly good sized lake. Optimus was already there, as was one third of Arcee, Ratchet, Inferno, and Ironhide. She recognized the group as being Optimus Prime's inner circle. Why had Bee invited her? He'd said she could help them out ... how? "We're expecting a 'bot named Hot Shot."

She stepped out of the Camero when Bee parked, and he transformed behind her as she walked across the grass towards the other 'bots.

"Hello, Mikaela," Optimus greeted her gravely. "Thank you for coming."

"You're welcome," she said, a little nervously. What did they want from her?

"Hot Shot's an espionage specialist," Optimus informed her. "We have been expecting his arrival and we picked him up on radar last night. He is incoming now. We do not want Megatron to know he is here -- absolutely _no _chance of that, do you understand? That is where you come in. Will you help us?"

"Me?"

"This will acccomplish two things," Optimus said, gravely. "It will keep you safer, and it will help our mission."

"I ... uh, yeah, sure." Given what the world owed the 'bots, who was she to say no?

"Thank you," Optimus said. "I think you'll get along well with ..."

"There he is!" Bumblebee interrupted, pointing. There was a fireball in the sky, growing fast in size. It roared over their heads -- she ducked, even though the Autobots seemed to be completely calm. The fireball hit the lake a mile beyond them with a ferocious, thundering explosion of steam and water.

"That's not Hot Shot!" Bee shouted, bringing his gun up to bear.

"Waaaaay too big!" Inferno agreed. "WAY too big!"

"Mikaela, take cover!" Optimus dropped to one knee. He had his gun aimed in the general direction of the spot in the lake where the fireball had hit. "Ironhide, flank right! Bee, Arcee, left! Inferno, Ratchet, we'll cover you."

She dove behind a pile of rocks, which put her close to Arcee. Arcee said, without looking in Mikaela's direction, "Hot Shot is _small_, Mikaela. Human radar's not all that accurate. We were expecting him about now, and we planned on him maintaining radio silence when he came in ... whatever just hit, it's bigger than Optimus."

"He's also not surfacing," Mikaela pointed out. She could see something in the water -- a knee, she thought -- sticking up. But it wasn't moving at all.

"I know," Arcee had her gun trained on that form, even as Ratchet and Inferno waded into water that was up to their necks. The two of them attached chains to the protoform in the water, and then towed it across the lake. Whatever had hit seemed to have enough trapped air to float. They splashed back out near Optimus's position.

"Gonna need some help here," Inferno said, to Optimus. "That thing's freaking massive and it's _slagged_."

The three of them, together, managed to drag the 'bot out of the water. When it was most of the way onto shore, Arcee suddenly lowered her gun. The rest did the same; clearly, they recognized the strange Autobot. In that instant she couldn't begin to read their body language, or know what they were thinking. Then Ironhide rumbled, "By the sparkless mothers of all that is evil ... I thought he was _dead_."

"He was _dead_," Arcee whispered. "Is he dead?"

He was enormous, and powerful looking -- truly a giant, on the same scale as Optimus and Megatron. And now the leader of the Autobots knelt beside the stranger. "My friend," he said, voice pitched low and earnest, "are you still with us?"

"Who is he?" Mikaela asked, stepping up next to Bee.

Bumblebee looked at her, and shook his head, and then hurried over to crouch next to Optimus. Ratchet, on the other side of the body, was getting tools out. Arcee, hand over what passed for her mouth, simply stood and stared in what appeared to be true shock.

The 'bot, at first, looked deceased to her eyes. His eyes were fixed and staring ahead, and the irises did not react as she crept closer. There was not one trace of motion in that long, broad, powerful form. Autobots didn't breath, but there was always a hum of energy to them, and like organic life forms they were never, ever perfectly still. This 'bot wasn't moving at all, and his was the motionlessness of death.

When she got closer she saw he'd taken heavy damage. There were panels and parts missing all over his body, with wires pulled out. He had gaping holes on his arms, exposing the inner workings, where she thought guns should have been mounted. A chunk of his chest was completely gone, cut away, and she could see into his body: cold, dark, motionless cables and pistons and hydraulic lines, small motors, and electronic bits. His fingers on one hand were all missing; the other arm was totally ripped off. A piece of metal was blown from one side of his head, and a tangled medusa-like mess of cables trailed across the ground beside him. Some of those wires were fifteen, twenty feet long. One foot and the other leg were missing also, she realized, after a moment's shock.

"They tortured him," Arcee whispered.

"You knew they would, 'Cee." this was Ratchet.

"Is he ...?" Optimus hesitated. "Ratchet, is there anything we can do? Is he gone?"

"I don't know," Ratchet had some sort of a scanner aimed into that deep, dark cavity in his chest. That was where a 'bot's spark was contained, she thought. And for long minutes, she though the body was empty of anything resembling a soul.

Then, suddenly, the eyes moved. Just the eyes, nothing else. They irised down to pinpoint pupils, then widened back up. Had anyone else seen ...?

Arcee gave a small, muffled cry. She'd noticed the motion.

"Optimus, he's still in there, in the deepest stasis lock I've ever seen in a living 'bot," Ratchet said, but he sounded very grim. "Ironhide, will you get a tent and my medical kit from the hangar? I don't know if I can pull this off or not. There's _nothing _left of his energon. I'll do what I can, but it's going to be a difficult job."

"He's tough." Optimus said, sounding far more certain than Ratchet did. "It's been what, four thousand years?"

"The beacon you sent, calling for help," Arcee whispered, "Optimus, the beacon. He must have used the last of his power following that beacon."

Ironhide rumbled, "If we fix him, it'll be a helluva help, that's for sure."

* * *

Mikaela kept out of the way as they worked on the newcomer. The 'bots were tense and understandably upset. She learned from the ongoing conversation that this 'bot was a very old friend, and someone they had thought long dead. Arcee, in particular, was rattled and clearly didn't know what to do until Ratchet thrust something that resembled a high-tech sautering iron into her hand. Then she was all business. He put her to work repairing the damage to the robot's sensory synapses. His eyes were moving, but they were, according to Ratchet, blind. He was also deaf, and they'd cut the connection between his sensory processor and his body, which meant he couldn't feel anything, either.

"Don't fix _that_," Ratchet said, "until we get the rest of this mess repaired."

"I'm not sure if the sensory deprivation would be better or worse than the pain," Arcee whispered.

"He's not conscious, 'Cee. He's running on fumes, and has shut everything down but a few critical systems -- spark containment stuff _only_. Though the Allspark only knows what they did to him before he ran out of juice."

"Optimus -- if he's gone bonkers, do you think the two of us can take him down?" This was Ironhide. "That sort of torture can drive a mech crazy. I'm not looking forward to a rumble with him, tell you that now."

Optimus seemed very sobered by the thought. "Hopefully his anger will be directed at Megatron, and not at us, Ironhide."

"He won't be rumbling any time soon," Ratchet shook his head as he worked. "Optimus, I've never seen a 'bot who is this far gone still have any shred of spark left. Sane? We'll be lucky if he's coherent. There's a _lot _of damage here, and I don't know if I can fix all of it, boss. Don't think anyone could. Looks like they were repeatedly sending power surges through his circuits ... he's ..." Ratchet pulled a handful of charred and crumbling electronics out of the 'bots chest cavity and tossed them to the side. Inferno handed him what looked to be a replacement part. "... Optimus, there is _no way _he could have detected that beacon, much less set a course to land here."

"You think Megatron sent him to us as -- what, a message? A trap?" Ironhide growled. "Probably a trap. He's probably bugfuck crazy. Megatron tortured him until he broke, and then sent him to us as a nasty surprise."

Optimus said shortly, "Ironhide, drop it. He would never break, and his sanity will not be in question."

Sotto voice, Arcee said, "But Optimus's might be..."

The rest snickered at this comment. Clearly, it was an old injoke. Mikaela wondered at the context.

"Optimus is right," Arcee said, as she glanced up from welding a shiny new stainless steel patch to what passed for the Autobot's damaged cheek. "Never. I think the reason the damage is this bad is that he wouldn't talk. If he had, the rest of us would never have escaped -- he knew where the base was, and Megatron's soldiers outnumbered us twenty to one, remember? I think Megatron tortured him until he appeared dead. Then he cast him out."

Bumbeblee, who had mostly been watching, suddenly sat down next to Mikaela, which put his shoulders at about her head height. She stood closer to him, and asked quietly, "Who is he?"

Bee glanced over. Behind the blue glow of his eyes seemed to lurk real grief. "An old friend. We thought he was dead."

"Who ...?" she reached out and rested a hand on his arm. The metal felt warm, and she could feel a hum and small vibrations and movements under her hand. Even in disguise, she thought she could identify a mech now by touch. They felt _alive_. How had they ever thought the Camero was just a car?

Bee glanced down at her hand, then whooshed a sigh through his vents that communicated an emotion of frustration and resignation perfectly. He rested his hand across her shoulders. It always amazed her that creatures as big and, well, _robotic_, as the Autobots could be so very gentle. "Sorry, Mikaela. I thought this would be a party. Hot Shot's lots of fun. Not ... this. If we can save him, it'll be happy, but ... but ..." he nodded at the fallen 'bot, "He was one of us. Optimus sent Arcee, Ratchet ... Jazz ..." there was a catch in Bee's voice when he said Jazz's name, "... and a mech named Fangface on a recon mission. Our friend here was leading them, with a base in low orbit, and providing heavy backup if they needed it. It was supposed to be an in and out scouting trip. We knew Megatron had some bases on that world, and they were just supposed to survey things being detected, then leave. It was a _routine _trip. They'd done that sort of mission a thousand times, and expected no trouble."

"It didn't go as planned?"

"Fangface b-betrayed them." Bee's voice caught again. "_I _was the one who brought Fangface to the team, Mikaela. I thought he was my friend. I ... s-saved his life, and talked the others into healing him. He swore allegiance to Optimus. He fought at our side for years. I failed Optimus the day he betrayed us."

"He was a Decepticon?" The name was a giveaway. She pictured a toothy, jagged face among the noble Autobots she had come to know as friends. It felt wrong. On the other hand, she could easily picture them tagging a friendly Decepticon with that name, teasing and joking with him about his unlikely appearance.

"He betrayed us. Our friend there ..." Bee nodded at the fallen 'bot. "... He's a wicked powerful mech. Megatron had been gunning for him for years, because he'd taken out so many of Megatron's men. Fangface blew their cover, delibererately, and he tried to come to the rescue. He held Megatron's forces by himself so the others could escape in a shuttle and scram. By the time they got reinforcements it was too late. When we came back for him ... and Mikaela, I led that mission ... we found scattered parts ... signs of a huge firefight. We thought he'd died in the fight when we found no trace of a thermal signature. We found ... we found part of his chest plate, and a burned up piece of leg, and a hand, and I figured he'd died."

Bee let out a low, shuddering sound. It might have been a cry in an alien language, she didn't know. She reached over and touched his arm, shocked by the raw emotion in his voice. He continued, "We _buried _what parts we could find;. It had been a hell of a fight, and the parts were scattered over a thousand square miles of planet and charred almost beyond the point of recognition by the heat of atmospheric entry. We thought we were lucky to find anything to bury ..."

Arcee looked up from her work, and said in a tone of annoyance, "Sorry to interrupt, Bee, but your boy's refusing to let me take him home from college. He's threatening to take a cab. Will you go get him?"

"Why won't he ...?" Bumblebee said, in puzzlement. This also baffled Mikaela -- once she'd sorted out that the other two parts of Arcee were still with Sam, she still couldn't figure out why he was reluctant to ride back to the base with her. While Bee was Sam's best friend among the 'bots, she'd seen him ride with almost everyone -- even with Ironhide, whose tolerance of humans was grudging at best.

"Arcee, can you blame him?" Optimus rumbled at her. She looked away sharply, then returned to welding bits of the fallen autobot back together. Then he added, "Bee, go. We don't need you here right now. This is probably going to take all night."

"Sure, boss." Bumblebee transformed from a sitting position, with far less than his usual enthusiasm.

"And Mikaela -- Wheelie is _not _to know about this Autobot. Do you understand?" Optimus straightened up, and looked straight at her. "That is very important."

"_Thank you_, Optimus," Arcee murmured. Ratchet said something very similar. She added, "We thought you were losing your mind."

Optimus corrected them, sounding more than a little irritated, "Wheelie is not Fangface. He should not carry the burdern of past crimes by a Decepticon who died long before he was born. However, make no mistake in assuming that I trust him. Aside from his birth, he is very young and quite inexperienced. Here before us is evidence of the length that Decepticons will go to extract information. Wheelie broke in moments, after the loss of one eye and a threat to do more by a young human armed only with a blow torch. If he is captured by Megatron, my assumption is that he will behave similarly. Therefore, he is not to know any sensitive information. And this ... this is truly sensitive. If we can repair him ..."

Optimus gazed down at the 'bot for a long moment. "If we can repair him, I do not think I exaggerate when I say we may be able to turn the tide of this war. We _need _powerful warriors. Had he been with us last week, it would have been a very uneven battle weighted heavily in our favor." Optimus paused for a long, long moment, before adding, "And he is a friend. One long mourned, long lost, has come back to us ..."

Ratchet, who was nearly up to his armpit in alien robot abdominal wiring and had been grumbling in his native language for several minutes, said, "I'm trying, Big Boss. I'm trying. But this is like trying to boot up a nuclear power plant using jumper cables. "

"Let's go," Bumblebee said, from beside her. "If I stay here, I'm going to start crying."


	4. Chapter 4

Optimus had said _don't hide him_.

Practically speaking, hiding Wheelie was impossible.

Arcee, at least, could generate the hologram of a pretty young woman. Said pretty young woman was currently downstairs in front of his dorm, leaning against her bike, arms folded, and pouting. There was nothing unusual about her except that she'd been sitting there for hours -- and her twin was guarding the dorm's back door. Her hologram was gorgeous enough to draw the attention of the occasional passing man; when Sam had pointed that, perhaps, a less attractive hologram might draw less interest from passing humans, Arcee had laughed and said, "Do you think I really mind?"

Apparently, Bee wasn't the only 'bot who was amused by flirting.

"Ooooooooh!" Wheelie exclaimed, emerging from the dorm room's closet with a whole stack of old CD's. "You have _music_!"

Sam glanced up from his homework. "Careful, those scratch easy."

"Why CDs? Why not an MP3 player?" Wheelie took the first one out of its case and, to Sam's bemusement, scanned it. A red light shone from Wheelie's good eye. He exclaimed, "Metallica! Goooooood music!"

"I haven't had time to rip them," Sam said, absently.

At that moment, the dorm door opened. Wheelie dove under the bed's rumpled covers, making a robot-shaped lump on the bed. He also wasn't fast enough to avoid being seen. Leo, and Leo's new girlfriend, stared at the bed in surprise.

Leo said, incredulously, "That's not that ... you brought that thing _home _with you?"

Sam, not looking up from his laptop said, "Yes."

Leo's girlfriend -- her name was Bethany -- said, "Wait. Wait. That was one of the robots from TV? One of the ones that saved the world? It's here?" Bethany stared at Wheelie, who twitched when he realized he'd been seen. And then he tensed up and muttered audibly when she added, "I thought it would be a lot bigger!"

"It's not an it, it's a he," Sam said, resignedly. "Wheelie, come out. There's not even a point in hiding."

Wheelie stuck his head out. Saw Bethany. And purred, with enthusiasm, "_A girrrrrrl_!"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Wheelie, I will _punt _you if you say anything inappropriate."

"I'll tell Optimus," Wheelie pouted.

"Be my guest. I don't think you'll find a sympathetic audience there, buddy," Sam reached out, flicked the 'bot in the head with one finger. Wheelie attempted to bite his finger, but he was ready for that, and Wheelie's toothy jaws clicked on air. "More to the point, if you want the pretty girl," he glanced at Bethany, who was anything but beautiful, unfortunately, "To like you, you will not hump her leg, wolf whistle at her, or suggest any inappropriate activities whatsoever. Is that clear?"

Bethany was staring at the 'bot with very wide eyes. "He does that?"

"To Mikaela." Leo giggled. "It was pretty funny. Sam kicked him."

Sam hastily assured her, "You can't judge Autobots by Wheelie. He's not one. He's a Decepticon."

"I AM so an Autobot!" Wheelie, hands balled on his hips, glared up at Sam. He was absolutely quivering with outrage. "Optimus said I could join! He said! I swore allegiance! You lie!"

Sam gave the other two humans in the room a pained expression. "He's also operating on about the level of a two year old child, I think."

"Am not a child!"

"Wheelie, _I _am older than you." Sam patted him on the head.

"It doesn't work the same for Cybertronians." Wheelie was pouting. "Besides, I spent hundreds of years in a stasis pod. That makes me older than you, buddy."

"That doesn't count, runt." Sam realized, belatedly, how this argument must look to Leo and Bethany and looked up again at them. "Err, seriously. He's not a good example of the 'bots."

Bethany suddenly squeaked. Leo pointed past Sam's shoulder, and said, in a somewhat nervous tone of voice, "I think that's one of the better examples."

Sam turned around in his desk chair to see a pair of glowing blue eyes, framed by neon yellow, peering through the open second floor dorm room window, on the other side of the desk. Shocked, Sam snapped, "Bee! Are you insane?"

Bee drooped visibly, "But Optimus said we don't have to hide anymore ... and Sam, I need to talk to you ..."

"Yeah, and I'd like to have a normal life!" Sam covered his face with one hand, and shook his head briefly, before surfacing again and pointing a finger sternly in the general direction of the parking lot. "Get! Shoo! Parking lot!" Sam bent over in his chair, grabbed Wheelie by the waist, and chucked him out the window in Bee's direction. "And babysit the runt while you're at it!"

"Fuck you, asswipe!" Wheelie shouted, from somewhere below the level of the window. Sam watched the back of Bee's head retreat without getting up from his chair. Bee stopped after a few strides, then disappeared from view. There had been no distinctive noise of an Autobot transformation, so he figured Bumblebee had bent over. With absolutely no surprise, he heard a growing crescendo of excited voices.

Sam covered his face with his hands, and said through his fingers, "Please tell me he's not drawing a crowd. Please?"

Leo walked to the dorm's other room and looked out the window with interest. Brightly, he said, "He's a fifteen foot tall yellow robot on a college campus with an enormous engineering department. He's drawing a crowd. Somebody just asked to see how his hand articulates."

"You were kinda mean to him," Leo's girlfriend said, uncertainly.

"Who, Wheelie? He'll get over it." Sam closed his laptop. Clearly, there would be no studying this afternoon.

Leo shook his head vigorously. "To Bee, she means. Sam, Bee's your friend. Why'd you do that?"

Defensively, Sam said, "He _knows _he's not supposed to draw attention to himself. I don't care if Optimus says he can lay off the subterfuge a bit. I still don't want him walking around campus. Can you imagine what the school will say? Wheelie's bad enough -- I'm trying to figure out if he qualifies as a pet or an extra roommate who's not attending the school. Either way, he's not actually allowed."

"Wheelie's a robot, half the geeks in the school have robots in their rooms. Yours is just a little more advanced. And -- Bee's _nice_." Leo said, sturdily, earning a black look from Sam. Leo continued, a little less certainly, but voice growing stronger as he spoke, "Look, the damn robots pretty much scare the damn crap out of me, but Bumblebee? Bumblebee adores you and Mikaela. He'd die for you two, literally. Do you treat all your friends that way?"

"I ..." Sam suddenly rose so he could see what was going on outside. Bumblebee, it turned out, was down on one knee, signing autographs for a growing mob.

_Signing autographs._

Somebody had found him a very, very large marker. He was holding it pinched between thumb and forefinger with great care. People were crowding around and asking questions and handing him objects to sign. It was ludicrous. Surreal. Sam completely expected an entire armada of Decepticons to come pouring out of the heavens, or perhaps the military to descend en mass on Bee and haul him away in a block of ice. Instead, people were flocking to him as if he was some sort of superstar. And Bee seemed to completely be in his element.

Bumblebee noticed someone's rock t-shirt, and played a clip of music to match the band. His speakers were good enough to rattle the windows of the nearby buildings. The owner of the t-shirt began to dance in response. Bee, who loved music second only to life itself, joined in with surprisingly good grace for a fifteen foot tall, multi-ton alien robot. And just like that, the crowd started to bop with him. The Autobot truly appeared to be enjoying himself, and the crowd was obviously excited by his presence.

Bee, it turned out, could break dance. Quite well. Though the lawn was suffering a bit.

Sam beat his head against the window frame in time with the music. He could see that some of the people in the crowd had cell phones with video recorders, and in the distance, he could see someone running across the parking lot with a large professional video recorder up on one shoulder.

"I don't get you," his roommate said, sounding annoyed. "You could be the most popular guy on campus. You saved the world and your best friend's a space alien with ..." Leo regarded the scene below with a grin, "... some sick moves. And you're complaining about this?"

"Dude, I don't want to be popular," Sam paused from banging his forehead. "I want to be normal. Low profile. I want to go to my classes and hang out with my friends and ..."

He trailed off as he remembered most of those friends were big, decidedly not low-profile robots. Including the one who was pretty much his best friend in all the world, who was currently -- to the enormous laughter of a very large and rapidly crowd -- doing a surprisingly good moonwalk. Normal? Not happening.

"Uh-oh, there's the dean!" Leo announced. The man was approaching the impromptu jam session in a small electric golf cart.

Sam looked up. "Oh, _crap_!" He ran for the door. This could be ugly!

* * *

Mikaela met him halfway up the stairs. Her eyes were dang near shooting lasers at him. He guessed she'd seen his outburst -- which he was growing more and more guilty about. Bee _was _his best friend. "Sam Witwicky, what the _hell _was that about ..."

"I ... uh ... he's having fun ..."

"No." Mikaela said, very clearly. "He's doing PR and putting on a good show for the crowd, which he considers one of his duties at the moment. I sincerly doubt he's 'having fun' given the mood he was in to start with. What the hell is your problem, Sam?"

"I ..." She was _mad_. Maybe he had crossed the line, but damnit, he'd made it clear to Bumbeblee and the other 'bots on multiple different occasions that he didn't want them to draw attention to him. He'd originally even told Bumblebee not to _follow _him to college at all ... which Bee had ignored, and with very good reason, but still. Bee knew his feelings on the matter. He wanted to be _a_ normal kid for once.

"We'll talk. Later." Mikaela made it sound like a threat. "Right now, we've got bigger problems. Bee's going to keep Wheelie busy for tonight. They had a new 'bot arrive, he's in pretty bad shape, and he's an old friend of all the others. Bumblebee was pretty bad shook up. Optimus is very clear he doesn't want Wheelie knowing about this 'bot, and I think he's worried about the human soldiers. He asked us to get back to the base, and it would have been _real _helpful if you'd just caught a ride with one of Arcee rather than making Bee drive me out here."

"You could have called me," he said, defensively.

"Cell phone communications are being monitored, remember?" she growled at him. "It was easier to just come get you than play twenty-questions-and-no-answers with you, when the Decepticons could figure things out from what we _weren't _saying just as easily as they could from what we are! What's your deal with Arcee, anyway?"

"She damn near killed me."

"And she said she was sorry, and Ratchet made her study what he termed 'human design tolerances.'" Mikaela, apparently, had gotten the story, likely either from Bee or Optimus himself.

Outside, the music stopped. A chorus of annoyed whines rose from the gathered crowd. Bee's voice, pitched to carry, said, "Don't worry. I'll be here all the time. I've got a friend here. I'm his ride."

The crowd laughed.

Sam emerged as many of the people were dispersing. Bee had stopped dancing, was sitting down on the ground, and the presence of the dean was encouraging most of the kids to move along. Those that remained were listening intently, however, as Bee had turned serious. The dean was standing a bit farther back than the students had, and as Sam approached he overheard the man ask, "... so you're protecting us?"

"Yup," Bumblebee assured them. "But I'm off duty right now. I'm just dropping a friend off, if that's okay."

The man pointed at the grass, which had been torn up badly by Bee's feet. "Just not on the grass, if you would."

"Oh." Bee drooped visibly. "I'm sorry about that."

The dean shook his head. "Its okay ... I've been reading about you guys online. It's an amazing story. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen that Decepticon-robot here last week, and saw you saving your friends. The president said ... and the media ... Did you really save all of Earth last week? _All _of us? The whole thing?"

Bee shrugged. "That's why we're here. We can't let the Decepticons win."

The man was silent for a long moment. Finally, in a voice that was shaking, he said, "_Thank _you."

Bee's eyes irised shut in a startled blink at the man's simple statement. Then he replied, not with his own voice, but with one of his movie quotes, in a deep western drawl, "Aw, shucks!" Before the man could come up with another response, Bee noticed Sam and Mikaela walking across the grass. He looked up, and when he saw them, he waved happily.

Sam's guilt doubled. He had been rude to Bumblebee, and Bumblebee had probably already forgiven and forgotten. Wheelie, on the other hand, had him fixed with a positively deadly glare that was a twin of the look in his girlfriend's eyes.

"Bee," Mikaela said, "We're going to go run some errands. Can you keep an eye on Wheelie?"

"Sure, Mikaela." Bee reached down and patted Wheelie on the head. Wheelie growled and stepped several strides away from the much larger Autobot. "Wheelie can keep me company."

"I want to go with my Warrior Goddess!" Wheelie folded his arms and glared up at Bumblebee.

"Sorry, runt," Bee said, not sounding nearly as apologetic to Wheelie as he had to the dean over the grass. "You're stuck with me for the rest of the day."

* * *

Mikaela's battered mustang rattled and chugged down the highway, and Sam sort've wondered if they'd make it to the base at all. The thing had no _hood_ and to make it go she'd had to worm her way into the engine cavity and beat on something with a ball peen hammer. At every stop something in the front of the car was shifting forward and going, _THUNK!_ And after riding with the 'bots for almost a year, Mikaela's beater felt strange and dead to him, even aside from the vehicle's dubious mechanical soundness

She was silent, and clearly mad at him. Bee might have already gotten over it, but Mikaela was still pissed. He tried again to explain, "Mikaela, I have asked Bumblebee lots of times to be discrete. He _knows _I don't ..."

"What, you don't want to be seen with him?" She cut his words off. "Sam, you've got some choices to make. You want the 'bots as your friends, but you don't want the hassle of the publicity. Given the way things are going, you're probably going to have to chose. I've already made my choice."

"Aren't you glad you got in the car?" he teased, trying to make her smile.

The look she gave him had absolutely no sense of humor to it. "You hurt Bumblebee's feelings. Badly."

"He was fine. You saw him!"

"Bullshit." She shot him a brief glare. "He's not fine. You owe him an apology."

"Okay, fine, I'll apologize."

She reached into her purse and handed him her cell phone. "Right now."

Uncertainly, he took it. He really didn't think that Bee was nearly as upset as Mikaela did, but if it would make Mikaela happy ... he dialed the number to Bee's internal phone. Bumblebee answered brightly, "Hey, Mikaela! What's up?"

"It's me, Bee. I'm using her phone. Umm ... I'm sorry for what I did, back at my room." There. That was enough, wasn't it?

Bee was quiet for a very long time -- long enough that he wondered if his call had been dropped. When the Autobot finally spoke, it was with a rare, completely serious tone. "Thank you, for the apology. Tell Mikaela I said thank you, also."

Uh-oh. But that tone, and the implications in the 'bots words, he _had _truly hurt Bumblebee's feelings. Bee was assuming this apology was being forced by Mikaela, too. And he really didn't like what that said about how Bee perceived him.

He recalled that it had been far from the first time that he'd done something like this. Once, it had been necessary, because Bee was effectively highly classified and top secret. But, even though Bee had proven that he could successfully hide as Sam's "car" for over a year, he'd still refused to allow Bumblebee to come with him to college. And before that ... well, he had often left Bee alone in the garage for days, even weeks, at a time, except for a perfunctory hello. He'd been caught up in his own life, and in a moment of crystal clarity he realized he had forgotten that when he was staying with the Witwickys, Bee really didn't have anyone to socialize with outside of him, Mikaela, and his parents.

"God, I'm sorry, Bee." This time he really meant it.

Bee's answer surprised him a bit. "Sam, there have been times in my life when I've struggled to find my way. I'm younger than most of the other Autobots, and I'm a lot smaller than nearly all of the warriors. But I'm also not much of a scientist, and I'm not particularly good at espionage, and I would prefer not to lead. Optimus insisted that I come on this mission, but if he'd picked a larger, more powerful 'bot, maybe Jazz and Jetfire would still be alive. Maybe you and Optimus would not have been hurt. Optimus had his pick of the Autobots, and he picked me, and I'm still not sure why."

Sam swallowed hard, suddenly and unaccountably at a loss for words.

Bee was also quiet for a moment, before adding, "I asked to stay with you for a reason, Sam, that goes beyond our friendship. I'm important, to you and Mikaela, and I didn't trust the others to take the responsibility of protecting you as seriously as I do ... you are my _friends_. And, sometimes, it feels good to be important to someone, and good to be a friend, too."

"Oh. Geeze. But Optimus _likes _you."

"He does," Bee agreed. "But if I were to die tomorrow, I could be replaced. I'm just another foot soldier, Sam. Not like ..." he trailed off, then said, "Optimus wants us to get to know the people of this world. He says they will not be afraid of us if they know us, and your president has agreed to that approach. That is why I did not bother to hide. However, if it makes you not fit in among the others, I will be more careful in the future."

"Shut up, Bee," he said, with sudden feeling. "No. You don't need to hide."

"Thanks, Sam." Bumblebee sounded like he meant it. "Listen, we will talk later. I'm going to take Wheelie to the dunes by the lake and let him run some energy off. He's driving me nuts."

"You too, huh?"

With feeling, Bumblebee said, "Optimus is out of his mind on this one."


	5. Chapter 5

Mikaela parked her ancient Mustang beside the road, and they picked their way down to the lake shore. Over the last few hours an enormous tent had been erected, presumably to conceal the contents from passing satellites or spy planes overhead. It was late, and growing dark, and the tent glowed from within as it was lit by brilliant lights. A semi-sized generator had been parked beside the tent, and a fuel tank beside it, and it sounded like it was running hard to meet the power demands of more than just lights.

Ironhide was standing guard in front of the entrance and he said gruffly, "You two don't need to be here. This is Autobot business ... no humans need to be here."

Optimus's voice came from inside. "Ironhide, if that's Mikaela and Sam, let them in. We could use some small hands to help."

Ironhide growled something under his breath, but he stepped aside and they pushed their way through the heavy canvas flap that served as a door.

It was surprisingly cool in the tent -- Mikaela spotted a bank of portable air chillers aimed at a pile of equipment. Some sort of mainframe, she thought, since it had monitors bolted to it. Cables ran from the computer to the fallen 'bot, who had been wrapped with the the biggest sheet of static-resistant mylar that Mikaela had ever seen in her life. She'd seen computer equipment come packaged in that stuff, but had never known it could be obtained in pieces big and thick enough to shroud an Optimus Prime sized 'bot.

They'd set up tables, with bits of the 'bot arrayed on them. One third of Arcee was seated at one of them, and the other two thirds of her rolled past Mikaela and Sam and joined the project. She had the bot's _head _on the table. The head alone was at least three feet tall. Despite knowing that an Autobot's life force was not contained in the head -- that it just held sensory arrays -- Mikaela shuddered. Arcee, seated beside it, seemed to be doing some very delicate work with a microscrope and tiny forceps.

"Mikaela, could you help me out here?" Another third of Arcee summoned her over. "My hands are too big to fit. I need to reattach the auditory link to the mike, there ..." she pointed deep into the 'bots enormous head.

Mikaela squinted past her and figured out what Arcee was gesturing at. Then she took the sautering iron from Arcee and reached into the cavity. Expertly, she reattached the wires. Arcee commented, with some surprise, "You look like you know what you're doing."

"Not too different than fixing a wiring harness on a car," Mikaela said, without looking up from her work. She studied the tangle of wires she was working on and spotted something that was out of place. "Looks like this orange wire's a ground, right? Where does it go?"

Arcee, watching over Mikaela's shoulder, said, "You're right. Orange is the ground, green is hot. We ground positive, by the way. And you can stick that ground anywhere to that black bit of framework that's holding the optical processor array ... we had to replace a strut because something arced out and it was burned through." Arcee offered a tiny metal screw, a clip, pliers, and an only slightly oversized drill to Mikaela. Mikaela squashed the clip over the end of the wire with the pliers and screwed it to an out-of-the-way place on the strut.

They worked on the sensory apparatus in the 'bot's skull long into the night. Arcee, who mostly ended up directing Mikaela rather than doing the work herself, explained, "The reason I split into four bodies originally -- three, now -- was that I needed small hands to do this kind of work, and having some extra pairs of hands seemed useful. But I wanted to keep the option of being big and kicking ass. However, I got an upgrade in power and size with the protoform for this mission. Optimus said I'd need to fight. If I have to fight, if the team needs me, I'm more than willing, but ..." she looked down at her hands, which by Autobot standards were small and delicate while still being twice Mikaela's size. "There was a tradeoff."

"Is it confusing having three bodies?" Mikaela asked, as she squinted through a low-powered microscope at a circuit board for an inertial sensor of human make. The fallen 'bot's old sensor had been cut out, something that likely would have rendered him so unstable that he would be unable to walk. While helping with the repairs, she had learned that Autobots had a network of sensors throughout their bodies that rivaled the human nervous system in complexity.

The human sensor would probably work just fine, Arcee said. However, the sensor's pigtail of wiring and the matching socket just behind the 'bot's left eye did not even begin to be compatible, and there were issues with voltage and amperage that Arcee was grumbling about -- another third of Arcee had a box of tiny transformers at the table, and was apparently designing something to fix that problem. Arcee had decided to hardwire the sensor to the 'bot's nervous system, and this meant that she directing was Mikaela, and Mikaela's tinier hands, in attaching hair-fine wires directly to the chip. She didn't have a clue what she was doing, really, except that Arcee was walking her through it. Arcee had taken one look at the chip and had figured out exactly what every nearly microscopic part of it did.

Arcee's response to her question was a short laugh. "It uses a bit more processor power than I was expecting, but the tradeoff is that I can be in three places at once."

"The other downside," Ratchet said, as he walked past, "Is that she's far more vulnerable when she's split up. And her spark is truly split between all three pieces. As she said, she was once four ... we thought we were going to lose her when the Megatron captured the fourth piece of her body, and destroyed it and one quarter of her spark with it."

Arcee shrugged expressively and rolled backwards from the work table. "Just means I've got one foot in the grave now ... which is pretty much status quo anyway for us old soldiers. Ratchet -- what do you think, should we upgrade his vision a bit when we work on his optic center? There's nothing wrong with his optic processor other than the sensory wires being cut, but look at this," she held up a tarnished silver box, "This is several thousand years old and the new ones have a much higher acuity. He never was much for routine maintenance ... I can't believe he never had this upgraded. Anyway, we've got one that will fit him because he takes the same size as Optimus."

"Yes, but let's keep his in reserve," Ratchet said. "I hate to resort to the junk yard method of repairs, but if we don't get a resupply ship in soon we may need it if either of them manage to slag theirs. As it stands, he's going to be more than fifty percent Earth make ... some of the parts we need just have no earth analog, however. And Arcee, it was four thousand years ago that we lost him."

Arcee stared at the box in her hands for a moment. "Oh." She set the processer aside on the table. "I guess you're right."

Ratchet nodded absently, "He's still due an upgrade." He then walked back to rejoin Optimus. The two of them were fashioning the basic framework of new limbs from scrap metal and Optimus, somewhat to Mikaela's surprise, seemed to be very good with a supersized plasma arc welder and some machining equipment. It was more than just casual knowledge. He handled the machinery like he'd done so extensively in the past. She knew welding, and used a welder regularly in the shop. She could teach someone to weld in a day, just the basics, but the sort of plasma welding Optimus was doing was _art_. She had a friend with a plasma arc welder, and had made a mess the few times she'd tried to use it.

Mikaela commented, to Arcee, "Boss 'bot knows what's he's doing over there, doesn't he?"

Arcee followed Mikaela's gaze. Mikaela expected to be reminded that they were robots and could download data from the internet as needed to perform specific tasks. She felt stupid, even as she said it. The Autobot learning curve had to be far shorter than the human one. However, Arcee's response was a bit wistful, "Optimus has a very long history, Mikaela. Once upon a time he was not a warrior, nor even our leader. Once he was just a worker."

"He was a worker?" Somehow, picturing Optimus as anything but the leader of the Autobots was nearly impossible. She easily could picture him ruling an entire world. She had a hard time envisioning him as the Autobot equivalent of a blue-collar man.

Arcee's voice was even softer when she replied, "He doesn't talk about it much. Ever, really. But Bee's known Optimus much longer than I have, and Bee says Optimus was never programmed to be a warrior -- Optimus doesn't confide much in anyone, I believe he's never gotten over Megatron's betrayal, and he also does not want to burden us. But he has said a few things to Bumblebee that Bee's been able to share. He was designed to be a _worker. _He worked at a starship dock on one of Cybertron's moons, many _many _thousands of years ago. He was nearly destroyed somehow. They had him rebuilt with a bit of a power upgrade to military specs. That's all I really know ... from there he ended up carrying the Matrix of Leadership and ruled Cybertron with Megatron as his co-ruler until ..." She trailed off.

"That's why he calls him brother?"

"It's more than that. They're of the same batch of sparks. They've known each other since, effectively, birth -- that ordinarily would mean they would be like twins -- or triplets, actually, as there were three of them. At any rate, Optimus _hates _Megatron." Arcee glanced at the boss. "It's totally and completely justified to hate Megatron, you know. We all do. However, with Optimus, it's different. He's been going after Megatron for thousands of years with fairly singleminded determination."

She pointed one finger at the battered head on the table. "Justified hatred."

* * *

The 'bots worked long into the night on the robot. Ratchet produced military cots and blankets for Mikaela and Sam sometime around two AM; both of them were utterly exhausted, and they fell asleep at the back of the tent. When Mikaela awoke hours later, it was raining -- she could hear the rushing nose of water beating against the canvas tent, and the occasional distant flash of lightning illuminated the fabric from outside.

Sam was already up. When she went to see how far they'd gotten, she discovered that Arcee was finishing up the job of reattaching the head to the body, and the 'bot had the framework of new legs and hands. Under the mylar sheet, a liquid tide of silvery metal was flowing and rippling over the 'bot's body as if it were organically alive.

"Nanobots," Ratchet said, when she asked. "They're setting up for a transformation. They'll modify the framework we built -- they can't _add _anything, but they can alter the shape and size of the parts that are already there. He's so far gone he's reverted back to a protoform -- he's lost his old alternate modes. He'll need to scan something when he wakes up. We're trying to find a civilian vehicle large enough and do you _know _how hard it is to rent an eighteen wheeler on short notice? We don't want him scanning something military, because that would stand out too much."

"Is this going to work?" She'd caught the undercurrent of profound worry from the team.

Ratchet made a noise like a sigh. "I really don't know. I can deal with ordinary stasis lock, but he was badly damaged and his subroutines have corrupted. Once we have the physical damage repaired, we're going to need to reboot his processor core. Restarting a bot's processers is a tricky, difficult process -- we are not designed to be turned off any more than a human is designed to have their heart stop. Good way to lose containment on your spark ... humans would call that _dying_."

He glanced briefly skyward. She thought he might be looking in the direction of their home world, so very far away. "The last time I did this sort of thing, it was before the war, on a mech whose exploration vessel was hit by an asteroid. Took out the engines. The mech powered down and activated a stasis field and spent almost a million of your years in transit back home using a solar sail. He had no physical damage, really, except for what was caused by radioactive decay ... we managed to bring him back, but I had all the resources I could want to do it. Last I heard, he was running a mining outfit on one of Cybertron's moons."

Ratchet glanced at the mylar-shrouded form, and made a loose gesture at their fallen friend. "He wouldn't survive the trip to Cybertron, I'm not even sure the containment vessel on his spark would survive the G's to get to orbit. And we don't have a starship in the area that's big enough, anyway. We've got a transport ship with some supplies that will arrive in the next few months, but he wouldn't fit in the hold. And if we _can _get him working, he'll be a hell of a nasty surprise for Megatron and we all agreed he'd want us to try to fix him here and not stick him in a warehouse somewhere until the war was over and we could get him to a proper repair facility. We sure need him."

"How are you handling an energon supply?" She asked Ratchet. The transport vessel was supposed to deliver some, but until then, she knew they were flat out of extra power. The 'bots said they weren't worried, as they had about a century of energon each, but it was an issue if any of them needed to transcan something new. Assuming a new form took tremendous amounts of power, apparently.

"We're all donating a little bit to him," Ratchet said. "It'll be enough to power him for several years, plus enough for the transcan."

"Oh. Sort've like donating blood?"

"Something like that," Ratchet stepped forward when the nanobots stopped moving and scanned the still form with a small hand-held device. He turned to Optimus and said, "Looks like he's as ready as he'll ever be given the circumstances, Big Boss."

"Everyone stand clear. Give him room." Optimus stepped back himself, as Ratchet walked to the Cybertronian mainframe. He pushed several buttons. For a long moment, there was no reaction from the 'bot. She imagined the last of his systems powering done. All was dark and cold in his body. And then, a trickle of power, then a cascade, as the generators he was attached to jump-started systems long dormant. _He's alive! Alive! _She thought, a bit giddily. A crack of thunder from the storm outside set the mood in her mind perfectly.

And then ... the 'bot _moved_. In one frantic, fearful motion the he rolled wildly to his feet. Shredded bits of mylar drifted down. The cables attached to the mainframe and generators yanked free. The 'bot quivered with tension and he looked wildly about. Mikaela was suddenly glad that he had no weapons yet. He'd obviously been tortured near to death. His last memories were likely unpleasant, and mechs had eidetic memories.

"It worked!" Arcee shouted. "Woohoo! It worked!"

The Autobot jumped at the noise, then stared at her. His eyes were working wildly -- irising down to points, rolling in his head, taking in the whole scene. He made twitchy, uncertain movements with his arms, and shifted his weight about.

"Hello, old friend," Optimus said, calmly. He sounded concerned. And now that both 'bots were standing up, Mikaela could see the newcomer was a couple feet shorter than Optimus, but a little more massive through the chest and shoulders.

The 'bot spun towards Optimus at his words. His irises twisted closed several times. He then looked the others over. His first words in English were a confused-sounding, "Where me at?"

"Earth," Optimus said. "You are safe."

"Where Earth?"

Optimus said something in Cybertronian, and Mikaela guessed that he'd just given the 'bot coordinates that didn't have a good English translation. Optimus didn't generally speak in Cybertonian at all around the humans, because that would be rude, and Optimus was always polite to a fault. Optimus added, "We have already uploaded much of the basic language and cultural information you will need to your processors."

He blinked again. "Me here before. Long way from Cyberton."

Optimus said, voice incredibly gentle, "You have taken quite a bit of damage, old friend. We have fixed what we can, but this is a very primitive world. You're going to be a bit disoriented ..."

The 'bot took a stumbling step forward. Mikaela and Sam scrambled out of the way as the Autobot shoved his way through the door. Optimus didn't try to stop him, and they all followed him. Outside, the 'bot fell to one knee in the pouring rain before the semi they'd brought in specifically for him to scan. He stared at it. And then, wordlessly, at them. And said, "Too ... obvious. Me hide while repairs done. Not fight yet. Fight again _later_."

Ratchet murmured, behind Mikaela, "He's got some processor damage. Listen to him ... he's not correctly interpreting the English language module we uploaded. _Damn _it all to a sparkless abyss."

"I dunno," Arcee replied back, "He's making more sense than he usually does. He's actually willing to _wait _before smashing Megatron?"

Mikaela's battered mustang was beside the semi. The 'bot's gaze fell upon it. "_That_," he said, decisively.

"He can't possibly ..." Sam said, in disbelief.

"Yeah, actually, he can." Ratchet was scanning the 'bot from behind. "Though I never would have thought he'd consider it. He likes big stuff normally, the bigger and badder the better."

Far slower than Mikaela was used to seeing, he began to transform. It took several abortive attempts before he made it all the way into Mustang form, and she was pretty sure he'd used a Tardis to do it. There seemed to be no physical way that enormous 'bot had just folded himself into a hoodless 1968 Mustang. He'd even duplicated her license plate, and the crack in the windshield. How in the _hell _had he done that? She was pretty sure he massed as much, if not more, than Optimus.

Ratchet, sounding impressed, said, "Mikaela, it looks like your car just got an upgrade."

"Huh... what?"

Sam muttered, "A _fire _would be an upgrade to that thing."

"Yes, sending him with Mikaela is a good idea," Optimus said, to Ratchet. "We can hide him in plain sight ... we were going to send Hot Shot with her, but I believe this will work quite well."

"Optimus!" Sam objected, "Mikaela's not a part of this war! You'd put her in danger ..."

Ratchet snickered. "Biggest danger's going to be Mikaela's temper after a few days with him. Keep her _away _from the chain saws ..."

Mikaela shot a grin of acknowledgement over her shoulder at Ratchet. She'd been a warrior goddess long before Wheelie had tagged her with that nickname, and was damn proud of it.

"Where danger?" The transformed Autobot asked.

"Not here, buddy," Arcee rested a hand on his roof.

"Who fight? Still war?"

"Still a war," Arcee sounded tired. "We're still fighting Megatron. He's here, on this world, and would destroy it for his own gains, and all the people on it. We need your help."

"Smash Megatron." The 'bot had a real growl in his voice. "_Smash_ Megatron. Me _kill_. Me no talk. Megatron say me no break. Torture for fun. Laugh me screams."

Optimus dropped down onto one knee, and rested a hand on the 'bot's roof, as he addressed him. "Old friend, you will get your chance, I promise. We are setting up a trap for Megatron and we will need your help. However, you also need many more repairs, and we must keep you a secret until we spring the trap. Megatron will be far warier if he knows he would be facing you and your wrath, in addition to the rest of us."

The 'bot was silent for a long, long moment. Then he said, "Arcee. Jazz. Ironhide. Sideswipe. Bee. Where? They okay?"

"I'm right here, buddy," Arcee said, "I got an upgrade. And that's Ironhide. I think his grumble hasn't changed in twenty thousand years, the old grouch ..."

Ironhide growled at her, and said something rude in Cybertronian that made Sam snicker. Mikaela was going to need to get Bee to teach her some of that apparently choice vocabulary.

"You'll see Bumblebee later," Optimus promised, ignoring the exchange between Arcee and Ironhide behind him. "He's fine. He's still the heart of this team. Jazz ... Jazz died, but not in that battle. He lived many more years, and Megatron killed him just last year. It was nearly instant, he did not suffer, and he died well in a battle which we won."

"You Optimus!" The 'bot said, suddenly sounding a lot happier. "No recognize. Circuits slow. Feel stupid. You have new look! Like paint job flames. Worth it. Everyone get away. _Worth _it, Big Boss. Do again. Worth it. Me hurt, they live. Worth it!"

Optimus's laugh was a low rumble of amusement. "I like the flames too, but let's hope you don't need to repeat this level of damage any time soon." He indicated the others with a sweep of his hand, "That's Ironhide, by the way, and Ratchet, and Inferno. You know all of us. You're among friends. You're _safe_."

"Who they?"

The 'bot was transformed, and could not point, but Sam apparently guessed that he was talking about the two humans because he introduced himself. "I'm Sam Witwicky. This is Mikaela Bane."

"These two are friends as well, and can be trusted with our secrets. And, we need to keep you a secret for now." Optimus patted the car's quarter panel. "We're also worried about Mikaela's safety. Optimus could try to hurt her because he knows we would defend her. She is a friend. We may be accomplish both goals, protecting her and protecting you, by sending you with her. Will you do this? I know you would probably prefer to stay with us, and I would certainly like to see you here, among us, but ... the mission goals come first."

"Keep girl safe. Smash Decepticons. Can do."

"Thank you," Optimus replied. "Your willingness to fight, and get up and fight again, when others would have long quit, has always impressed me, old friend. Our goal will be to avoid a fight with Mikaela involved, but if Megatron brings the fight to us, we will defend her and you will be a very unpleasant surprise for the attackers."

"Wait a second!" Sam tried to protest again.

Mikaela interrupted him, "Sam, it's a good idea, actually. Optimus, I've been working on my Mustang every night anyway. Nobody would think twice about me putting him up on a lift and doing some repairs ..."

"I wouldn't try putting him up on a lift," Ratchet interrupted, with a laugh. "What do you think he weighs, Optimus? Twenty tons?"

"Mikaela, you will also want to be careful about the road surface under him. Do not try to drive on dirt with him in this form, and be wary of smaller bridges." Optimus stood back up. "I believe he is actually creating a fold in space/time to compress his body into that small of a space. He was an interstellar explorer and ..."

"Here before," the 'bot said, in reaction to Optimus's comment about exploration. "Few millions years ago. Big organic monsters everywhere. Bigger me. Nothing like that now. Was here with explorer ship five hundred years ago too. Not as exciting. They were _cool_."

Optimus acknowledged this with a quiet, "Yes, I know," before continuing to Mikaela, "... And he's got an old on-board warp engine. He _was _the ship when we first met. That's probably what he's using to create a little pocket dimension to hide some of his structure. This is possible to do, and I've seen it done before. The physics are ugly, but if he's doing what I believe him to be doing, his mass and weight are no different. He's just smaller."

"Yeah," Arcee said, "The boss bot's right. He's just as heavy as he ever was."

"He also won't be able to keep this up for long," Ratchet was scanning the 'bot with a handheld tool. "He's using tons of power to hold this form."

"Hide. Get stronger. Weak, now. Easy to hurt. _Hide_. Get powerful. Smash Decepticons. Later. Hide now. Better form later." The Autobot sounded sensible when he said this -- his initial fearful reaction was fading. "Not much Energon. This temporary. Too much power. Puny form."

"Yeah, we know you're a badass when you're up to speed." Ratchet's comment made the others snicker, for reasons that Mikaela didn't entirely understand.

"I believe we have a plan truly taking shape here," Optimus said, words which drew the others' attention to him. "Mikaela will take him home with her and we will send Arcee by every night after closing hours for Mikaela's shop, to continue repairing what his nanobots can not. Meanwhile, Wheelie feeds Starscream and Megatron information about our planned raids on Decepticon operations. When he is up to full fighting strength, we set a trap for Megatron -- and Megatron, who will believe that he is attacking a small force of 'bots, finds the two of us waiting for him.

"Smash Megatron!"

"It will be very good to fight with you at my side again, old friend," Optimus sounded truly pleased by the idea. "Mikaela, what do you think?"

"Sure." Mikaela shrugged. "Sounds like a plan to me."

"Me like plan."

Mikaela addressed the 'bot, patting the cracked windshield as she did so, "So, buddy, you're coming home with me. You got a name or should I just call you Big Boy?"

The Autobot chuckled, sounding deeply amused. "Big Boy. Like that. Me Grimlock. Mission: Grimlock smash Megatron. Right boss 'bot?"

Optimus said somberly, "Right, Grimlock. Protect Mikaela too. But I will be _pleased _to have you help us smash Megatron."


	6. Chapter 6

"Waaaaahooooooo!" Wheelie charged up a dune so fast that he shot airborn at the top. His trajectory took him out over the lake -- far out. Bumblebee calculated that he'd been going over a hundred miles an hour when he'd launched airborn. He transformed in mid air and executed several tumbling rolls, then hit the water with barely a splash.

Mechs couldn't really swim unless they had trapped air in their bodies, being far heavier than water, but they weren't damaged it either. The human parts in his voicebox had a distressing tendency to short out when they got wet, and he'd removed Wheelie's jury-rigged camera eye before sending him off to play, but mechs were pretty much waterproof.

Bee, seated on a rock by the shore, waited patiently for Wheelie to appear at the water's edge. After five minutes, the little 'bot splashed out of the waves, and then zoomed off to get another long run at the sand dune. Bee couldn't help but feel a little happy, watching him. Bumblebee thought the young Decepticon had never had a chance to simply _play _before, because he had reacted with some confusion when Bumblebee had suggested he see how fast he could get going.

What was the point, Wheelie had wondered?

He'd figured it out pretty quickly, though. The point was just to have _fun_. There was a sheer joy of pushing yourself to the absolute maximum level of your abilities, without the fear or rage of a battle. Just, simply, to see how fast you could really go.

"Watch this, Bee!" Wheelie shouted as he soared over Bee's head, going a good hundred and fifty miles an hour. The splash he made this time was bigger.

_I should find a race track for myself_, Bee thought. However, he wasn't sure if even that would be safe. Someone could step out onto the track, or otherwise get in his way, and if he lost traction he could end up going off course and hitting something. He was not immune to the laws of physics, though mechs were known to bend them occasionally.

He had not been able to run really flat out since arriving on this backwater world. Human roads had speed limits to accomodate human reflexes and the limitations of human vehicles. He suspected that if he really went all out, and possibly morphed the Camero's frame a bit for better aerodynamics, and improved the pattern of the tire treads, he could easily hit three or four hundred miles an hour. He hadn't tried, however; even if he could safely handle those speeds, humans would not be expecting a vehicle to move that fast and that alone could cause an accident.

At those speeds, if he wrecked, he'd take some damage. Maybe significant damage. That was part of the thrill, but the thrill was tempered by the knowledge that an accident at that speed involving an earth vehicle would _disintegrate _the earth vehicle and almost certainly kill anyone in it.

Earth vehicles were so fragile. Earth science was barely in its infancy and they had not yet perfected the art of making truly durable craft. He could slam into the ground after a hot reentry from orbit without any significant damage. An earth vehicle could be badly damaged just by bumping into another car in a parking lot ...

However, since he'd expected to find a far lower level of technology on this world, perhaps he shouldn't be too criticial of their fragile craft. The Autobots had left Cybertron hundreds of years ago for this fight, and, based on even older surveys, had anticipated a world with no real science whatsoever -- the last probe to pass Earth had reported that humans had mastered building with stone, knew some iron forging techniques, and were exploring their world using wooden boats propelled by wind power. When Grimlock had been here, four million years before that, humans had barely come down out of the trees and Cybertron had already mastered starflight. Truly, this was a primitive world.

Instead of primitive apes beating on each other with steel swords, to their pleasure, they'd found humans had advanced well beyond what Ratchet snarkily termed "advanced use of fire." While this was still a backwater world by any reasonable standard, Bee believed -- and Optimus agreed with him -- that humans had tremendous potential. They were beginning to explore quantum theory, and had already landed probes on neighboring planets and even live humans on the world's single large moon. Bee was particularly impressed that they'd managed to get the live humans home safely from that airless moon; humans were frighteningly vulnerable to vaccuum and radiation damage.

Even with human frailty factored him, however, he thought starflight was probably only a few human generations away for this world. They wouldn't need human help to master it, though they might end up sending robots of their own into deep space rather than themselves. Sometimes, he wondered if the misty and long-forgotten genesis of his own people had been an organic species that wanted to send itself to the stars, but couldn't, so it sent robotic proxies instead. Someone had created mechs, because they certainly hadn't evolved out of a swampy methane sea like organic life had ... but nobody knew who or why.

Of course, it might take them considerably less time than "generations" to master starflight if humans managed to get their hands on some examples of Cybertronian starship engines. He was pretty sure they had technology advanced enough to reverse engineer and then replicate a quantum field generator -- and even understand the science behind it, once some of their brighter minds got a look at the equipment. A mech might be able to analyze the purpose of machinery in a human heartbeat, but human minds, though they had slower processing speeds, were certainly capable of comprehending all of the science involved.

The fear of theft of technology was the reason why Optimus was not allowing the supply ship to _land_ on Earth. There were countries that would kill for that sort of technology, quite literally, but humans didn't quite have intra-orbital flight mastered to the point where they could send an armada into space to capture a transport ship for dissection.

And as Optimus said, this world had great capacity for violence. Though all the 'bots agreed that humans had tremendous potential they were still killing one another in a myriad of small wars and a few big ones. A quantum field generator could send a starship through a wormhole into another star system ... but that generator, if fired up on a planet, would generate a localized singularity that would eat a chunk of planet twenty miles across, and twenty miles deep. The twenty miles across was bad enough. It could destroy an entire city, _millions _of lives. Twenty miles _deep, _however, would punch a big hole through the continental crust and the resulting supervolcano could cause the extinction of the entire human race.

There were humans crazy enough to do just that.

So, no, they were not going to give humans starflight.

It did not escape Bee's sense of irony that his people had been fighting a cataclysmic battle across multiple galaxies and hundreds of planets. That war had started when humans were still grubbing in the dirt with sticks and their greatest technological achievement was pottery. Mechs _had _destroyed worlds, including inhabited ones. And yet Autobots were passing judgment on humans and saying _they _were too violent.

_No, _he corrected himself. _We are saying 'You are too much like us and we will not help you kill yourselves.'_

His cell card pinged his processor, drawing attention to an incoming call and distracting him from his introspective thoughts. He identified the call as coming from Optimus, and answered it with a silent, internally directed, "Hey, Big Boss."

"Bumblebee." Optimus's words sounded as if they were coming from right beside him. The cellular card had been wired directly into the microphone on the left side of his head and the analog output could not be differentiated from actual noise in his environment. Arcee was supposed to be working on a way to make it _not _sound like he was listening to Optimus's disembodied voice, because the sensory illusion was truly annoying. That, however, was a low priority project. "I wanted to tell you Hot Shot is up and on his feet."

"Thank the Allspark!" He responded, fervently. Without being told, he knew that 'Hot Shot' was now the code name for Grimlock. Analysis of the big battle in Egypt had made them all suspicious that at least one human communications satellite was being tapped. The fact that he'd killed Ravage a few weeks ago made them doubly wary of the integrity of Earth's communication network. Where Ravage was, Soundwave was generally not far behind. The transport ship was supposed to do a visual check of the world's satellites when it arrived.

Optimus said cautiously, "However, he has significant processor damage."

"Crap, Optimus, I'm sorry. I should have looked harder. I'm _sorry_." Guilt threatened to overwhelm him -- to shut down his own ability to think entirely. He thought he'd done well, back then. They'd gotten in, established Grimlock was dead, and escaped without notice. Except that Grimlock had not been dead. He'd been alive. And in Megatron's hands. And if Bee had known ...

"We will talk about this later, Bumblebee," Optimus said. His voice was warm, however. It wasn't a rebuke; Optimus, most likely, was simply concerned with his state of mind and he genuinely meant that they would _talk_. This wasn't a bad thing -- the boss 'bot had a remarkable way of making Bee feel better. "Bee, Wheelie's sensory array is not advanced enough to detect a transformed 'bot. Do bear that in mind when he is out with you. He may be a target for Decepticons vengeance for his change of sides."

Bee's amusement bumped up a notch. Optimus's statement, on the surface, was completely innocous. However, it had also doubled as reminder that Wheelie would not be able to detect Grimlock, but they needed to make sure that Grimlock didn't transform around him.

"Hot Shot scanned an old junker of a car, by the way, that was parked on the base. It was the old Cadillac with the broken windows that belongs to the lady soldier ..."

_There's no lady soldier in NEST, but we have our own resident Warrior Goddess, as Wheelie keeps reminding us. Grimlock scanned Mikaela's car ... _Mikaela's car was definitely not a Cadillac. However, her Mustang was the only vehicle Bee had noticed with broken glass, so that had to be what Optimus was talking about. He was giving any listening Decepticons a red herring. _And holy cow! If Grimlock folded the space-time continuity any farther, he'd create a singularity! _Fitting several tons of robot into a space the size of a '68 Mustang was a neat trick, particularly if he'd left space for passengers.

"I hope he upgraded the brakes," Bee said, with a bit of a laugh. "Those old Cadillacs weigh a ton, and don't stop very quick."

"Indeed," Optimus's amusement was audible. "Bumblebee, Ratchet has fabricated a replacement part for Wheelie's eye that we believe will work. You may return to the base at any time."

* * *

There was an old, primer-grey, hoodless Mustang parked inside the Autobot's hanger. It seemed to be Mikaela's junker, and Mikaela, indeed, was talking to Optimus. As he drew closer, the two glanced in his direction, and he suspected the conversation had abruptly changed from "classified" to "innocuous" for the benefit of small would-be Autobot ears.

Bee, after transforming, gave the vehicle a long, appraising look that included a detailed scan into the infrared spectrum. He was unsurprised when he detected a slight a heat signature that might be attributed to a warm clutch, but was about two inches to the side of where the clutch plate should have been. _That would be his spark chamber, I do believe. _Using close-range Autobot frequncies, he asked Ratchet, "Does Hot Shot have a cell number yet?"

Ratchet, who was bent over a table and working on something with one third of Arcee, glanced over at him, then replied aloud, "No, not yet. His processer's pretty slagged. We didn't want to give him any new input to deal with until we're sure he's stable. But send Wheelie over here, and go on home with Mikaela and Sam. We'll keep an eye on the midget for awhile."

"Thank you," Bee said, with feeling, and, after evicting Wheelie from the passenger seat he transformed. To Wheelie, he said, "Go see Ratchet. He's got an optic sensor for you."

"_Finally_," the little 'bot said, with feeling. Then, showing a lot less gratitude than Bee would have expected, Wheelie then snapped at Ratchet, "How long does it take to make an optic sensor, anyway? You'd think he could have gotten it done by yesterday. I'm half blind here."

Ratchet caught Wheelie up in one hand, and growled at him, "You were not my first priority last night. I haven't had a recharge in two days, and I just spent all morning making _your _optic sensor after spending twenty-four hours nonstop on Hot Shot. If you whine, at all, I'll make you wait until tomorrow. The only reason I'm doing this now and not later is I _do _understand how uncomfortable it is to lose sensory input."

"Ratchet," Optimus said, mildly, from across the room, "Please do not break Wheelie. You would only need to fix him."

Ratchet dropped Wheelie on the tablet, and complained, "Boss Bot, he's ..."

"... unaware of the fact that you have gone two days without a recharge," Optimus cut in. Bee winced at his tone, and was extremely glad it wasn't directed his way. Optimus continued, in full lecture mode, "I believe you both owe each other an apology. Ratchet, you will treat Wheelie with complete respect and if I catch you picking him up against his will again you will face _my _anger. Is that _clear_? -- And Wheelie, Ratchet is correct in that your optics were not the first priority. Hot Shot was very badly injured and required our immediate attention upon arrival. He could have died had we not stabilized him then and there. Please do not assume that we made you wait because we do not care."

Disgruntled, Wheelie grumbled, "Somebody could have said something to me."

"Wheelie." Optimus walked over, and then bent down so that he could be a little closer to the eighteen inch tall mech. "There will be times when you will _not _know everything that is going on with all 'bots. I would point out that we have treated you with nothing but respect ..."

"Bullshit. No, you haven't. Not all of you!" The 'bot suddenly transformed and zipped off the table. He bounced on landing, dodged Mikaela's attempt to grab him, and zoomed out the door.

"Should we chase him?" Bee said, very worried. Wheelie was fast enough that they'd lose track of him within moments if they didn't start a pursuit.

Optimus ran a hand over his face. "I suspect by that reaction he has some legitimate grievances, am I right? Perhaps he has _not _been treated with the respect he deserves as a sentient being? We have no grudge with him. He has hurt none of us."

"... he humped Mikaela's boot!" Sam protested.

Optimus turned to Sam and said, in a sharp tone of voice, "And _you _threw him out a window, with no provocation whatsoever, simply to be funny."

Wounded, Sam turned to Bumblebee. "You told Optimus?"

"Arcee did," Optimus clarified, reminding Sam that Bumblebee had not been the only Autobot at the college. He'd just been the most obvious. "Sam, Wheelie is very young and I suspect his knowledge of human culture and appropriate behavior is very incomplete. Bear in mind he was born a Decepticon and has only been exposed to their ways before he joined us. As he _has _joined us I expect all of you to treat him with as much respect as you would each other."

Optimus paused, then added dryly, "Perhaps more, given how some of you are apt to behave."

It was then that the battered mustang spoke up. "Hard to be good when everyone treat you bad."

"Grimlock, you above all others should know why we are reluctant to trust him," Arcee replied.

"Me, Grimlock, not understand." Grimlock sounded confused. "Me think Optimus make sense. Treat little Autobot well. Right thing to do."

"He was originally a Decepticon," Sam tried to explain.

Grimlock muttered, "_Got _that. Not that dumb."

It was amazing how well Optimus could sigh, given that he didn't actually breath. The sound drew their attention back to him. "Wheelie will be back, and I doubt he will do anything to terrible while he is running off his anger and hurt. Mikaela, I believe we are ready for you to take Grim home. Sam, Bee, please escort her to ensure that if Grimlock has any mechanical issues you can render assistance. And Grimlock -- please allow Mikaela to do the driving. I do not believe we included traffic rules in the modules we provided you."

* * *

"Bee, what's Optimus's deal with Wheelie?" Sam asked, as they negotiated heavy freeway traffic to Mikaela's inner-city auto shop. "I mean, I know he's all protective of kids and everything, but Wheelie's not exactly a likely ally."

"He's just Optimus." Bumblebee was cut off by man driving a large pickup, and said a rude word. Then he continued, "It's the way Optimus is. If he wasn't lecturing us on what was right and just he wouldn't be Optimus. And -- he is right. Wheelie has done nothing serious enough to warrant any sort of mistreatment."

"He's annoying." Sam sighed, and rested his hands lightly on the steering wheel. With most of the other 'bots he rode in the passenger seat, with a hologram "driving." Bee had never seemed to mind anyone riding in the driver's seat.

"That's your biggest objection to him?" Bumblebee's tone was quiet, and thoughtful. "Some people would say the same of me. I can be hyperactive, and a little emotional at times. I know Ironhide grumbles about it. Sometimes he even complains about it to my _face_."

"_You_?" Sam blinked. He had a hard time picturing Bumblebee -- funny, warm-hearted Bee -- as being _annoying_ to anyone.

"We've known each other longer than human civilization has existed, Sam. Sometimes that means we get on each other's nerves." Bumblebee paused, then added, "And each of us would die for the others. That cannot be said for Wheelie. That is my objection to him."

* * *

Mikaela pushed up the garage door, and waved Grimlock through. Sam walked in behind them, and yanked the door back down.

"I'm afraid there's not enough room for you to really transform in here and move around," Mikaela patted Grimlock's driver's side door, "but it's the best I can do for now."

"Me see windows," the 'bot pointed out, in a sarcastic tone of voice that left Sam feeling a bit irritated at him. "No transform, someone see."

"That too," Mikaela conceded, sounding not nearly as put-out as Sam felt in reaction to that tone. She said, with a low chuckle, "Curtains on auto shop windows would look a bit silly, wouldn't they?"

"Pink ones, with lace." The 'bot suggested. "Girly windows. You want, yes?"

Mikaela laughed, even though Sam was wondering if the 'bot was serious or joking. It was very hard to tell. If he was joking, his delivery had been completely deadpan, and that could have very well been a _serious _suggestion that she might like pink lace windows on her shop. Mikaela, however, seemed to think the 'bot had a sense of humor, because she said, "You and I are going to get along, I think, buddy. If you like pink, I could could always paint you that color ..."

"Grimlock break down if pink. No go anywhere. Embarrassed!" The 'bot was laughing, and Sam realized a bit belatedly that, despite his injuries, and difficulty communicating, he clearly _had _been joking.

"On a serious note, I would suggest that you go for red unless you have a strong objection to it. It's a good color for that make of car ... And 'sending you off for a paint job' will be a good excuse to explain your absence to my dad, too, when you're really at the base for work we can't get done here." Mikaela pointed up at the ceiling, "By the way, my apartment's upstairs. If my father's home, be careful. He doesn't like the _idea _of Autobots, and would probably have a cow if he knew you were here."

"Do I need to translate that idiom?" Sam asked. "The 'have a cow' bit ..."

"Have idioms. Bee wrote module. Input okay. Language output circuits slagged." Grimlock sounded a bit sad. "Damnit."

Mikaela patted him again. "Don't worry, buddy, we can understand you okay."

"Not want make trouble. You and your dad. Me talk to him?" Grimlock sounded hopeful. Then his voice turned sad again. He said, "Or sound _dumb_. Maybe not good to talk. Bee, maybe. Or Sam?"

"No, no, _nobody _talks to my dad!" Mikaela threw her hands up in the air. "Bad idea! Bad, bad idea!"

"Me try to be helpful." He sounded a little irritated at her firm response. Sam took note of that; Grimlock wouldn't be the first Autobot he'd met who had to be handled with kid gloves and great deal of tact. Mikaela seemed oblivious to the implications of Grimlock's response, however, and to the slight undercurrent of wariness he'd detected from the other 'bots. _Anyone who could get on Optimus Prime's nerves probably has some sort of issues ... nevermind the whole tortured-and-nearly-killed thing._

"Is your father home right now?" Sam said, a bit concerned about more than just very large Autobots in potentially bad moods. He'd met Mikaela's father a few times, and the word 'loser' had come to mind along with 'thug' and 'asshole.' How such a jerk had ended up with Mikaela for a daughter, he didn't know. He was a little bit scared of the guy, and more to the point, they didn't need a scene. Bumblebee simply would not remain concealed if he detected fear from his human friends, and Grimlock was a total unknown quantity who might be outright dangerous.

"I can guarantee he's out partying somewhere," Mikaela said, with a shrug. "Probably with money from the till, too, and not his own salary. -- Grimlock, just for reference, _I _own the shop. My father works for me. So once he learns about you, if he has a problem with you being here, ultimately, it's his problem."

"Understood," Grimlock stated. Then, in a slightly apologetic tone of voice he added, "Need to recharge, now. Me lots repairs yet. Some do during recharge."

_Maybe, _Sam thought, _That bitchy response earlier is just because he's hurting and tired and needs to sleep. Maybe he'll be warm-fuzzy like Bee when he wakes up._

And pigs might fly. The other 'bots had implied he'd physically fought with Optimus a few times. Nobody had said who won, either, he needed to ask Bumblebee about that ... but anyone who would fight with Optimus probably had a 'tude. Because, dude, it was _Optimus_. Sam had a hard time envisioning anyone being angry enough at Optimus to hit him.

Mikaela was saying, "Yeah, sure. If you need anything, honk your horn. I'll just tell my dad my car has a short. That would be totally believable." Mikaela patted Grimlock yet again, then headed outside -- the stairs to the second floor apartment were on the side of the building and she had to walk from the front shop entrance, down an alley, and around to the back of the shop to reach them. He'd hated that layout from the first moment he had seen it. Mikaela was exposed and vulnerable outside the shop, and this was not a nice neighborhood.

Bumblebee was parked in the alley beside the building, a lighter colored shadow in the pool of darkness. He said quietly, without transforming, as they approached, "Optimus wants me to keep watch tonight. Grim's a heck of a fighter when he's up to speed, but right now he's pretty vulnerable."

"Thanks, Bee." Sam glanced shyly over at Mikaela, who had walked up to the car as if she expected to say goodnight to him by Bee's passenger door. He didn't particularly want to spend the night in the alley with 'Bee when his girlfriend had her own bed upstairs, and, well ... they were adults now, damnit, and he'd yet to have a chance to actually spend time alone with her that didn't involve, 'Ohmygod-my-mom-just-pulled-in!' or 'How much for the hotel room?' She'd only moved into the apartment upstairs a few weeks ago, after she'd managed to scrounge enough furniture for it to be livable. Before that, she'd lived with her aunt, who'd disliked him on general principles.

_Other guys would just do it in the backseat of their car. And I might not mind kissing her very thoroughly in front of the 'bots, and Bee may be the soul of discretion, but, umm, _no_. Not going to go all the way inside an Autobot. That is _not _happening._

He finally summoned the nerve up to ask, "Umm, is your father really out drinking?"

"Probably, but no, you can't spend the night." Mikaela stood on her tiptoes to kiss him goodnight. His hands descended to her waist, and he didn't want to let go. However, she didn't sound nearly as disappointed as he felt when she pulled back and said sensibly, "We don't need the scene if he comes home early. You know Bee would come to your rescue."

At least she'd made it a long, lingering kiss. She pulled free after a minute, and waved to Bee, then hurried up the stairs.

"You know," Bee offered slowly, as he flung himself into the car's passenger seat, "I could play lookout ... I am not really sure if you should push the point with her or not, Sam."

"I don't think she's ready," Sam sighed, as he tilted the seat back with a quick swipe at the lever underneath. "I mean, we have, you know, done that. But there's a difference between, well, _that_, you know, on the couch, when my dad's at work and my mom's at the gym, and me spending the night with Mikaela with wine and roses and stuff. One's hormones. The other's ... well, the other implies a lot more."

"I can't comment on the effect of hormones, but I can tell you that she is very scared of real commitment," Bee said, sounding wise. Well, he _was _wise. Maybe not Optimus-wise, but Sam had to acknowledge Bee was usually right about people. Bee continued, "She's had a lot of people disappoint her in her life and I believe she worries that you may be yet another person who breaks her heart. So she is guarding her feelings carefully, and not allowing herself to trust you fully ..."

"You're probably right," Sam ran a hand over his face. "Maybe I should just take the hormones out of it and give her some time. I'm a grownup. I can wait."

Bee's chuckle sounded amused, and it made Sam feel a little more irritation at the Autobot. "I suspect the romance aspect scares her far more than the sex, Sam. Because romance means love, and the only 'love' she's ever known before you met her was from her family, and I've observed enough of her family over the last year to know they're a bit lacking in that department. They may love her, but they are not showing it very well. You know that she had to _hide _the money she was saving up to start the shop, or her family would have taken it from her?"

"Yeah, I knew about that. My mom helped her open the bank account. The thing is, I'm not actually sure Mikaela loves me, though." It was a hard confession to make, but when Mikaela just brushed him off like she had, sometimes he wondered. He was trying so hard, and she kept a certain reserve about her no matter what he did. And she was so quick to believe the worst about him, as with Alice. She could have at least stayed downstairs a bit and made out with him tonight.

"Perhaps not," Bee said, sounding remarkably sensible. "I think, right now, she views you as someone who is safe and someone who she logically knows is not likely to hurt her. But she could, given time, and patience, and persistence on your part, come to _truly _love you. She is certainly not actively pushing you away. Is she worth the effort?"

"Oh. Yeah." Sam blinked as Bee's words registered. "You're right, I guess."

"I'm several millenia old," the Autobot said, sounding unnaccountably grumpy, "and I've had a few friends like her over the years. One day she's going to wake up and realize she couldn't imagine a world without you in it. _That _is when she'll fall in love with you. I just hope you'll have the patience to wait for that day."

"I can wait, I guess."

"Hormones and short lifespans and biological drives make things _so _difficult for you people." Bumblebee whuffed a sigh through his air conditioning vents. "I don't envy you the complexities of your relationships. My people have it easy, comparatively speaking -- either you like someone, or you don't, and we have all the time in the universe to be patient with our friends."

"I'm not exactly issue-free myself," Sam hunched his shoulders and folded his arms. Sometimes, dealing with Mikaela made him feel completely out of his depth. Bee had a remarkable ability to see right through to the heart of an issue, but he wasn't sure he had the patience or wisdom to act on what Bee was saying. He was just a kid.

"So I've noticed," Bee said, a bit sharply. "Fortunately, I'm perfectly able to be patient with you, too, Sam Witwicky."

"Sorry," he mumbled, though he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for this time. Maybe, simply past transgressions that Bee hadn't completly forgotten. "I am a jerk sometimes, aren't I?"

"Yes," Bee said, "you are. As long as you're a jerk to me, I can take it. Just don't be a jerk to her. She _can't_. And particularly not right now -- her father's being more difficult than usual."

"Yeah? Sounds like you've gotten the scoop." He perked up, interested in good gossip.

"And," the Bee continued, "you will need to talk to _her _if _you _want the scoop. It should be a good exercise in sensitivity and discretion."

"Damn," he slumped back into the seat.

Bee turned the radio on, probably a hint that Sam should try to get some sleep. He did have class tomorrow. And since this discussion was going nowhere, and Bee seemed to be in a cranky mood, he curled up in the seat and tried to nap, and tried not to dwell too much on the fact that he was getting advice on his love life from a millenia-old alien robot ... who was currently playing 'Too Much Love Will Kill You' by Queen.


	7. Chapter 7

Optimus was completely unsurprised when a small, nervously tip-toeing figure slipped in through the hangar doors very late that night. The rest of the team was recharging, and effectively deeply asleep. Optimus had remained awake, however, anticipating Wheelie's return.

"Wheelie."

The little mech froze in the middle of the floor, then stared in terror at Optimus. He was visibly shaking.

They would disturb the others if they remained in here, and Optimus wanted his team to have a good night's rest. They had another raid on a Decepticon base planned for the following day. Tired 'bots made mistakes, as they were unable to totally power all their processor circuits. He'd lost too many people over the years to completely _dumb _errors.

"Come with me, please."

Wheelie looked like he was about to bolt again. He froze with one hand on the ground, one frightened instant from a panicky transformation and flight back into the night. If he fled again, Optimus wasn't sure he'd return again, so added, quietly, "I am not going to punish you."

Thus reassured, Wheelie warily followed Optimus outside. Optimus led the way off the airfield and down towards the river. Wheelie followed, running to keep up with Optimus's long strides. He did not transform, perhaps because his vision was a bit limited when he did so. Optimus had seen Wheelie's specs and had requested Ratchet make a few upgrades. Notably, he only had the optics that became his headlights in RC card mode -- which meant he had a very restricted and rigid field of vision. Aside from fixing his burnt out eye, Optimus wanted to have a few more cameras added to the little bot's vehicle mode so he could actually see what was around him.

Ratchet had indicated he was easily up to the challenge; Wheelie's design was rather standard, but it had appeared that the Decepticons had cut quite a few cost corners when creating him and had left out many features that most Autobots would include for their children without a second thought.

_Because, to them, he is not a child but rather he is a tool. He even calls _himself _a drone, even though he is fully and completely sentient, with a spark. _That realization was truly disturbing to Optimus.

Optimus stopped when they were a long way from the lights of the base, and only silence surrounded them. Then he lowered himself to the ground, and sat on the earth, and asked, "Why did you run?"

"I didn't go back to the Decepticons! I didn't!"

"I imagine you did not," Optimus said, mildly. "Megatron believes you are spying on us. He would not react well if you were to abandon that assignment, and you are well aware of that. I felt no concern that you might return to the Decepticons this night."

Wheelie said savagely, "I was tempted, though. I was _mad_. I'm not the enemy and they're treating me like I am and it's not fair. "

"I do not blame you for your anger." Optimus held a hand out, and Wheelie reluctantly stepped into the middle of it. Optimus lifted the little 'bot up to his knee, and Wheelie stood there, arms folded and a sullen look on his face. Gently, Optimus said, "Wheelie, you have not been dealt an easy hand in life. I believe you've seen enough of the Decepticons to know that you will find few friends and no affection, no trust, in their ranks. At best you might make yourself _valuable _to a more powerful 'bot, who will protect you to serve his own ends. But you would simply be a tool for him."

"Yeah," Wheelie said, bitterly. "Starscream didn't even _try _to rescue me. I didn't even expect him to."

Optimus nodded gravely. The only reason Starscream would rescue another Decepticon would be if it would serve Starscream's own purposes. He continued in a sympathetic tone of voice, "And then my soldiers distrust and dislike you because you were born a Decepticon. They treat you badly, without even realizing it. And it hurts, because you do mean well, am I right?"

Wheelie said, angrily, "Yeah, and how do _you _know I mean it?"

"You would not be this angry and hurt if you did _not _truly mean to join us." Optimus said softly, "Little one, you must learn to control your temper, however. My soldiers have very good reasons for their suspicions. In the same situation, a young Decepticon who said he wanted to join us, we were badly betrayed once. Your fury and rage will only serve to make them more cautious of your motives."

"I'm _never _going to fit in here," Wheelie said, grimly. "None of them will even give me a chance. I'll never have friends here. I might as well be back with the Decepticons. Nobody even likes me. I don't even have a chance here. Nor there. It sucks."

Optimus asked, "Do you discount me as a potential friend and ally?"

"A ... _friend_?" Wheelie stared at Optimus, his one eye irising wide open with incredulous disbelief. The suggestion clearly shocked him to his core. "You? But ... you're the leader of all the Autobots. You ... but why me?"

"I will always be your leader first," Optimus said, voice firming. "My orders must be followed, and sometimes I am required to make hard, ugly choices for the greater good. I have sent soldiers I considered friends to certain death. I am, and always will be, a friend of others only second to my duties as Prime. But I do not wish you to believe you have no friends, Wheelie. I believe you can become the Autobot you desire to be, and I will be your champion in this matter."

"Why?" Wheelie's voice was barely a whisper. "Why would you ... but ... but I haven't _earned _this."

"You do not need to earn my friendship, little one," Optimus said, with a low chuckle. "You simply need to be yourself, and being yourself is a remarkable thing. You are a tiny and fragile Decepticon who has the courage and honor needed to stand apart from his people and say, 'this is wrong' and 'I will follow another path' even though this places you at great personal risk. In choosing to do that, you have earned my respect, and my friendship, little one."

Wheelie straightened up a bit at Optimus's praise. Then he sagged again, visibly so, and protested, "But you said you don't trust me."

"Perhaps," Optimus said slowly, "I should begin to. I am remembering that someone trusted me once, a very long time ago, when he had no reason to. He acted on faith, not on logic, and I would like to think I have made him proud, small though my victories have been of late."

Wheelie blinked. "You, sir?"

"Yes." Optimus's gaze was distant, focused on a point far beyond the little mech's head. Humanity had barely discovered fire when he had been simply Orion Pax. Then, he had never even imagined he would be trusted with a Matrix of Leadership, would eventually become a Prime, and then the _only _Prime as the others died in battle or of misfortune and their matrixes were lost with them. This was not a story he wanted to share with the little 'bot, as it was personally painful -- much as, sometimes, he wished he could confide in someone.

Wheelie was definitely not a good choice for a confidant.

It would be easy to dismiss Wheelie, Optimus thought, easy to dislike him and easy to be wary of his motives. But his very upset about being mistrusted made Optimus hope that there was something to the little 'bot besides just an opportunistic Decepticon. _Mikaela said he broke very quickly when she burned his optics with a cutting torch. That could be cowardice, or it could be more: a simple lack of loyalty to his Decepticon comrades. Also, he _did _help us, when he could very easily have led my people into a trap. If he had delivered Sam to Megatron, Megatron would have rewarded him handsomely. Instead, he took them to Jetfire and if not for Jetfire's sacrifice the battle would have been lost. _

Finally, he said, "Little one, I have a task for you."

"Yes?" Wheelie's eyes shone in the starlight as he regarded Optimus with eager anticipation. "What? What would you have me do, boss?"

Optimus hesitated. He could be making a very bad error in judgment. But Wheelie's expression, his reaction, to being _given a task_ -- it reassured Optimus that the 'bot, however unlikable he sometimes was, had a genuine desire to please. It was an open question if that 'desire to please' was in simple reaction to Optimus's kindness or due to a real wish to help the Autobot's cause. Either would suffice, Optimus thought, for the moment.

_If he wants to please me, he will be open to my guidance, _Optimus thought, soberly. It would not be the first time that he had taken a young 'bot under his wing. _I do not mind being a role model. Better me than Megatron, for this youngling. And, truly, I see something in him. He may respond quite well to this offer of friendship and trust and surprise us all._

Slowly, Optimus said, "I want you to come with me on the raid tonight."

Wheelie flinched, not entirely to Optimus's surprise. He said quietly, "Oh."

"It will be scary, little one, but you have an advantage in your small size that we do not. While we engage the enemy, I wish for you to slip into their base and see if you can learn any interesting intelligence. Their leaders may not guard their tongues in the midst of a fight, and their panic will work to our advantage. I know you have some skills at lock picking, as well. Will you do this for me?"

He saw indecision in the little 'bot's small frame. On one hand, Wheelie was likely terrified of entering into the middle of a battle -- despite his enthusiastic reaction a few days earlier to attacking Megatron, Optimus suspected that Wheelie had a powerful interest in his own self preservation. On the other hand, it was Optimus asking, and Wheelie's desire to please was warring with his fear.

_This is not that dangerous of a mission, _Optimus thought, _with your body-type, and with the horde of small, nameless, Decepticons we expect at the base, they may not even notice you. You may be able to run in and out, unnoticed, during the chaos of a battle. Make the right choice, my friend ..._

Wheelie nodded once, decisively. "I'll do it."

"Good." Optimus was a bit relieved. If Wheelie had said no, he would have felt far more suspicion of the 'bot's motives. And they _did _need more intel -- Wheelie could very well turn up something interesting. "And now I believe we should both return to the hanger for a recharge. It is late, and we will have a long day tomorrow."

* * *

The plane jittered through choppy turbulence despite perfect clear blue skies. Optimus could see out one of the tiny windows with an optic sensor located near his cab's roof. A few miles off to the west was the transport plane, carryig Bee and Ironhide and Arcee. He, Ratchet, and the twins filled this plane's hold to near capacity. Roughly fifty human soldiers were squished in around the 'bots on each plane -- this was not a small operation, really. He and Lennox had mutually agreed on overwhelming force against the Decepticon outpost.

"Wheelie," Optimus said, to the little mech who was seated on Optimus's front bumper. "When you go into the base, there are two things I am primarily interested in: troop rosters and base locations. You may find other useful information out, but that data is critical."

Wheelie nodded gravely. He'd alternated between somber silence and hyperactive chattering the entire flight -- and they'd been in the air nine hours, with another three to go.

"Wheelie," Ratchet said, transforming neatly despite the small space. He sat bent over in the cargo hold, and patted the floor next to him. "Come here a second."

The autobot medic sounded tired, though Optimus knew he'd had a full recharge. Wheelie, uncertain, hesitated.

"Go," Optimus urged. Snark aside, Ratchet, of all of his troops, was the most likely to accept the young mech as part of the team. And if he could get Ratchet's approval, Wheelie would have a powerful ally besides Optimus.

Wheelie picked his way across the vibrating, bouncing cargo hold's floor. Optimus overheard one of the soldiers mutter to another after Wheelie had passed, "I thought we were supposed to kill those things, not make nice with them."

Wheelie's sound sensors were fairly keen for his size, and certainly better than human ears. He would have let it go were it not for that, but since Wheelie had likely overheard as well, Optimus said, "Lieutenant Savoy, I am slightly confused by your comment. Are you saying you believe your mission is to destroy Autobots? Perhaps my briefing was not completely clear."

The rest men laughed, most likely because of the novelty of hearing one of their own corrected by a Peterbuilt truck. "Sorry," the soldier muttered.

Wheelie had ignored the whole exchange and had made his way to Ratchet. "What do you want?" He demanded, then added, in a slightly nicer tone of voice, when Optimus made a throat-clearing noise, "Sir."

Ratchet had dug some small tools out of a trunk of supplies. Now he pointed at a spot on the deck. "Sit there and don't move. I am going to fix that optic sensor and I have an upgrade here for you, too. Seeing you run around with one eye is bothering me almost as much as it likely bothers you."

"Oh." Wheelie sounded surprised. He was somewhat subdued as Ratchet crouched over him and worked. Despite the turbulence, Ratchet was fairly stable -- he braced his feet against the jet's fusilage and his back against the roof to prevent any actual bouncing. Optimus had seen Ratchet do outright surgery under far worse conditions. Absently, he thought, _I'm alive multiple times over because of his skills._

Ratchet first wired in the network of tiny fiberoptic lines and pea sized visual sensors that, when Wheelie transformed, would give him a clearer field of view. Five minutes after that, Wheelie's new eye was installed. The little bot blinked a couple of times, then ran to have a look at himself in the chrome on Optimus's bumper. Then he said, sounding disappointed, "The colors don't match!"

One eye was slightly redder than the other. Optimus winced, however, at Wheelie's tone, which was downright upset. Ratchet, sounding about as annoyed as Optimus would expect, explained shortly, "Field conditions, buddy. You want cosmetic perfection? Go home to Cybertron. Oh, wait, there's a war on. I imagine the hospitals there couldn't do it either. Bigger priorities."

Optimus said, "Maybe when we have some down time we can replace _both _sensors at the same time, Ratchet. I'll put a requisition in, though I cannot guarantee when we'll get the parts. Wheelie, in the meantime, thank Ratchet for his thoughtfulness. I'm not even sure how he managed to get the color he did, as we do not have anyone else on the team who has eyes that shade."

Ratchet said, still sounding wounded, "I repainted the iris's shutter leaves by hand. I cannibalized all the optical parts from a broken Decepticon drone that I brought back from our last raid, but its eyes were orange. And it was a bitch to do, too. You've got little eyes, kiddo."

"Oh." Wheelie said, suddenly subdued. "You really ... you tried to match the colors?"

"I did," Ratchet assured him. "I'm sorry my efforts were not to your approval."

Yeah, Ratchet was pissed. Optimus, who had no desire to go into battle with a soldier who was at all distracted by petty issues, said calmly, "Ratchet, thank you for your thoughtfullness. I'm sure Wheelie actually does appreciate it."

Wheelie scuffed the deck with one foot, and muttered, "Thank you, Ratchet. Nobody's ever ... ever done anything like this for me before, really."

Ratchet's response made Optimus relax a bit. "That's because you were fighting for the wrong side, kiddo. We take care of our own."

* * *

The Decepticon base was in shallow valley, and had originally been an small coal mine. The entrance to the mine was big enough for a large mech to easily enter, though not while walking upright. It had been graded for driving, however. By the size of the fresh piles of tailings, the Decepticons appeared to have enlarged the subterranean areas significantly, and some of those piles were so fresh that they had not been visible on the last satellite pass. It had been the tailings piles that had alerted the authorities of activity at the mine in the first place, and then the local government had screamed to the US and the UK for help with a Decepticon problem.

The terrain was desert: dry, rocky, with small prickly plants and tufts of grass.

Optimus crouched down behind the cover of a pile of boulders. Wheelie, behind him, said nervously, "There could be more Decepticons in that base than you think."

He reached a hand down and rested it gently on Wheelie's shoulders. "Are you frightened, little one?"

"Nah," Wheelie denied, though Optimus knew he was.

"Fear is a good thing, before a battle, and yes, there could be a nasty surprise or two. However, we have dealt with such surprises many times before." Optimus glanced at the rest of his team. They looked ready, and his concern wasn't so much for the battle ahead but for the escape, afterwards, as an incensed Megatron roared to the defense of his base. The cargo planes had flown in below the level of the surrounding mountains, and they had parachuted in without being shot at -- more important for the humans of the team than the 'bots, though it was entirely possible this base had plenty of surface to air missiles of Decepticon make that Optimus would prefer not to be shot with.

Getting out would involve helicopters, cables, and a hell of a lot of risk. He was much more comfortable inside an airplane than dangling below a chopper, but humans didn't actually _make _choppers big enough for Autobots to fit inside. They'd coordinated the escape as much as possible -- the big human-made choppers were hovering just below the ridge line behind them, and they had good air cover from several more smaller helicopters that were designed for fighting, and fighter jets at a high altitude over their heads were beginning to fill the air with a steady drone of human made engines.

_I really need to press Cybertron to send us some Autobot-made transport craft. Human aircraft are functional, but have some severe limitations when it comes to cargo weight and speed. _He added that to his mental to-do list. He'd requested the craft on multiple occasions, and had been told there just weren't enough resources to send any their way -- that he was lucky to be getting the supply ship's delivery in a couple of weeks. He might be Prime, but he was not an all-powerful leader and command and control was perfectly willing and able to tell him 'no' on a very regular basis.

Still, Megatron himself was here, and the Decepticons seemed to be trying to entrench themselves on this world. Earth had enough resources that he did _not _want the Decepticons to get a good foothold here. He needed more soldiers, more supplies, and more cooperation from Cybertron to effectively defend Earth, and he really wasn't getting it. What had they sent him so far? _The Twins. Arcee. Sideswipe. One resupply ship that likely will not have nearly the supplies we need. _Much as he appreciated the presence of the four new 'bots, they were ... four.

_I may have to throw my weight around a bit to get what we need. This is getting silly. Hot Shot and Grimlock will help a lot, but we're still massively outnumbered. Thank the Spark for the humans -- without their help, we would have not the slightest prayer of winning. We are very badly outnumbered, and technologically outgunned._

Likely, human help was what Cybertron was counting on, and why they were dragging their feet about sending him help. Optimus suspected that Cybertron was well aware that he had the help of a couple human governments, and that human technology, while primitive, was "good enough." Alternately, they were _deliberately _shorting him on help, and the reasons for that did not bear contemplation.

_The humans on this team are dying in distressingly large numbers. They go willingly, and are all volunteers, and are well aware of why we fight ... but by the Shards of the Allspark, I wish I had some help._

His dark thoughts were interrupted by Ironhide, who said, "Big Boss, want to go over the plan one more time?"

He blinked at his lieutenant, realizing that he'd let his mind wander. This was not a good thing to do before a battle, and he turned his attention wholly to the task at hand. Quickly, he ran over the plan one more time.

"Lennox, your men and the twins will initially strike the base with artillery and small arms fire." Optimus nodded at the squad of fifty humans, who had small, light-weight, heavily-armed dune buggy like vehicles -- LSVs -- that moved at a startlingly fast rate of speed over rough ground. A second squad was assembling behind them, similarly equipped, and of similar size -- the second half would be part of the ambush.

Per their plan to eventually flush Megatron out, the Decepticons had been warned ahead of time that an attack was coming. However, they didn't know the size of the attacking force. Optimus hoped that they would believe that the attack was small -- two Autobots and a small force of men. If they attacked with their full forces all at once, they would likely end up in a siege situation, which would be an unworkable failure as an attack. However, the base's population of insecticons would think that they could deal with two bots and several dozen men themselves and emerge to attack.

Insecticons were not all that bright. Much of his plan hinged on that fact.

He _was _going to lose men with this strategy, but he and Lennox had concluded that there really wasn't a better idea that they could think of. The human soldiers were wearing as much body armor as was humanly possible, and were going to be very fast moving targets, but they were fighting insecticons -- which were wickedly quick themselves. However, the alternative was to bog down in a long siege. That mine was deep enough that even the biggest bunker buster would not penetrate to its depths, and since the insecticons didn't need air, they would dig their way out eventually. And in a siege, even if Megatron had not been warned ahead of time, the base would summon him before they could knock out communications. They would eventually end up trapped between a compound of pissed-off Decepticons and attacking reinforcements.

_We haven't attacked a Decepticon base yet where we haven't had wounded and dead humans. Slag it. They are no more expendable than my own men. _

Optimus _really _wished he could get more Autobot reinforcements.

"Once they come out to fight, we come over the ridge and engage them," Optimus said. Grimly, because they had no safe facility for holding prisoners, and because he did not want to endanger any of the soldiers for guard duty, nor -- at this time -- give Megatron added incentive to attack the base, he added, "And remember, no captives. We will take them all out."

"And while you guys are doing that," Wheelie said, every line of his body quivering with nervousness, "I s-sneak into the base and see what I can find out."

"Yes," Optimus agreed. To Lieutenant Savoy, he added, "You will remember not to shoot Wheelie, correct?"

Savoy flushed with embarrassment. _Good_, thought Optimus, as the man's teammates laughed and ribbed him over his faux pas earlier. All of the teasing was good natured.

Wheelie ignored the banter, however, and Optimus noted that he was literally shaking with terror. But he also looked game for the challenge. Optimus stuck his head up over the rocks briefly, then waved Wheelie up. Wheelie, warily, took a peek at the valley below. He said, "The grass is tall enough that I can sneak in and nobody will see me."

"Be careful, little one," Optimus said. "Remember, you must be back here within thirty human minutes for the airlift out. Do not miss the airlift."

"Would you rescue me, if I did?" Wheelie said, then shook his head savagely, "No, don't answer that one."

"Rescuing you might put other lives at risk," Optimus replied. "Remember how I said that sometimes I must make hard decisions as a leader? That would be one, and I truthfully do not know what choice I would make. The specific circumstances would dictate my moves in that case. I would _consider _rescuing you, but I cannot guarantee that I would be able to justify the risk to the mission. Do you still want to do this?"

"I won't get caught," Wheelie decided, with a cocky attitude that made Optimus a little uneasy. He'd seen too many foolhardy young soldiers go down forever. Only the tension and occasional quiver in the young mech's limbs gave him away.

_Oh, Jazz. Your death will not be in vain. We will stop him. _The thought of that young soldier, once his second in command, brought Optimus's attention back to the fight at hand again. He said, to Wheelie, soberly, "No heroics. Get in, get out."

_  


* * *

_

The fight went about as Optimus had planned -- he'd been doing this for a very long time, and knew his enemy well. The human soldiers roared down the hillside, shooting at the entrance to the base with small arms fire. Behind them, the twins ran on foot, firing energy blasts over the heads of the human team members. One Decepticon sentry, on duty at the mouth of the mine, went down in a hail of human bullets. Insecticons were vicious fighters, but did not have much personal armoring. The Decepticons reportedly had some sort of new insecticon that could split itself into thousands of component parts, but these were not of that type -- likely, the new insecticons were very expensive and reserved for special missions.

Wheelie darted off into a shallow ravine, and took advantage of the cover of vegetation to run for the entrance to the mine. Optimus did not need to tell him to use any and all forms of concealment possible. He supposed that was second nature to a being who was only eighteen inches tall.

Then the mouth of the mine erupted with a swarm of angry mechs. They had to have been waiting just out of sensor range inside. There were more of them than Optimus had expected, but not significantly so, and he thought that this was the entire population of the base minus, likely, a few technicians inside left to monitor sensors and communications equipment. In the bright sunlight they were easier to see for the humans -- glittering, blade-sharp limbs and faceted bodies, shining like diamonds and cobwebs in the sun, and moving in swift, sudden movements, like startled spiders.

His small advance force "fled" as they drew the insecticons farther from their refuge and closer to the ambush in the rocks. They fired backwards at the pursuing scores of mechs. Those human soldiers were the very best in the world; Optimus was impressed by the accuracy of their aim when shooting at rapidly leaping targets from bouncing, racing vehicles. They were shooting large-caliber rounds (by human standards) and actually _hitting _some of pursuing insecticons.

_If I get some more forces soon, I will have them transcan some of LSVs. Autobot reflexes at avoiding rocks and ruts would help the humans aim, and a vehicle that could drive itself would free up one more person for fighting -- more than that, actually, as the Autobot could fire the guns mounted on the roll cage himself. The humans would just need to hang on and shoot. I've specifically requested Hound and Hot Rod, and both of them will be good at this sort of warfare, but I don't know if I'll actually _get _them._

The twins, by contrast, were simply using the 'brute force' method of cutting down the number of pursuers. Both had fitted themselves with rocket launchers and were running backwards and firing into the largest concentrations of enemy mechs. This had somewhat mixed results, as the insecticons were fast enough that sometimes they were no longer within the kill zone when the rocket hit.

And then, with a spray of blood and bits of human bodies, one of the human vehicles was overrun by a dozen enemy mech. The vehicle swerved off course, smacked into a rock at full speed, and flipped end over end. Optimus's spirits sank. While he knew, intellectually, that there would be human losses -- and there were, with every battle -- it still hurt to see it. If there were any survivors of that attack and subsequent wreck he would be surprised. Humans were so very fragile, and so very brave.

_Ironhide, you complain about their warlike nature. However, humans have an element of courage and selflessness that is to be admired, something that seems to be a part of their very souls. They fight on our side willingly and without hesitation and they are far more likely to die than any of us._

Once they were a thousand yards from the mine, and within a few hundred yards of their position in the rocks, Optimus took careful aim at an array of antenna and satellite dishes on the mountainside above the mine. While he had no particular concern about Megatron knowing the details of this raid, he also saw no point in giving Megatron any sort of unnecessary advantage.

_Booom!_

A blast from Optimus's enormous gun took the entire communications array out in one huge fireball.

And that was the signal to close the trap.

He leaped over the rocks in a nimble move fueled by the raw excitement of battle. He was not immune to that thrill, not even after millenia, and not even when charging into what was a relatively minor fight. The fifty humans in reserve, and his 'bots, charged after him. Human battle yells mingled with the thundering cries of the Autobots and Bee played Queen's "We Are the Champions" at the absolute top volume his speakers could attain.

It was a small battle, but it was not an easy one. He'd misjudged the number of enemy mech a bit, and insecticons were challenging opponents. His targeting abilities were stretched to the max even as he was repeatedly hit by lasers, projectile slugs and and rockets. He was a _big _target, and had to rely on his armoring for defense as there was zero cover. He _was _taking damage; a lucky shot penetrated a joint in his leg and clipped a hydraulic line, and while he could compensate he found was slowed by the injury and limped. Ribbons of hydraulic oil streamed down his thigh with each step, and then smoked as it hit metal that had been superheated by a laser strike.

And then he saw, not an insecticon, but an enormous metal feline leap out of the bushes. It was waist high to Optimus himself, it had fangs as long as a human's arm, and it lunged at Bumblebee. Bee was only a few dozen yards away, but Optimus knew he had no prayer of reaching him in time. Not with the speed of the predacon, not with his leg damaged. Their intelligence had suggested the base commander was a predacon, but he had expected something like the late Ravage ... not this.

"Bee! Look out!" Optimus shouted warning, but too late. Bee looked up, saw the predacon coming, but he couldn't even get a shot off -- there were humans in his line of fire.

Bee and the predacon disappeared in a rolling mass of dust and smoke and screaming oaths. He heard metal rending and Bee's gun pulse cannon fired wildly into the air.

Ironhide came to Bee's rescue before Optimus could get there, screaming across the rough ground in vehicle form, transforming at a hundred miles an hour, and turning that momentum into a kick so hard it launched the predacon airborn. Bee scrambled to his feet, one arm hanging by a few shreds of twisted metal, chest plate scarred, oily mud smeared across his optics. Ironhide slid across the ground, rocks making terrible scraping, rending noises against the metal of his leg and hip.

Dark hydraulic fluid and golden coolant poured out of Bee's shoulder and savaged chest and stained the dry earth dark around him.

Bee was too experienced of a soldier to let an injury rattle his composure. He found his balance, raised his good arm, took aim, and nailed the predacon with a blast of energy even as it was coming back for a second attack and even as Ironhide was targeting it as well before he even rose. Ironhide's shot missed. It flipped end over end, but when it rose, it was not badly injured.

A very ... very ... familiar pair of orange eyes stared at them. Every 'bot on the battlefield knew this mech; they all held their fire as if by unspoken agreement, though a hail of human bullets were ricocheting off the mech's well-armored body. Optimus was wary. He'd been on the both sides of those claws: attacked by, and attacking with.

Ironhide picked himself up. He was missing most of the paint on one leg in the Autobot version of road rash, but didn't appear to be badly hurt by his collision with the predacon.

"I could have killed Bumblebee, you know." The predacon wasn't boasting. It was a statement of fact, and he was staring at Bumblebee when he said it. A bullet clipped his jaw; he jerked his head back, apparently uninjured, and did not retaliate towards the firing soldiers. The slugs hitting his metal hide sounded like hailstones on a tin roof. Optimus hoped none of the ricochets hit the troops. Lennox apparently came to the same conclusion as he ordered his men to cease fire. This was _not _an insecticon that could be taken out with a well-aimed lead slug punched through a poorly armored spark chamber.

"You betrayed us!" Bumblebee started to raise his gun for a second shot. Optimus doubted it would injure the predacon any more than the bullets had, though it might make Bee feel a little better to send the predacon tumbling head over heels again. This predacon had been built for battle from the ground up. That sleek, fluid form had few weaknesses aside from a startling lack of mass -- which was both an advantage and disadvantage, depending on the fight. He knew those specs very well. He still had the young mech's information recorded in his memory, and they were impressive statistics indeed -- he was of a new generation, younger even than Bumblebee, and built from the ground up wholly for war. The Autobors had learned quite a bit about the latest cutting edge of Decepticon design when he had so briefly fought on their side.

_When this war is over we will all benefit from the research it has inspired. Cold comfort, for those who have died and those who have lost the ones they love. And that is assuming there is anything left when the war ends._

"Stand down, Bee!" Optimus ordered. He would not fight this predacon this day. Men and 'bots would die, and he was not entirely sure he wanted to kill this opponent. "Let him go."

The predacon turned away, then twisted back address them over his shoulder. Quietly, he said, "I never betrayed you, Bumblebee. Not even now."

"Bastard," Bee growled angrily, as he put a hand over the worst of his coolant leaks. Golden fluid flowed through his fingers. "Fangface, you sparkless ..."

"Enough, Bee. I said stand down." Optimus's voice was sharp and commanding, a tone he rarely took with Bumblebee. He did not take his eyes off the predacon but the enemy mech simply turned away and walked into the heavy dust of the churned battlefield. His feet crunched on dead and dismembered insecticons. And then he was gone.

"Why!" Bee demanded, furious. "Why? We could have taken him _out_!"

Optimus doubted that. Not without more casaulties than he was willing to take and not without losing sight of their goal and mission. Optimus, however, said softly, "Bumblebee, think: Grimlock's arrival here was no coincidence. He did not arrive under his own power. Fangface arrived within the last week, or we would have encountered him before. Megatron has never hesitated to use a potent tool against us."

_And I do not look forward to facing that mech on a field of battle. The advantage we achieved with the arrival of Grimlock has been countered by Fangface. On the other hand, the reverse is also true. Fangface may have sent us Grimlock, but if so, _why _would he do this? _

Multiple options were immediately obvious, ranging from Fangface operating deep under cover as an Autobot agent, to Fangface wanting Megatron taken out for his own ambitions. Optimus hadn't set eyes on the mech for thousands of years. He had no clue what was going on in Fang's processors. Thousands of years of battle could change a mech, for the better, for the worse, or just for the _different_.

Once Fangface was well and truly gone, Optimus turned to face Bumblebee -- in time to see Bee sag to one knee. Fluid continued to flow freely from Bumblebee's savaged chest -- golden coolant, in a gushing waterfall.

Alarmed, he turned to Ratchet, and demanded, "What is wrong?"

There should have been valves to cut off the loss of coolant before it became critical. He could tell by the vacant, dimming look in Bumblebee's eyes that Bee's processors were powering down, and the failsafe systems were _not _working as they should. It was simply basic physics that there would be phenomenal amounts of heat generated by the sort of high-powered neural circuits that Autobots possessed. In order to operate at peak efficiency those circuits required efficient thermal exchange-- small 'bots like Wheelie could get away with air exchangers and natural air flow, but any mech much bigger than a human required more efficient cooling systems.

Mentally, he reviewed what he knew of Bee's anatomy -- each Autobot was a bit different, and he made sure everyone (including himself) knew how everyone else's critical systems worked, for precisely situations like this. _The brachial valve. It's stuck open. This is not good._

Ratchet had apparently come to the same conclusion, as he threw an arm around Bee's waist, hauled Bumblebee's good arm across his shoulders and then headed for the ridgeline as fast as he could get Bumblebee to stumble. Protocol dictated that Bee would be on the first cargo flight out, right after the humans, and hopefully Inferno would be waiting with tools and chillers at hand on the flight deck of the carrier that was their eventual fallback destination.

Bee wasn't saying anything now, and Optimus wasn't sure how many of his processors were still operating, but at least he could put one foot in front of another and follow simple, direct orders. Even field repairs would have to wait until they were safe behind the formidable defenses of two large aircraft carriers, off shore and ninety minutes away. Megatron's forces would not be able to intercept them before they had some very big guns at their back, as long as they did not waste a moment's time.

_We are running out of time, however. This must be a lightning fast operation._

They had a thirty minute window to escape, plus a few minute's cushion, and a quick check of his internal clock told him twenty-five minutes had passed. It didn't seem like they had spent nearly that much time on the battle -- it never did.

Trusting Ratchet to see to Bee, he turned his attention to the humans on the field. The soldiers were doing a rapid triage and, distressingly, there were multiple still, fallen figures who were not being attended to. _At least a dozen black tagged, _he noted. Those casualties were much higher than he'd hoped for, even knowing how deadly insecticons could be towards soft-bodied, fragile humans. All were volunteers in this fight, and all knew what they faced, but guilt hit him in a terrible wave, for all that. He had made mistakes and miscalculations on multiple occasions, and because of this, Megatron still lived, and because of this, humans died. And humans had never asked to be a party this this war. This war had come to them.

He knelt next to the closest cluster of soldiers and said, in a voice that sounded weary even to his own ears, "We need to _move. _Now."

They looked up at his words. Then, in a move that had been previously practiced and coordinated, they lifted the injured man onto a stretcher and Optimus picked the stretcher up and ran for the ridge with long, loping, limping, uneven strides. The man grunted with the pain of each impact -- he appeared to have a broken leg. Optimus deposited the wounded man next to Ratchet, and returned to retrieve the next soldier, who was unconscious. There was no third to fetch -- the rest of his team had been ferrying the wounded to the ridge as well, and they had a neat line of badly injured men lined up for the choppers.

And he could hear the whump-whump-whump of approaching rotors. They had minutes before the choppers arrived -- and he would be the last to leave. He turned to retrieve the dead men, then, aided by the twins and Ironhide and Arcee.

_Where is Wheelie_?

He had not forgotten about the littlest member of their party. He had simply been prioritizing his actions. Now that the wounded and dead were accounted for, and the team was assembled for rapid evacuation, he looked about for 'mech. There was no sign of Wheelie's presence, and he had told him to take no more than one half hour -- his clock said that thirty-one minutes had passed. They were edging into the "cushion" of time he'd allowed.

Concerned, Optimus peered over the rocky ridge. The battlefield was still and motionless ... except for one puff of dust, very close to the mine entrance. Likely, there were insecticons still inside the mine. Equally likely, there weren't enough to matter: this raid had been about first reducing their numbers, and secondly trying to goad Megatron into showing himself. It had never been a realistic plan to kill _all _of them, not in the time he had available.

He focused on the dust puff, however. His eyesight at a distance was keener than human, and when he zoomed in, he could see Wheelie, surrounded by four insecticons, and fighting for his life.

That had been a risk from the beginning. Wheelie had known it, Optimus had known it, and yet the need had been there: they required intel to plan their next raid. Wheelie had been the logical 'bot to send in; had they tried to send a team of bigger 'bots into that mine, likely, the Decepticons would have either blown the entrance with the team trapped inside, or destroyed the intelligence before they got there.

Optimus glanced east, where the choppers were rapidly approaching. He had perhaps five minutes.

Lennox spoke up, after a quick hand over his ear that signalled he was getting a radio transmission in his ear piece. "Megatron's forces are on radar, Optimus. We have a fifteen minute window left to get within the range of the battleships. He's sending several jets."

_Probably Starscream and his mechs, _Optimus thought, making some rapid calculations, even as Lennox requested air support from the carriers. While he suspected he'd win that fight, even with only human jets in the skies, _If we kill Starscream now, Megatron will turn tail and run after shaking his proverbial fist in the air and promising to rain death and destruction on us at a later date. The dynamic there is truly fascinating, and while I would not mourn the loss of Starscream, Megatron is a far worse threat. Starscream is essentially a fool and does not have the tactical prowess to be a true threat. Yet without Starscream, Megatron is far less daring._

Also, eliminating Starscream would just leave a power vaccuum for the next ambitious Decepticon to earn Megatron's ... warm regards. Such as they were. And sometimes he wondered if Starscream didn't goad Megatron into attacking in the hopes that Optimus would kill Megatron. Starscream's loyalty to the leader of the Decepticons was questionable at best, and only Starscream's genuine fear of Megatron, and Starscream's lack of support from the other Decepticons for a coup, had kept Megatron in command.

_And I truly wish it were Starscream we were fighting. That would certainly imply a light at the end of the tunnel. I would be happy to give Starscream a shot at that command. The Decepticons would then splinter into a dozen factions and we would have a fair shot at winning this war. _

Though, a bit disturbingly, sometimes he suspected his Autobots would not be able to maintain a cohesive force if anything were to happen to him. His loss would be terribly demoralizing at best. If they lost the Matrix of Leadership with him, it would spell the end of everything. Not for the first time did he wish that the Matrix would pick another bearer ... and not for the first time, he wondered who it would pass to among his troups if he truly died. That question had not been answered two weeks ago. The Matrix had remained quiescent within his chest. Perhaps it had somehow known he was not gone forever.

"Lennox, Ironhide," Optimus said, "I'm going to get Wheelie out of there. We have time."

"That's at least a quarter mile away!" Ironhide protested. "You're injured! Big Boss ..."

Grimly, Optimus said, "I have time. If anything happens, Ironhide, get everyone out of here. Do _not _wait for me. Starscream will not kill me."

_He will take me back as a prize for Megatron, and their treatment of me will make Grimlock's fate seem kind. And then my soldiers will fight to the death to try to rescue me -- and the Matrix. It will probably be wise to avoid capture, all told. _

He didn't need to say that: Ironhide knew it. Ironhide, sounding profoundly unhappy, said, "I don't see why ... the runt _knew _he'd be left behind if he didn't make it back to the pickup point!"

"We do _not _leave anyone behind if we can help it, Ironhide," Optimus said, even as he was breaking into a swift, if uneven, run. That broken hydraulic line was going to slow him down. Still, it was only a quarter mile -- there were _humans _who could run that far and back in five minutes. He wished the terrain were even enough to transform into his truck mode, but it wasn't. Still, he could do this. There was no really valid reason not to.

Wheelie had his back to a pile of rocks and was fending off four good-sized insecticons with a small laser rifle that he'd probably pilfered inside the mine. Mindful of the little mech's line of fire, Optimus veered to the right and approached from the side. As he ran closer, he could hear Wheelie screaming obscenties: "Damn you! Damn you! They're going to leave me behind! Damn you, let me go! Damn you! Damn you all! Fuck you! Let me go!"

If he'd been human, he would have been in hysterical tears. His terror tore at Optimus's heart. Yes, rescuing him had been the right thing to do.

The insecticons scattered at the last minute as Optimus thundered through their midst. He managed to alter his stride slightly and stomp one flat; the crunch of metal and silicon and the POP! of a small spark chamber was distinctly disturbing underfoot. He _hated _killing, even Decepticons, but it was a hard and necessary thing, and he was good at it, and that was one less enemy to plague them later.

Wheelie spun to the side at the noise of Optimus's approach. He stared dumbly up at him. Optimus broke his own rule of, _No grabbing Wheelie! _snatched him up, spun around so fast that he skidded and his injured leg groaned alarmingly, then ran hard for the ridge. Ahead, the evacuation choppers were starting to set down to load the human soldiers aboard. Behind them, heavier aircraft dangled chains for the 'bots. And Bumblebee was seated, hands braced against the ground in front of him, no longer even able to stand.

They were going to make it. And easily. He arrived back with the others with moments to spare, and turned his attention to assisting Ratchet with Bumblebee.

Bee wasn't quite unconscious, but he was pretty incoherent, and there was _still _coolant trickling out of the seams and joints of his chest. Ratchet was up to his elbows in Bee's chest, reaching through one of those terrible rents, and trying to stem the tide of fluid.

Over the thunder of the choppers, Optimus demanded, "_Why _isn't the valve shutting off automatically?"

The coolant leak should have resolved itself in seconds, and never been an issue. Something clearly had gone catastrophically wrong. _I had a hole blasted clean through me two weeks ago and did not leak like that, _Optimus thought, alarmed. This was more than just battle damage.

Ratchet said in their native language, mindful of human ears, "We're _all _overdue for maintenance, boss! Bee's coolant system should have been overhauled fifty years ago but I haven't been able to get the parts! The blasted valve is corroded open!"

"Can you clamp it?"

"If I had a clamp!" Ratchet yanked his hand out to show that he was trying to improvise a patch, literally, with duct tape. Hydraulic oil all over everything was making _that _impossible, though the oil leak had at least stopped immediately.

Bee said foggily, "Boss ... gonna pass out here ..."

And he finally did just that as protective subroutines fully engaged, ceasing all nonvital processing. He slumped forward, falling into stasis lock, and Ratchet caught him before he could do a face plant.

At that moment, the last chopper full of human soldiers lifted up, and the cargo choppers moved in. Optimus stood back up and grabbed the cable when they lowered it to him. Ratchet hastily tied the cable around Bee. The chopper lifted up, and flew away with Bee dangling beneath it. They were spattered with coolant as it did so, though Ratchet had so much all over him that Optimus didn't think he even noticed.

Optimus asked, "Will he be okay?"

"The cold high altitude air will help," Ratchet said, "and I've radioed ahead to Inferno to have the chiller blankets ready. He'll probably be fine ... his processors are doing what they're supposed to, which is to shut mostly down when they overheat. This is nothing as bad as what we had with ..." Ratchet stopped, and stared at Wheelie, who was clinging to Optimus's shoulder like he would never let go. "We've successfully dealt with a lot worse."

* * *

Wheelie clung to Optimus's shoulder, clearly ill at ease because of the multiple miles of distance between them and the ground. The wind rushed past, and the chopper blades rumbled above their heads, and they swayed gently back and forth like a pendulum.

In an attempt to distract the little 'bot, and perhaps himself as well, Optimus asked him via low-power radio, "Did you find out anything interesting?"

Wheelie replied with a simple statement, "I never thought you'd save me, Big Boss."

Optimus replied truthfully, "I could not imagine abandoning you so easily, little one."

"I failed you." He sounded scared. "Couldn't do a slagging thing."

"Failed me? It was four on one." He couldn't keep his incredulity out of his response. "They were all larger than you."

"Not that. I found nothing out. Nothing at all. They spotted me right away. I don't have anything to tell you, nothing. Your rescue of me was pointless." Wheelie abruptly fell silent, perhaps overcome by his own perceived failures.

Optimus mulled over possible responses to the 'bot's words, then finally said, "Perhaps next time you will succeed."

"Optimus?"

"Yes, Wheelie?"

"Thank you." There was a startling amount of emotion in Wheelie's heartfelt words. "Thank you, Boss. I'll do better for you next time."


	8. Chapter 8

Author's notes: The version of Magnus I'm using here is a bit of a hybrid of the soldier-who-would-rather-not-lead and "Optimus Prime's brother" as he has been portrayed in various continuities. Which, yeah, makes him the third brother of Optimus and Megatron. More on that, later.

Also, I have not read the books. I probably should, as I really can't imagine a better author to write them than Alan Dean Foster (who is just all sorts of awesome) but I just haven't done so yet. Too many books, not enough time in this lifetime.

And one more note: Wow, lots of new readers. Hi, new readers! For your FYI, I have a livejournal at .com.

* * *

With a ferocious burst of radiation, the transport ship slipped out into normal space well beyond the orbit of earth's moon. Space/time folds were not friendly to the structure of planets, so they'd come out a long distance from the world's surface, and it would be another three weeks before the ship eased into a low earth orbit.

Ultra Magnus glanced over at the ship's commander. The mech met his gaze and said, "Almost there, sir."

Given the distance they had traveled, and the months of transit, three weeks more was, indeed, "nearly there."

Magnus regarded the gleaming world through the ship's forward viewer. A waterworld, rich in organic life, and -- according to his brother -- home to one of the most promising young organic species since the Nebulons. Optimus very much wanted to avoid the mistakes on Earth that they'd made in the past, with other worlds. Optimus spoke very glowingly of humanity's possible future. Optimus's messages to Magnus had been far cheerier than his letters to others.

_And Megatron, and his sick, power-mad ambitions, would ruin that dream for our brother._

He considered Optimus's last message, which had not been sent to Magnus:

_Command: I beg of you, we need _help _on this world. I have politely requested this, and I have commanded this as your Prime, and now I am reduced to pleading. We require help on this world, and we require supplies, and we require them immediately. You have received my requisition lists and you have seen my situation reports. If you do not send the assistance we require, all will be lost on this world. I will fight to the last, but Megatron will win. We are outnumbered ten to one, outgunned, and _they _have a functional supply chain, which we do not. _

Magnus felt a slow burn of anger in response to Optimus's message, which had been forwarded to him by a friend in a high place. Optimus was their _Prime _-- the last Prime, the only Autobot left alive who carried a Matrix of Leadership. If the Matrix was lost so was quite possibly the future of their entire species. And they couldn't spare Optimus even a handful of warriors?

Well, _he _could help, even if no one else would. After he'd seen Optimus's message he'd pulled every bit of rank he had, called in every political favor, remembered a bit of useful blackmail on two occasions, and had done everything short of selling his Spark to put together the force that Optimus needed. He hoped that Optimus would find his arrival a welcome surprise: he was not confident about the security of their communications channels, so for all Optimus knew, this would be yet another paltry delivery of a few pallets of parts and one or two third-rate fighters.

_I still cannot believe they answered his request for more warriors with Skids and Mudflap. That was damn near a blatant insult. Optimus will probably turn those two into respectable warriors ... but he shouldn't have include add troop-training in his mission goals. The troops should be pre-trained. _

"We're receiving a transmission from Moon Array 23," the commander said, referring to one of the Autobot's hidden, automated, communications array hidden in a lunar crater.

The message was also from Optimus, having been forwarded back to Magnus via command-and-control by his well-placed friend. It was very recent, and had been intended for the officers Optimus had left in charge back home.

_Command: We have two badly injured 'bots. One is Bumblebee, hero of Tyger Pax. Without Lieutenant Bumblebee, I remind you, the Decepticons would have won that terrible day on Cybertron. Not only do we not have the parts to effect a proper repair for Bumblebee, but we still have not received a replacement voice box. He is handling this issue with his usual patience and fortitude, but it must wear on him, and it certainly causes an increasing amount of frustration on my part. And now he has been far more severely injured, at least partly due to lack of maintenance rather than direct enemy action. I have attached a list of parts that we need, and we need them immediately, and if they are not on the incoming supply ship I command you to __place them on the fastest courier available and send them as soon as possible. This is not a request. It is a direct order._

Magnus viewed the parts list. To his dismay many of the reqs were for routine items used for maintenance. They should have received all of the items requested years ago. Optimus had also included a new req for a ball joint, some armor plating, and some alloy struts suitable for a very large mech. Magnus, in horror, realized that _Optimus _must have been hurt, but had not seen fit to mention this in the communique. Nobody else on Optimus's team was that big.

"Do we have everything he's asking for in our stores?" He asked the ship's commander.

The mech made a grunt of assent.

_If Optimus is hurt, he's vulnerable. This is no longer merely important, it is critical. I do not understand why ... no, I have my suspicions why Optimus is having difficulty with command and control, but I have not yet been able to prove it. I need to discuss these matters with Optimus in person._

"How quickly can I get down to the planet's surface with the repair parts?" Magnus asked the commander.

"Hold on a sec ..." the mech was a good tactician, and likely had come to the same conclusions that Magnus just had, after seeing that message. He plugged some information into the ship's computer and plotted what was essentially a crash course with the planet's surface, at a barely survivable impact speed. Then he frowned, and informed Magnus, "That'll get you down by tomorrow morning, but I can't guarantee precisely where. You'll be within a hundred surface miles of Optimus's base, but no closer. If you want more accuracy you'll need to wait a few more days and ..."

"I'll take the first option," Magnus said, firmly. They would need to depart in an hour, which was enough time to get everything he needed together. "This world has a very good road system. Once down, we can be at the base within hours."

"Hnh. Yes. Will you take all your soldiers?"

Magnus considered that. "Not until I have a chance to talk to Optimus in person. I want to know what the situation is. I'll take Hot Rod and Wheeljack with me -- if there are 'bots who need repairs, Wheeljack's skills will come in handy. And Hot Rod could use the field experience -- I think he has real promise. Meanwhile, your orders are to do a visual survey of this world's communication satellites. Optimus has indicated concern that some of them may be compromised."

"Will do. If we find any trouble, do you want us to check with you, or just take it out?"

"If any of the satellites are under Decepticon control, just use your best judgment. You've been doing this longer than I have," he said, mildly. He wasn't about to tell the commander how to do his job; the mech had far more experience than Magnus!

"Yes sir."

Magnus studied the waterworld in the viewer again. _I'll be on the surface of that world in sixteen hours. My first inhabited alien world, the first alien species I'll ever meet. Thank goodness my men have _much _more experience with this sort of thing than I do ... I'm taking Hot Rod because he needs the field experience, but what about me?_

Well, Optimus has Bee with him. Bee's resume when it comes to working with alien species is truly impressive. I'll just defer to him ...

* * *

Entry into the planet's atmosphere was hard and violent. They screamed towards the planet's surface at a steep, dangerous angle. Along the way they were buffeted by vicious winds and superheated air screamed around them. Warning bells pinged as he pushed his body to the very limit of endurance; his systems were perilously close to overheating, or to coming apart from the incredible stresses.

_Soldiers do this all the time, _he thought, somewhat desperately. That should have been more comforting than it really was. _I was built to military specs_, he reminded himself, firmly, _I can do this. Wheeljack seemed _excited _about the idea of a hot entry._

They howled over the surface of the planet, crossing continents in moments, and then a huge expanse of shimmering ocean. Moving at thousands of miles per hour they passed into darkness, and shot over the tops of a violent thunderstorm. Illuminated within by lightning, the clouds were truly spectacular and he wished he had time to look closer.

The atmospheric winds and their differing aerodynamic qualities separated them; radio interference made it impossible to communicate. He lost sight of Wheeljack and Hot Rod somewhere over the middle of the continent that the native species called _North America_. He dropped speed to friction from the air, and then suddenly he was _below _the cloud deck, and he was passing over a large city at less than a mile of height. He could see homes, vehicles, large buildings, aircraft, a river ... his wild, uncontrolled descent continued, and through the flaming atmosphere and St. Elmo's fire that snarled across his body he could see people, trees, animals ...

He left the city behind, much to his relief. He didn't want to hit a person, or even cause major property damage.

Ahead was farmland: fields of organic crops, neatly laid out in random geometric patterns that probably followed the lines land ownership.

And ... he shut down his optics in a sudden flash of embarrassing blind terror which, later, he would never admit to ...

_IMPACT!_

The crash was hard enough that it caused a couple of his processors to reset themselves, and dug a crater several feet deep. Once he'd recovered a bit he picked his way free and retrieved the crate of supplies that had come down with him. He discovered he was in the middle of a vast field of ankle-height grain. His olfactory sensors told him that the planet smelled of growing things, and a faint undercurrent of familiar hydrocarbons ...

A human on a tractor was heading his way, the source of the carbon smell. The human was holding a small rectangular object in the air as he drove.

With long, leggy strides he hurried for the road. There, he transformed into a large Cybertronian truck and left the human behind. As curious as he was about the natives of this world, he knew they were required to remain concealed.

A quarter mile down the remote road, he passed the first vehicle big enough to serve his needs: a large, metallic blue, Mack truck. He transcanned it, and expended a very large amount of energon to create a new alternate mode. Now he could blend in and remain unseen.

In the closest nearby town he parked outside a residence that had an open link to the world's primitive network of computers. It took only a moment's searching to locate Wheeljack's landing site -- apparently, a 'meteor' had hit a car show in the county seat. He found directions, drove there in twenty minutes, and spotted Wheeljack headed down the highway in _his _direction.

"Piece of cake," Wheeljack informed him, over Autobot low-power radio frequencies. "Easiest fast de-orbit I've done in several centuries."

Wheeljack was wearing a shiny new form already -- the shell of the vehicle appeared to be stainless steel, with doors that opened upwards, and a blocky, angular design.

"Nice look," Magnus complimented him.

"Found a story that goes with the car. Apparently, there's a famous human tale about a time-traveling crazy inventor who owns one of these," Wheeljack replied, cheerfully. "Though I upgraded the performance abilities, a bit."

Magnus was amused, and laughed, and then said, "Shall we find Hot Rod?"


	9. Chapter 9

"Me like this world," Grimlock said, cheerfully, as Mikaela navigated traffic towards the base. Bumblebee had expressed a bit of nervousness about it, but had been required to leave her and Grimlock alone together because greater duties called: a mission. He'd left very early the morning before to catch a flight to God-knew-where. She had not been entirely sure if Bumblebee was worried about leaving her alone with Grimlock, or if he was concerned about a possible attack ...

"Yeah?" She asked, then hastily hit the brakes to avoid an erratically lane-changing SUV. Ratchet had not been kidding about Grimlock's mass -- when she stomped on the brakes, the tires locked, and the mustang lost traction and started to spin out. Her heart caught in her throat and she tried frantically to steer out of the spin, but knew she was going to lose control ... and then the car took over and with better-than-human reflexes, Grimlock fishtailed a couple of times but managed to avoid a wreck.

"Sorry," she apologized, feeling horribly embarrassed.

"Me drive." Grimlock said, decisively. "Me hit someone, they hurt. You teach traffic laws, now. Human reflexes not good enough for this. Smash not good if not in battle."

"Yeah, sure." She slumped back into the seat, hands in her lap and nowhere near the steering wheel. "Sorry. I'm a _good _driver, I swear, you just have a bit of a learning curve."

Grimlock did _not _handle like a normal car; there was just too much inertia. Acceleration was okay, because Autobots were never short of power. He was only a little slower than a normal Mustang. However, _stopping _was a problem, as was, sometimes, steering. Basic physics came into play -- she was trying to stop or turn forty thousand pounds on tires that only had about a scanty few square inches of contact with the road each. Even Autobot tires, which were emphatically not like human-made tires, had their limitations.

"It okay. No smash anyone. All good." Grimlock assured her. Then, with what she swore was a mischevious chuckle, he added, "Me save smash for Megatron, later."

"Well, hit him once for me, will you, when it comes time?"

"Me, Grimlock, will do that," Grimlock promised. Then he said, "Uh-oh. Break traffic laws?"

They had, unexpectedly, a cop car on their tail, lights flashing away. Mikaela said a rude word. "No, not you. You're fine. It's probably the crack in the windshield and the lack of a hood. Just pull over, and I'll talk to him. Hopefully, he'll let us go with a warning ..."

"Make problem go away." Grimlock said, and did just that. Suddenly, his windshield was completely intact and the hood _appeared _to be in place. She wasn't sure if he'd thrown up a hologram or if he'd materialized a new hood with nanotech. He certainly had the mass to spare for the latter, but not the energon -- she felt guilty about that. Hopefully their supplies would arrive soon. He said, firmly, "Better."

"Yeah," she blinked, then added, "I probably should have told you to do that before we left the garage. The cop will most likely just assume he was seeing things ..." A bad thought struck. "Do you have an Autobot emblem anywhere?"

"Me make?"

"No!" That was asking for trouble they didn't need.

She leaned over and popped the glove compartment open even as Grimlock was finding a place to pull over beside the highway. And then she started swearing, concluding with, "... insurance card! It's in my glove compartment in the real Mustang! _Damn _it!"

"Papers important?" Grimlock asked.

"Don't tell me you can materialize a copy for mee?" she said, hopefully.

"Sorry. Not do paper. Not detach from body. Hologram, cop can't hold. Sorry." He added, somewhat sourly, "Stupid humans. Better to put insurance info in central database. Have cops check database. Simple. No paper."

"_Damn_." She had no idea what they'd do if she didn't have her insurance card on her. It would probably be a hassle, however, and one she wasn't looking forward to.

"Sorry," Grimlock repeated. He didn't sound truly apologetic. He sounded a trifle annoyed.

"Ah, it'll work out. Not the complete end of the world ..." She was starting to understand the mixture of affection and frustration that the other 'bots had towards Grim. Even Optimus didn't seem to be immune to it, which spoke volumes about this 'bot's lack of agreeability.

At that instant, as Grimlock was pulling to a halt, she looked in the rear view mirror and saw a rather familiar face -- actually, a hologram -- driving the vehicle. "Grimlock!" she said in alarm, "That's not the police, that's Barricade!"

"Protect girl!" Grimlock said, with what sounded like glee, and accelerated so hard they left a cloud of smoke behind. He fishtailed violently, swerved into traffic, crossed four lanes of rush hour gridlock with amazing agility, then dove through the median, whipped around, and zoomed across traffic in the opposite lanes. Mikaela was not a woman who was inclined to scream, but she did issue a startled and frightened, "FUCK!" as he kept right on going -- up an embankment, through a chain link fence that parted like cobwebs, the wrong way down a highway access road, through a bowling alley's parking lot at a very high rate of speed, down an alley where he sent garbage cans flying and garbage into the air like confetti, and then he whipped out into traffic on a busy road.

Lights flashing, a cop pulled out of a side street in front of them.

"Me, Grimlock, _smash_!"

"That's the real thing!" She was dry-mouthed with terror as he rocked up on two wheels to fit between the police car and a light post, without slowing down one bit, and with no more than an inch to spare. She saw the real police officer's startled blue eyes as they zoomed past his squad car.

It was official: Grimlock was a better driver than she was.

He careened around a corner so hard that he probably violated a few laws of Newtonian physics, and he pulled enough gees to dim her vision in the process. With only a slight fishtail Grimlock straightened up, hit the gas like he had rockets under the back bumper, left a cloud of black smoke behind, and sent jaywalking pedestrians scattering in front of a bus stop.

"Don't hit the people!" She said, genuinely scared. "They're not extra points, I swear!"

"Grimlock no hit people," he sounded offended at the idea, "Make mess of new hood!"

And then a second cop car zoomed up behind them, so fast that it could only be Barricade. He screamed past Grimlock at a very high rate of speed, executed a neat sliding stop, and started to transform in front of them. She expected Grimlock to turn aside, or slide to a stop. Clearly, so did Barricade.

Grimlock accelerated, somewhat to her surprise: she would have sworn he was going flat out already!

Forty thousand pounds of Autobot packed into a Mustang-sized body hit Barricade in mid transformation. The noise was deafening, the impact sent Grimlock spinning down the street and her shoulder was bruised by the seatbelt, but Barricade was thrown into the air. He hit the street with a _crunch _and stayed down. Grimlock silently stopped in the middle of the road for a moment, watching the Decepticon -- or possibly gloating, she wasn't sure. She did a quick inventory of all her body parts, and was shocked to discover she was totally uninjured, though she figured she'd have plenty of whiplash later. Given the wrecks and general physical abuse she'd experienced in the last few weeks, it was probably time to see a chiropractor ...

Barricade was broken and mangled and motionless, with one leg folded backwards underneath him, and the other actually detached. He looked like he'd been hit by a bomb blast.

"Isn't physics grand?" She grinned, deciding she wasn't sorry in the least if he was permanently down for the count.

Grimlock said, with satisfaction matching her own, "_Me, Grimlock, smash!_"

* * *

Optimus answered his cell phone on the second ring. "Hello, Mikaela."

"Hi, Optimus," she said, unable to keep the good cheer out of her voice. "Hot Shot just took down Barricade."

"Are you uninjured?" He asked, sounding genuinely concerned. She noted he didn't ask about Hot Shot, err, Grimlock.

"I'm fine. I'll be stiff tomorrow, but okay. Barricade never knew what hit him."

Optimus sounded a little quieter than she would have expected when he said, "I imagine he did not."

She added, "You might want to send a team down to pick the mess up -- I decided sticking around to talk to the police wasn't the greatest of ideas, given that there could be more Decepticons around."

"Wise thinking. A fight between Hot Shot and the Decepticons could put more lives in danger." Optimus paused, as if considering the problem for a moment, then said, "I would appreciate it if you would pick Sam up from the college."

"He's in class until noon -- do you think he's in danger?"

"Please pick him up after his last class. And, Mikaela, my assumption with Sam is that he is always in danger," Optimus said, in a voice that sounded far too calm, and somehow unusually reserved, "but Megatron must know by now that we are guarding Sam very carefully, so I am not overly concerned that he is in imminent threat of an immediate attack. That danger will grow as Megatron's forces regroup and recoordinate after their last defeat. This attack on you was most likely intended simply to be a statement, as it is too early for Megatron to try a scenario involving a strategic kidnapping. If Barricade had killed you it would have sent a powerful message to us that he was very displeased."

"Optimus," she said, deciding to come right out and ask, "is there something wrong?"

Belatedly, she remembered they were talking over cell phones -- and Optimus was highly suspicious that the Decepticons could monitor their calls. He said he'd analyzed the battle two weeks ago, and the pattern of attacks clearly indicated that the level of Decepticon intelligence was too good for there to be any other reasonable explanation. However, he didn't seem to think that this was sensitive information, because he simply said, "The reason I ask that you pick Sam up is that Bumblebee was badly injured. While he has suffered no permanent damage, I suspect it will do his spirits good to see both of you. He will be in the repair bay for several days. Also, I believe that Ratchet could use your assistance, Mikaela, as much of the work needed is in very tight spaces."

Optimus hesitated, then added, "The attacking Decepticon was a mech named Fangface. He was once a very good friend of Bumblebee's."

"... Oh." She thought that one through, and realized that Optimus was likely worried about Bumblebee's emotional state. Friends would help. However, Mikaela had a very good idea about how Optimus felt about Bumlebee -- he valued all his warriors, but Bee was somehow special to everyone, including Optimus. Though she doubted he would give her anything resembling an honest answer, Mikaela asked, "How are _you _doing, Optimus?"

He surprised her. She wasn't expecting a real response. However, he said, in a very tired voice, so weary it surprised her, "Mikaela, Autobot emotions are very similar to human ones. It has not been an easy few weeks for any of us, including myself. Do not forget that there was a time when Decepticons and Autobots were _one _people, and Megatron and I ruled together as brothers."

Forget that? She had never known it. _Brothers_? However, before she could ask anything further, he said gently, "This is not a conversation to have over the phone, Mikaela. Please retrieve Sam and come to the base. I believe Bumblebee will be very glad to see the two of you."

* * *

Sam's last class of the morning was Astronomy, and on Tuesdays, he did not have afternoon classes. She left Grimlock parked in the lot between the '78 Thunderbird and nearly-as-ancient Geo Metro with eco-political bumper stickers and headed over to the Astronomy class to meet him.

"Obviously," she overheard Sam say as she rounded the corner, "interstellar travel is possible because the Autobots _do _it. Routinely."

"I'm just saying there is no way to solve the energy needs," the other voice belonged to a short, unkempt man wearing tweed. "It's seriously a violation of multiple laws of physics to travel faster than the speed of light. In _theory _it's possible, but in reality, you'd have to solve some very basic problems involving energy needs that I'm not sure _are _solvable."

"Oh, professor, this is my girl friend," Sam said, and he draped a friendly arm around her waist. Arcee, who was "leaning against her motorcycle" behind the professor, waved at her.

The professor was giving her a look of appraising interest. "Looks like the publicity's done well for you, boy."

Sam flushed dark red, going from annoyed to angry in a heartbeat. She could feel rage pulse through him in a tense, furious wave, and he started to say, "I'll have you know ..."

Mikaela interrupted Sam before he could get a good mad rant going, "Actually, it was the crappy POS that he was driving that got us together."

Sam choked down a laugh, relaxing against her. This, between them, was a longstanding and very old joke. The professor didn't get it, didn't have the context, but Sam did. He squeezed her in a sideways hug and said, "Obviously, the 'bots have solved those unsolvable problems."

"Are you sure?" The man shook his head. Behind him, Arcee's hologram rolled her eyes. He continued, "I mean, it would be just as plausible, if not moreso, that they are truly government machines that have gone rogue, perhaps another government. The Japanese are doing amazing things with robots."

Arcee snickered openly at this point, and then said, "Hey, Sam, the big boss wants you and Mikaela to pick it up a bit. Ratchet needs some help from little humans with little hands and he doesn't want the military poking around in Bumblebee's innards."

"Oh, yeah, sure," Sam said, "let's go."

"Hey," the professor said, indicating Arcee with a wave, "you know this bombshell is always hanging around for your man?"

Sam froze, eyes flashing dangerously dark. "You ..."

Mikaela wouldn't release his waist, effectively stopping the confrontation from becoming physical -- and Sam was angry enough for that. Sam was _loyal_, her insecurities and the occasional molestation by a pretender aside. He took it very personally when someone implied otherwise. She snorted, "If I was going to be jealous of a robot, it'd be the POS Camaro, not Arcee."

Arcee threw her hologram's head back and laughed audibly, and Sam relaxed again, grinning as well. He said, "Professor, meet Arcee. I'm afraid you'll have to look but not touch on this girl, though because that's not a person -- that's a hologram."

Arcee blew him a kiss, then disappeared in a blink. The man stared, then said in disbelief, "Was that ... _how _did she ..."

She reappeared, and said calmly, "My people were traveling the stars when your ancestors still had tails, buddy. We solved the problems you were describing a _long _time ago. -- C'mon, Sam. If you're not going to ride with me, catch a ride with Hot Shot and Mikaela, but we do need to roll out."

* * *

Mikaela had expected to see Bumblebee with, perhaps, parts missing, but awake and coherent and conscious. If not talking, she figured he'd at least be playing clips of music and quotes from movies, making expressive motions with his hand, and generally being _Bumblebee_.

When they stepped into the repair bay, however, he did not even look up. He was seated on the floor, one arm gone, and a huge hole in his chest. The Camero's bumber had been completely removed, what was left of it, and behind it was an open cavity full of Autobot innards. The light in his blue eyes was very dim, and he seemed to be staring off into space a thousand miles away. He was propping himself up with his good hand, and tubes ran from his chest to a bank of equipment behind him.

"Bee," Ratchet said, voice curiously gently, from his position at an Autobot-sized work bench, "Bee, you have visitors."

Bumblebee looked up at that, saw them, and then shifted his weight so that he was seated without support of his hand, and then extended that hand beckoningly in their direction.

Ratchet said, in a somewhat snarky tone, "He's feeling a bit sorry for himself, I think."

"What's wrong with him?" Mikaela asked, as Sam simply threw his arms around Bee's neck and gave him an awkward but heartfelt hug while carefully avoiding all the tubes and wires. Bee carefully returned the embrace, then waved her over so he could hug both of them together. Hugging an Autobot was something like snuggling with a pile of scrap metal, but the sentiment was there. He was _very _glad to see them.

"He can't talk," Ratchet said, "which may actually be a good thing, or I'd have to listen to him complain. His voicebox decided to crap out again, no surprise there. And he doesn't have access to the memory module containing his MP3s, so he _really _can't communicate much by sound. He's still got radio frequencies." Ratchet tilted his head sideways, as if listening to something, then said, "He says to tell you that he'll be fine, and you shouldn't worry."

"What happened?"

Ratchet shrugged. "Lack of maintenance parts. He had a coolant line cut during battle, which isn't a big deal. We lose those all the time. We have about three times the actual cooling capacity that we need -- redundancy is a _good _thing. However, we also have valves that are supposed to stop the leaks, and one of his was corroded, and it leaked massively. He ran out of coolant, and then his main pump, which is supposed to last several thousand years, sucked air. Turns out _that _part is a thousand years past its expiration date too, and we've been using substandard fluids on top of that, because of the war. _It _won't come back online now."

"Yeesh. Can you replace it?" Mikaela didn't like the sound of that.

Ratchet made a noise that sounded like an obscenity in his native language. "If I were on Cybertron, easily. I can't even keep the damned external chiller running here fast enough to keep all his processors online. We've got a bigger one on order."

"And the pump?" Sam promptedly, with a hand still resting on Bee's shoulder.

"I'm about ready to go kill a Decepticon for parts." Coming from Ratchet, who was morally opposed to killing and had made this clear on multiple occasions in their earshot, the comment was simply pure and unadulterated snark stemming from extreme frustration. "Unfortunately, the two I'd most like to kill have parts that wouldn't _fit_."

"Barricade no need his," Grimlock suggested. "Me, Grimlock, _smash_."

Bumblebee greeted this news with a thumb's up and then a salute in Grimlock's direction, and a good bit more animation than they'd seen since they'd walked in the door. This, however, quickly subsided.

Ratchet sighed, and said, "Grim, you didn't blow your cover, did you?"

"No transform."

"He ran him down at about a hundred miles an hour and nailed him in the middle of a transformation," Mikaela said, "I'm not sure that he knew what hit him. We're also not totally sure that he's dead, but Grimlock did turn him into a nice pile of scrap metal."

Ratchet shook his head in mild disbelief at this news, but his next words confirmed he already knew about the incident. "Optimus said he took a trailer and went to pick the body up, and it was gone. I'm guessing he's probably not dead. Barricade's pretty damn tough. However, I sure wouldn't want his repair bills. Grimlock's probably got several times the mass that Barricade does."

"Mm. Guess we'll find out eventually." She patted Bee on the arm then stood on her toes to look into the hole in his chest. Morbid, yes, but she was curious about how Autobots ticked. She could see a hole where parts had obviously been removed, quite a bit of yellow fluid sprayed everywhere, and a fascinating assortment of wires, mechanical bits, and the occasional shimmering swirl of nanobots. Bee didn't seem to mind her looking; he reached up and moved some of the tubes aside so she could see better.

"Can't his nanobots fix the problem?" She asked, watching as they swarmed a dent in his chest plate and it smoothed out before her eyes.

"Beyond their design specs, I'm afraid," Ratchet glanced up from his work. He appeared to have a water pump in his hands of human make, one that he'd dissembled down to its component parts.

"Are you going to be able to use human-made stuff to fix him?" Sam asked.

"I'm hoping the supply ship has the parts we need. Anything we do with human equipment is a temporary fix, and it's a hell of a job to make anything work." Ratchet picked up a sautering iron and did something to the water pump that required his complete attention for a moment.

"The problems," Ratchet explained, when he had a chance to pause and look at them, "are manifold. First off, Autobots ground positive -- has to do with how our weapons work -- and most earth equipment grounds negative. Then we use different standardized physical measurements: diameters, thread count on screws, that sort of thing. This means I have to machine every single part to _fit_ and that counts for time and aggravation, if nothing else. And most electronic parts need to be rewired or I need to design a workaround due to the grounding issue."

"So it's a compatability thing?" Mikaela said. This didn't sound like an insurmountable problem, particularly given Ratchet's skills.

"Then," he continued, "most earth electronic equipment is designed for either 115 or 220 volts alternating current, or twelve volts DC, for the input. There are standardized amps, too. Autobot processors run at a much higher amperage and a much lower voltage than almost any earth design -- the higher the voltage, the farther a spark will travel, and trust me, you do _not _want stray arcing when your neurons are silicon and are so closely spaced that the tolerance between them is measured in molecules, and you've got the power demands of a small thermonuclear reactor. Arc-out is analogous to a _stroke _in humans and usually happens because there's an electrical problem somewhere is in the 'bot's body."

"That's why you're having problems fixing Bee's voice box with a human equivalent?" she guessed.

"Solved those problems," Ratchet said, "They are just just aggravating, not unfixable. Bigger problem is human equipment simply isn't durable. The average human computer? If you drop it from human waist height to the floor, it breaks. The first solution we tried for Bee's voicebox lasted one day and then gave out when he was _dancing _to some music. Just jumping up and down a bit. It simply couldn't take the inertia. You can imagine what the stresses of a decent battle do to human-made bits. We build things to last millenia, and humans build things to be disposable. Different mindset, different needs."

He rested his forehead in his hand for a moment. "I think I have the pump problem solved, but the bigger problem is his valves. They're all corroded and the same thing could happen in the next battle. I've been trying to come up with a solution using human technology, but it's not as easy as it sounds -- the digital sensors have to be able to detect a number of different inputs, talk to his processors, and react appropriately, but they also need to be able to react _independently _in case he's in stasis lock, or a wire's cut. They don't just cut off flow when there's a leak, but also send coolant where it's needed, when it's needed."

Mikaela tilted her head sideways, considering. She could see what he was talking about -- and that did sound like a custom job. Particularly if there was the voltage problem he'd mentioned. Then she frowned, and said, "Basically, you need a valve that shuts off the flow of fluid if the pressure drops below a point, but allows the flow of fluid when it's needed?"

"Yeah." Ratchet poked the pump with a screwdriver a couple of times.

"Hnh. Might be able to make something out of some plumbing parts, as a temporary fix, for that one valve. Better than _broken _parts, anyway. Just do it all mechanical."

Ratchet stared at her. She had no idea what he was thinking, if he liked the idea or not. She could usually figure out a 'bot's emotional response to something from their body language, and she was getting good at figuring it out even when it was alien body language because they weren't making a point of "seeming human" -- but when they were being nearly motionless, as Ratchet was, she was left clueless.

"Don't know if that would work or not," she shrugged diffidently, "it's just an idea."

He was still silent. By now she knew when to suspect that an Autobot who was thinking hard, and possibly doing some hasty google searches. Which meant he was likely at least considering the idea. She hoped. Alternately, he could simply be thinking about how to gently break it to her that she was being a complete idiot or -- given this was Ratchet -- possibly coming up with the absolutely most sarcastic thing possible to say to her about her stupidity.

It turned out that neither was the answer, however. He suddenly started moving again, and said briskly, "Mikaela, that's actually not a bad idea, and it's something I've considered. My concern with that approach, however, is that most of the parts you mention are comprised of materials which have some oxidative tendencies and which would have functional lifespans measured in months or years, not centuries. As a stopgap measure, they may work, however." He was still for a moment, again, then said, "Something's going on at the North gate. Optimus said for you and Grimlock to go check it out."

"Me?" She stared at him, a bit dumbfounded. Apparently, he had been carrying on two conversations at once, one of which had been over either cell phones or inter-robot frequencies. "What if it's Decepticons?"

"He thinks it's probably media or fans. Apparently there's some cars at the gate that are asking to speak to him." He chuckled. "If it were Decepticons they wouldn't be asking nicely."

"And he wants _me _to check it out them?"

She might have trouble reading Autobot emotions at times, but the reverse was clearly not true. Ratchet made a snorting sound reaction to her incredulity. "Don't worry, reporters do not bite. Just give them Bumblebee's gmail address and advise them that he'll review any requests for interviews -- he's been acting as our PR point of contact. Don't promise interviews; Optimus says that we are not going to overdo it in that regard as it's too time consuming. And as soon as I can get this pump installed Bee'll be functional again, and can review things."

"Can't the soldiers at the gate do it?"

"They tried. They're being very persistent. Short of arresting them, there is no getting rid of them. They're demanding to speak to Optimus, and Optimus is in a meeting with some heads of state right now. Ironhide and Arcee are an hour from here running an errand for me. Sideswipe is running an errand for Optimus. Inferno's running some drills with the human troops. Jolt and Doc are off doing a circuit of talk shows, which is why Doc's not helping me _here_. And Optimus says he trusts Grimlock to behave more than he does the twins."

"Optimus has to be insane ..." she muttered, walking back to the Mustang.

"To do his job?" Ratchet assured her, "Absolutely."

She shook her head, and waved at Bee. "Hang in there, buddy."

He gave her a thumb's up in reaction to that.

* * *

  
There were three vehicles politely waiting behind the low wooden bar across the road. One was a Mack truck with metallic blue paint and beside it was a DeLorean. The third car was a Porshe. The three barely fit side by side.

A _freaking DeLorean_, gleaming stainless steel in the sunlight, looking distinctly retro. "And Ratchet thought he already had parts problems ..." she regarded the DeLorean in amusement from the Mustang's driver's seat. Somebody liked to be noticed. And a bright red Porsche. And a Mack Truck. And yeah, those were mechs. Had to be. No doubt in her mind at all.

"Me use thermal imaging, no see people drive. See mechs, maybe." Grimlock didn't sound particularly concerned as he stopped, facing the others, and this was not news to her. She'd figured out what she was looking at as soon as she saw the trio. _A DeLorean? Right. Gotta be a robot._

"Decepticons wouldn't be polite," she decided, and hoped she was right when she opened the door and stepped out. This could be an ambush, but that Mack rig was big enough to be concealing an Optimus-sized 'bot. They could have steamrolled right over the two soldiers, with their puny little guns, at the gate. Decepticons would: she'd yet to meet a Decepticon who had any respect for human authority.

The soldiers looked relaxed. _They _hadn't figured it out yet, and Optimus and/or Lennox probably needed to have a chat with them about being aware of robots in disguise pulling up to the gate.

Grimlock didn't warn her to be careful, which meant that either he wasn't worried, or he figured she knew to be.

She ducked under the low wooden gate, and approached the DeLorean. The hologram in the driver's seat said, "Hey, beautiful. We're here for Optimus."

"He's in a meeting. Who am I talking to?" She ignored the hologram and glanced into the DeLorean. The vehicle's back seat was crammed full of metal boxes, and there was a large crate of some kind strapped into the passenger seat. Supplies, she thought. _Oh, wonderful. The supply ship must be here early. Wonder why they didn't radio ahead? Maybe they are keeping radio silence. _

"Fred," the hologram said, giving a name that was almost certainly fake.

She snorted. "My name's Mikaela Banes. Ratchet said for me to run interference out here because we thought you were reporters. I'll be perfectly happy to run interference anyway, if you're not going to give me your real names."

"Ratchet said ..." the 'bot trailed off, and the hologram stared at a point somewhere past her head. The image's lips did not move when the car said, "Do the soldiers know ... Optimus has mentioned you, I believe."

"Ayup."

"Wish I'd gotten _that _memo. Last I heard, they were deep undercover," the truck said, on the other side of the DeLorean, and she stepped back as all three transformed. The DeLorean was about as tall as Bumblebee, and Decepticon-silver, but there was a reassuring Autobot emblem on his chest plate. "Wheeljack," he introduced himself, sounding disgruntled. He gestured behind him at the Mack Truck. "This is my boss, Ultra Magnus, and the kid's Hot Rod."

"And we understand you have some wounded?" Magnus asked. "We are here with parts."

"Yeah, Bee's in pretty bad shape. Maybe you two should head straight for the repair bay -- just follow me." _New Autobots! _She thought, giddily. She wondered if she should call ahead ... nah, if these three wanted to plow past her, they could, so it was unlikely they were unfriendly. They were still standing around waiting for someone to remember to lift the gate -- the soldiers were gaping and not reacting. And cell phone transmissions could be intercepted. As far as she knew, Grimlock didn't yet have the ability to use the inter-robot radio system due to his damage.

"Will do," Ultra Magnus said, in a tone of voice that made her look way up at him and squint. He sounded quite a bit like Optimus. "The wounded should be attended to first."

Grimlock hadn't said a word, obeying Optimus's orders not to break his cover -- the human guards were not "in the know." However, as soon as the passenger door shut, he said, "Autobots _kick butt _now!"

"Friends of yours?" she asked, grinning at his tone of voice.

"Wheeljack fix Grimlock lots of times!"

"So Magnus is a leader?"

Grimlock said, sounding disgusted, "Worse leader than Optimus. Me, Grimlock, better leader than _that_. Artistocrat not warrior." He paused, then allowed, "Magnus friend. Optimus just jerk."


	10. Chapter 10

A DeLorean , a Porshe, and a Mack truck followed the mustang through the hanger bay doors. The Mack truck stopped with an audible groan of his brakes, and Sam stared, wondering if that was a robot or just a vehicle.

_DeLorean. That's a DeLorean. Gotta be robots.  
_  
Somewhat to his relief, when the Mack truck stood up and became a mech before his eyes, it was proudly wearing the Autobot logo. With remarkable coordination, the Autobot ejected a large metal case on his way upright and caught it in one hand.

Ratchet stood up from his work bench and regarded the three newcomers with his hands on his hips. "Wheeljack, Magnus, Hot Rod, it is _about time _we got some reinforcements. Please tell me you're not alone."

Wheeljack pointed skywards. "Twenty-four more 'bots upstairs, Ratchet. Chill your gears. We just took the hard way out of orbit with the first of the supplies because we heard it was a bit urgent. There's a shuttle for the others, but we need to know where to put it down, and the transport needs to navigate to a lower altitude for a good landing window, if we're actually going to land on a runway and not smash into the ground."

"Oh," Ratchet rubbed what passed for his nose with two fingers. "The undercover thing changed last week, and the runway here at the base is long enough for a shuttle. It's a long story -- we can fill you in later. Magnus -- Optimus is going to be damn glad to see you, I tell you what."

The tall 'bot shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "I'm just a soldier, Ratchet."

"Oh, that's bullshit, and you know it," Wheeljack said, sounding irritable. However, his eyes were on Mikaela's "Mustang." He added, "Ratchet, you do know that the crappy-ass little Mustang here is a mech? It's got a thermal signature consistent with a spark."

"Yeah," Ratchet said, "We know. Grimlock, Wheelie's with the twins. You can come out now."

"Not," Grimlock said, with an cranky growl as he transformed, "A CRAPPY-ASS CAR!"

Wheeljack took a rather alarmed step back and made a startled, incoherent spluttering noise. Grimlock's transformation had been so fast that he'd displaced a puff of air, and the noise of all his mechanical bits rearranging had been deafening. Sam took that to mean that Grimlock had recovered quite a bit over the previous two nights.

Magnus just commented mildly, without sounding very surprised, "That's about the last place I'd expect to find Grimlock, particularly since he's supposed to be dead."

Wheeljack asked, after a moment's contemplation of Grimlock, "So, have Grim and Optimus tried to kill each other yet?"

"Nope. Not yet." Ratchet chuckled, "It's only been two days, though."

"Smash Megatron," Grimlock corrected, considered that, and then clarified his priorities, "_First._"

The two newcomers laughed, and Magnus, who was about the same height as Grimlock, rested a hand on his shoulder in a companionable clap. "Oh, my brother must have blown multiple gaskets when he saw you, Grim. Where have you been?"

"Stasis lock. Don't know where I was. Here now. Ready to fight."

Ratchet explained briefly, "He came screaming out of orbit and into the lake here on base. We figure somebody sent him, but we don't know who. He's taken some processor damage, as you can doubtless hear, but it's mostly output. We're assuming his data processing will be as efficient as ever when everything's been repaired that can be."

Wheeljack chuckled, "Meaning he's still as dumb as a rock?"

"Not dumb," Grimlock snapped, sounding offended.

Magnus said, mildly, but in a voice that made the Sam both wince and grin on the new 'bots behalf, "Wheeljack, I would observe that Grim is not only not stupid, he's also a good bit bigger than you. If you pick a fight with him, not only will I not intervene, I will shoot video for everyone else to watch later."

"Me smash," Grimlock promised. "Good video."

Wheeljack subsided with a mutter.

Magnus turned to Bee, now, dropping down to one knee to be closer to him. "Ratchet, what is wrong with Bumblebee?"

"Severe lack of maintenance compounded by predacon claws," Ratchet said, sourly. He gestured at the scattered bits of parts on his work table. "If you have some coolant valves and a pump in with the supplies, I can get him up and running immediately."

Bumblebee pointed at his voicebox.

"Oh, yeah, and a voicebox." Ratchet, reminded of that longstanding problem, added, "Bee can't even play music at the moment."

"Music?"

"It's how he has been communicating."

The tall Autobot made a sighing sound very much like Optimus. "Bee, I am _sorry_. This should have been corrected long ago."

Magnus stood up and set his package on the work bench. It was a metal capsule the size of a coffin, slightly charred, with a lid held shut by recessed latches. He popped the lid open, revealing the box was heavily insulated, and, without comment, he handed Ratchet two packages off the top of the contents. Even Sam could identify the first item as a voicebox for Bee, since the outer part matched Bee's "mouth." The second appeared to be a plastic-wrapped bundle of about a dozen valves and a pump.

Ratchet, peering into the case, seemed delighted. "Magnus, you work miracles. You brought Grim's struts, too. Excellent. We fabricated some from steel and I was worried about them bending under combat conditions ..." Ratchet grabbed the human-made pump off the work bench and tossed it overhand into a garbage can. "I can see I'll be working all night!"

He sounded happy about the prospect of pulling an all-nighter.

"Optimus is not injured, then?" Magnus sounded profoundly relieved.

Ratchet made a snorting noise. "Optimus had the shit beat out of him two weeks ago, but I made a point of packing some extra parts for him that he didn't know about when we left Cybertron. If he had, he'd have made me replace them with items for the rest of the team ... but he's the damned _Prime _and he gets priority on some things, like it or not. We were rather limited for space and in a hurry when we left ..."

"Yes. Very good thinking, Ratchet."

"I didn't think you would disagree. Problem is, I'm running out of things now, and Optimus made me use some of his spares on Grimlock. And Grim, that means you'd _better _be nice to Optimus or you'll answer to _me_."

Grimlock's laugh was a low, amused, rumble. "Me, Grimlock, very afraid of Ratchet. Will remember that."

Magnus turned his attention to Sam, and Mikaela, who'd joined him. He addressed them directly, "By the presence of the two of you, and the soldiers, I assume that we are now openly allied with humans?"

"Yes, sir." Sam didn't know why he added the 'sir' -- he wouldn't have even said that to Optimus, at this point.

"My name," the 'bot said gently, "is Ultra Magnus. I am Optimus's brother, in that my people consider mechs created at the same time to be _brothers_. But I am not a leader of any great stature -- I am just a field commander -- and you do not need to address me with any title since you are civilians."

"Oh," Sam said, blinking. That meant this 'bot was also Megatron's brother. He could see the family resemblance to Optimus far more than he could to Megatron. They had the same natural dignity and rather similar designs. Also, he was keenly aware of the scorn that even many of the Autobots had towards organic life forms. Ultra Magnus's words had been pointedly direct and respectful.

* * *

The novelty of being able to speak directly to human heads of state was rapidly wearing off. Optimus, who had spent millenia as a 'head of state' himself, had spent far too much time in various committees to have any illusions about politicians. They were just people -- and tended to be more stubborn and aggravating than most. He was in a fairly bad mood as he drove from the main hanger, and its video conferencing equipment, to the repair bay.  
_  
Thank goodness America's finally got some decent leadership. I'll let _them _work on the Russians. _He'd about had it with certain foreign countries that were trying to turn this world's Decepticon problem into a political game, or, alternately, were trying to blame _other _countries for their problems. America seemed to be a popular target for blame, perhaps with some justification, but he failed to see how any reasonable person could think that the United States was responsible for an invasion of aliens from outer space. The answer, of course, was that they were being unreasonable. And he was all too familiar with unreasonable politicians.

_Well, _he recalled, _America did try to keep Megatron on ice for years. If they'd just shot him into their sun they wouldn't be in this fix. For that matter, if _I _had properly calculated Megatron's ability to rise from the dead and launched him into his world's sun we would not be in this fix. We would be dealing with Starscream. Starscream, I can handle myself. _

The Russians had a Decepticon base in Siberia. Nobody was disputing this. The Russians had snuck close enough to get good pictures of multiple 'bots, including Starscream and Scorponok -- pictures they had only grudgingly shared, and then only when Optimus had promised to provide information about the capabilities of the mechs they were facing. They had not been thrilled with the files Optimus had e-mailed over after seeing the images, and had promptly accused him of exaggerating the abilities of his enemy to make his own failures look better. They hadn't even been polite about it.

Optimus wanted to wait until he'd had a chance to pick off multiple Decepticon leaders, then lead a joint force of several country's soldiers on a strike against that base. The Russians wanted the base gone _now _and were insisting that they would do it themselves. Optimus knew that might result in the loss of thousands, even tens of thousands, of human lives.

_That base is probably their center of operations. It will be very well defended and I would only be sending my soldiers to their deaths were I to attack it now. However, if the Russians try to take it without our help, not only will they lose -- and badly -- Megatron will likely move it._

When he'd pointed out that Megatron would probably just relocate the base after an attack, and that they would then need to find it again, the Russians had responded that if this resulted in the base being moved to another country then the Decepticons would no longer be their problem. Optimus had not been shocked by that response, but he had been frustrated.

One of the president's advisors had observed to him earlier that afternoon that, "It could be worse. They could have set up camp in North Korea."

And another advisor had added, "Or Cuba."

He was growing politically savvy enough to see the humor in those statements, but had not laughed. This was not a joking matter. Though it was heartening to know that at least some of the officials he was working with had decided that he was 'human enough' to joke with.

There were, indeed, a few bright spots in the whole political mess -- the US president clearly got the big picture, and was replacing his incompetent subordinates with alacrity. He'd inherited quite a few problems from the previous administration, including the official who'd made their lives difficult two weeks ago. That man reportedly was gone, and would not be plaguing him again.

As he approached the repair bay he transformed, as the doors were shut and they had deliberately disabled the remote opener until they could install something that was hack-proof. He didn't want the doors accidentally or deliberately opened by unfriendly forces who might see things they shouldn't. And speaking of secrets, he assumed that Grimlock was inside. However, when he pushed the Autobot-sized button high on the wall that opened the roll-up front door, he heard a familiar voice over the sound of the door's rattling chain: "... Are you _sure _you don't want me to upgrade your pulse cannon?"

_Wheeljack_, Optimus said, mood lightening considerably. _Wheeljack is here._

He ducked under the half-open door and hit the switch on the wall inside to reverse it in its tracks.

Bumblebee was on his feet again, though he was still minus an arm. Optimus felt a bit of tension leave him at that sight -- Bee seemed to be alert and aware, and back to normal mentally. He also had a shiny new "Camaro bumper" across his chest that was not yet colored to match the rest of his body. Likely, he'd fix the paint after he fixed his arm ...

Bee's arm was in pieces on the work bench. Mikaela, Ratchet, and Bumblebee were all around the table with him. Bee appeared to be trying to remove the aforementioned gun for service.

"Welcome to Earth," he told Wheeljack, happily.

"Hey, Big Boss. Ratchet has been filling us in," Wheeljack said, "looks like you've got a big mess. The rest of the team will be down in a few weeks -- sooner, if you need them earlier -- but we thought we'd take the usual short cut and deliver some of the supplies you've been yelling for."

"That," Optimus said, fervently, "is very much appreciated. However, who is 'we'?"

"Oh." Wheeljack pointed behind Optimus, just as Optimus heard the doors open again. "Them."

Optimus turned around, half expecting to see another one of his 'bots. Instead, an electric blue Mack truck rolled under the door, followed by a fire engine red Porsche. Mikaela followed both of them on foot, and shut the door again. She then climbed up the running boards of the truck, opened the door, retrieved a pizza box from the front seat, then stepped back as the truck transformed.

"Ultra Magnus ..." Optimus said, in stunned disbelief. The Porsche stood up, revealing a 'bot he was nearly as glad to see as his brother. "Hot Rod!"

"You said you needed help," his brother -- his _other _brother, the one who he loved with all his spark, the one he loved as much as he hated Megatron these days -- said diffidently. "And I didn't have any other pressing engagements ..."

Optimus laughed, disbelief merging with delight, "Aren't you three supposed to be on Nieryl Six's moon, fighting predacons?"

"We won," Ultra Magnus said, no bragging in this, just simple statement of fact. "The moon is secure, and its energon with it, and ..."

_... and he did that in half the time I expected. In fact, I was concerned I was sending my own brother to a fight that could result in his own death, and the deaths of many Autobots, but we needed that moon so very badly. We cannot fight if we do not have energon._

"... we didn't lose anybody this time, either," Magnus sounded simply relieved. He probably had no idea how this made him look in Optimus's eyes. He added, "The rest of my men are on the supply ship. And enough energon to last you for a couple centuries."

Optimus brightened even more at that. "You have brought them all here?"

"Well, you _have _been yelling for help for over a year," Magnus said, mildly. "They let me come when I insisted."

_Translation: He pulled in some political favors. Magnus, I think you just turned the tide of the war. _

Magnus's men were a hardened group of old warriors, veterans of a hundred battles, hand-picked by Optimus for Magnus's elite guard. Not that Magnus would ever admit that his men were 'elite', just like he refused to believe he was anything special as a leader. He insisted he was just another Autobot who'd answered the call to serve, and he was the first to claim he was no great leader. It was his brothers who were the leaders ... Magnus had always followed their orders. Though, when things had turned so terribly wrong, he had been among the first to turn his back on Megatron.

Yes, Optimus's bad mood was well and truly reversing itself.

* * *

The last time Optimus had seen Magnus had been a hundreds of years, several hundred light years, and four or five major battles ago.

Optimus watched, as they stepped out into the open, and was not surprised when his brother gave the horizon, the sky, and their general surroundings a quick scan. That was pure battle-hardened reflex, born of real combat experience. Magnus might claim he was no leader, and might resist any responsibility greater than the twenty-six 'bots in his squad, but Magnus was _all _soldier.

"First time I've ever been on an inhabited world other than Cybertron," Magnus said, watching humans in a Humvee pass with obvious fascination. The human soldiers returned his look with real curiosity -- he was a new Autobot, and there hadn't been time yet for introductions to be made, much less for the novelty to wear off. Optimus noted with satisfaction that there was no _fear _on any of the humans' faces. Magnus continued, "It's all been airless moons and lifeless worlds ... I think I prefer it that way, though. Nobody gets hurt if you blow half a hemisphere of lifeless rock up trying to root out a Decepticon base. This will be very complicated."

"Mm." Optimus could agree with that, and he suspected Magnus would quickly grasp the political end as well as the logistical problems. Even though Magnus had pointedly avoided political games whenever he could, he was good at them. _I am not a leader_, he would claim, _Others are better at it. Let them lead. Fewer will die, and more battles we will win._

It was funny, really. Optimus had been designed as a laborer, and had become Prime. Magnus, who had been meant from the beginning to be an elite commander, was a reluctant and frustratingly diffident mech when it came to leadership. That he was commanding at all now said volumes of _his _personal beliefs. In happier times, so long ago it was hard to imagine the passage of years, Megatron had teased them that there'd been a mistake: that their Sparks had been swapped at conception. Optimus should have been the warrior, Magnus the civilian, and both of them would have been quite happy in their respective roles. Though Prime had a hard time imagining Magnus not being a soldier.

_Willingly leading, on the other hand ... _

"You are right about these people," Magnus said, in their native language. "They are delightful. The girl, Mikaela -- she peppered me with questions non-stop the entire way on our trip. She's worse than Bluestreak -- I have to _answer_! And she is so fearless, she climbed right into my cab without hesitation."

Optimus laughed. Mikaela had probably decided Magnus was safe because Bee and Ratchet liked him, and, well, it was Magnus. Ironhide claimed that Megatron had been late when they were handing out charisma to the newborn sparks, so his other two brothers had shared Megatron's portion between them ... giving each of them half again their normal share. "She's not normally like that at all. But allow me a guess: she was asking about _our _history, yes?"

Magnus nodded acknowledgment of that. "Yes. She seems to be fascinated by us. I did not think I was giving her any sensitive information by telling her some details of our shared personal history, was I? She was not even aware that you were once co-ruler of Cybertron with Megatron."

Optimus said, "I see no reason to restrict what they know of our general history, and, truly, our personal lives. In most cases she has simply not asked, and I have seen no reason to volunteer, the data. However, please be careful what you tell them about our science. This world is a long way from ready ..."

"Got that," Magnus held a hand up, stopping Optimus. "I've been processing quite a bit of their recent history. Messy, isn't it?"

"Quite."

"How much have you had to deal with the differing governments, and their individual factions ...?" Magnus's question made Optimus relax a bit. Magnus might profess not to be a leader, but on Cybertron, he had posessed a remarkable ability to analyze political problems and come up with pragmatic solutions. Had he even remotely been interested, Optimus would have made him one of his closest advisors. But Magnus had never been interested, or, at least, never confident enough in his own abilities to volunteer.

"Far too much," Optimus said, allowing some of his reserve to slip. "Come. Let us find a secure place to talk. I'd like your input on a few things ..."


	11. Chapter 11

"Hey, babe!" Wheelie greeted Mikaela with a cheerful, lecherous leer as she walked towards yellow Camaro. He was seated on Bumblebee's hood with what appeared to be a Gameboy in his hands -- Optimus still had not allowed Wheelie to be fitted with a cell card or retrofitted for Autobot radio frequencies. If he wanted to play games, he had to do it the old fashioned way rather than hooking into the base's wireless network.

Bee was parked outside the hanger, for reasons that weren't completely clear, but possibly were as simple as a gorgeous sunset.

Bumblebee made a throat-clearing noise.

"I'm just saying hello, so chill your jets!" Wheelie thumped the hood with a small fist. "Geeze. Make one mistake and everyone thinks I'm a pervert."

"You _are _a perverted little monster," Mikaela told him. She patted him on the head as she passed, a gesture that earned her a snarl. "And if you scratch Bee's paint, I will personally make you buff it out. -- Bee, Ratchet's doing some repairs on my ride that are going to take until tomorrow. Optimus said to ask you for a lift home, and to have you spend the night. Sam's staying the night here because Ratchet might need some help."

"You're not staying?"

She shook her head. "I've called the shop a couple of times and nobody's answering. I figure my father didn't open up this morning, and I'm going to go kick his ass. He came home _late_ last night, like almost morning, and he probably had a horrible hangover, but damnit, that's our income and it's my day off -- we're open on Saturdays too."

Wheelie let himself into the passenger side of the Camaro, and asked, "Babe, why do you put up with him? What's in it for _you_, aside from a whole bunch of verbal abuse and disappointment?"

"Honestly?" Mikaela buckled the seatbelt, then glanced over at him. She hadn't been expecting the question to come from Wheelie. Bumblebee, yes. But Wheelie? Still, her aggravation spurred an honest answer. "I really don't know."

"Me, I got tired of the abuse and let downs. Decepticons made me, but they didn't treat me right, and they didn't like me, and they did bad things to people." Wheelie shrugged. "Joined the Autobots. Made more sense. Seems like your Dad's kindof like a Decepticon: he's a criminal who's treating you like a jerk, and he probably doesn't love you."

"He loves me," she said, a bit angrily. "He just doesn't show it very well."

"What's the point of love, if you don't _show _it?" Wheelie slumped in the seat. He sounded a bit grumpy -- more than usual.

"What's the matter with _you_?" She glanced over at him. His tone was unusually sour.

"Babe, I hate my life." He folded his arms, and glanced up at her. "The twins just spent the last two hours telling me that I put Optimus in danger on that last mission, and that I was a failure for ..."

Bumblebee interrupted, "What the twins said had some credence, Wheelie. You _did _put Optimus in danger."

She could have kicked Bumblebee for that. It wasn't necessary, was it?

"Maybe I shouldn't be an Autobot at all." He sounded bitter, and angry, and sad, all at once. "I'm not good at it. I'm not _designed _for it. I'm just an useless little salvage drone ..."

"Bullshit." Mikaela caught one of his hands in hers. His long, multiply articulated fingers were half the size of her own. "Study Autobot medicine. _That _they could use you for."

"I ..." Wheelie blinked at her. He pulled his hand back and looked down at it.

"They're using me and Sam as extra hands because every single 'bot here is a big, hunking humongous soldier. Doc is the smallest, and his hands are twice the size of mine. _You _can reach places nobody else could."

"She has a point," Bee said, "That's something we could use. I've heard Ratchet cussing and swearing all sorts of times because he couldn't get at somebody's damaged parts without dismantling half their other parts."

"I'll think about it," Wheelie said. "Doesn't change the fact everybody hates me."

"We don't hate you," Bee said. "We just don't trust you."

"Optimus trusts me," he said, in a tone that had a bit of 'nyah-nyah-nyah' in it.

"Optimus is the last Prime," Bee replied, shortly, "We can't trust you _because _of that. If anything happens to Optimus, it is the end of everything ..."

This discussion had a real possibility of going south in a hurry. Mikaela asked, in an effort to change the subject, "Bumblebee, I've heard Autobots say that before. What exactly is a Prime?"

Bee took a long time in answering, and finally, it was Wheelie who spoke up and said, "A prime has a special doohickey called a Matrix of Leadership that all the Autobot leaders carry around with 'em. It gives them all sorts of extra powers and stuff, and maybe even lets 'em make new little Autobots ... Optimus's is the last one, the rest have all been destroyed."

Bumblebee's voice was taut with upset when he spoke up, "Wheelie, that's sensitive information."

"I'm _not _going to tell anyone ..." Now it was her turn to have her feelings hurt.

"I know, Mikaela." Bee's voice was sympathetic. "But it's orders, and Optimus just confirmed them now. He says he trusts you implicitly, but he does not trust humankind as a whole, and ... you are mortal, Mikaela. You have weaknesses. If, perhaps, you had to chose between Sam's life, and our secrets, what choice would you make? We would prefer that you never need to make that decision to begin with and the easiest way to do that is to avoid telling you things that human governments may wish to know, simply to satisfy your curiosity."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry," Bee repeated, sounding upset, perhaps because _she _was upset.

"It's okay, Bee. I understand." And she did. He cared about her, but he had bigger responsibilities and more important priorities, too.

After a minute, he started playing music -- his music, that soaring, alien melody. She settled back into the seat, and let him drive. Wheelie, too, had nothing more to say.

* * *

She dozed off well before her home, rocked to sleep by Bee's smooth driving and his music. His seats were comfortable, the air conditioning just right, and she'd had a long few days. Weeks, actually.

"Mikaela," Bee's voice woke her, and the alarm in it made her frantically blink her eyes open, and look around to orient herself. She'd been _deeply _asleep, and normally, Bee had a tendency to just park, tint the windows dark, and let her snooze when that happened. His seats were as comfortable as her own bed and she'd woken up in the morning in the Camaro several times. But he sounded ... upset.

The first thing she saw was a row of flashing red and blue lights: police cars. Three of them. Plus an ambulance, and a couple other vehicles. A wreck?

And then she realized she was in front of the shop. And she fuzzily thought the cops had been waiting for her, on account of "her" mustang and the "accident" and car chase earlier, and maybe Optimus and Lennox hadn't ironed things over as smoothly as she'd thought. Was she going to be arrested? Oh, what a hassle that was going to be ... _Gee, officer, it wasn't me, it was my car that did it ... no, you can't talk to him because he's a super-secret weapon against Megatron ..._

But there was also, God, a coroner's vehicle: it said "coroner" on the side.

She bailed out of the Camaro in the middle of the road when Bee was delayed by a slow-moving truck, ran for the door of the shop, and was intercepted by a policeman. Bee followed her as soon as traffic cleared, rolling silently without making engine noises. Multiple officers stared at the driverless car.

"Ma'am," the cop who stopped her asked, "do you work here?"

"I live here -- I'm the owner -- who -- what -- what happened?"

His face told the story when he asked in a queerly reserved voice, "You are Mikaela Banes?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's me -- oh, God, was it Decepticons?"

"Huh?" the officer said. Unless he'd been living in a box he'd seen the news, but the question clearly put him off balance. Her name hadn't been widely reported, she remembered belatedly -- Sam had insisted on that, and other than a few mentions on some gossip blogs, nobody knew of _her _association with the 'bots. Though, hysterically, she realized the cops were putting two and two together -- the Decepticon comment and the driverless yet moving car -- and slowly backing away from Bumblebee. Bee stopped behind her at the entrance to the shop's garage, his bumper an inch from her calves, his tail end blocking traffic. Suddenly, she heard a gasp from the men and figured Wheelie had peeked out.

The officer in question, who was older and appeared to be in charge, gave Bee -- and, likely, his robotic passenger -- a long, wary look, then he shook his head, and said, "It was a man named Archie Smith."

"Oh, _God_." She hated Archie. He was one of her father's less savory buddies -- a fence and a petty drug dealer who'd lately developed a nasty meth habit. Her father used him as a lookout sometimes when he jacked cars.

"I'm very sorry. It was instant -- Archie used your father's shotgun, according to witnesses. He managed to wrestle it from him." The man tried to put a hand on her shoulder and she stepped back, not wanting anyone to touch her, and ran into Bee's shiny new bumper and stumbled, caught herself on his hood, stood back up. This wasn't happening. This wasn't real. She could deal with Decepticons a _hell _of a lot better than she could deal with this ...

Bee rolled a foot backwards and then transformed behind her, just as the full importance of the man's words struck. Not her father's shotgun, but _hers_. The multiple cops outside the auto shop backed up, dove for cover, reached for weapons. Only the sergeant in front of her stood his ground, and he was frozen with one hand three inches above his Glock.

With an absolutely hysterical giggle, she said, "Please don't shoot Bumblebee, he's the one consistently sane thing in my life."

Bee's enormous hand descended to her shoulders, infinitely and impossibly gentle. The spectators, civilian and cop alike, gasped and flinched in fear for her. She ignored that. A moment ago she had not wanted to be touched. Now she leaned against his palm, glad for the contact, the support. It was amazing that a robot who could throw his enemy through block walls could also touch her with such care that she merely felt the gentlest brush of his hand.

Bee added on to her warning to the officer, sounding rather concerned, "More to the point, if you shoot at me there will be ricochets, and someone might get hurt. It would be an unprovoked attack, too. I am simply standing here with a friend who apparently just lost her Dad."

His words were confirmation that she'd heard correctly. Her throat seemed so tight she couldn't breath through it.

"... big damn guns," the cop muttered, eyes fixated on Bee's forearms, which were bristling with his usual assortment of weapons.

"Yes," Bee agreed, "I have big damn enemies. -- Mikaela, I am very and truly sorry about this."

He crouched behind her, hand still on her back, and asked the cop, "Does she need to give a statement?"

"Um, yeah ... and there's some information we need to give her ..." the cop shook his head, as if trying to shake his rattled thoughts back into order. "Umm. Yeah. I guess we can give her a ride to the station and take a statement there ..."

"I will drive her," Bee said.

"Actually, we would rather take her ..." the sergeant started to say, to her, then trailed off. Even though Bee had crouched down his head was still a couple feet above any human's.

Mikaela giggled, that insane note touching her voice again. She wasn't sure why she was laughing. Shouldn't she be crying? She honestly wasn't sure what emotion she was feeling, though, except vast confusion. She said, clearly, "Oh, no. I'm staying with Bee. Thanks."

"Is she under any legal suspicion for any reason at all?" Bee asked, fingers tightening very slightly against her arm. If the man said yes, she wondered, was Bee preparing to grab her and run, or was he just trying to communicate support with that touch?

The cop shook his head. "No ... not right now. Ms. Banes, you just opened this shop, right?"

"Two months ago, yeah. It took me forever to earn the money for all the tools I needed. I worked a fast food job starting my senior year of high school, after work, every day ..." she was babbling, realized it, and stopped before she got into the aggravating difficulties she'd had keeping that bank account secret from the rest of her relatives, including the aunt she'd been staying with, since she'd been a minor when she opened it. The spending spree when she'd bought everything had been glorious, though, even if most of her stuff was purchased used and second-hand from Craigslist.

Her father was dead. Gone. _Dead_.

All she could feel was numb.

_He promised he'd stick around, this time. That he'd do right by me. That he was going to go clean, that he was going to get off the alcohol and drugs, and that he was going to _be there _for me. Now he never will ... now he'll never keep those promises, ever._

Bee said quietly, "I drove her to the job, officer, most days after school. I've been their friend and her boyfriend's primary bodyguard for over a year. I also helped her pick up many of the tools. She's telling the truth."

_Oh, shit, the officer thinks my tools might be hot, because my father's got such a record as a thief. _

The cop frowned at her, "Some of the serial numbers on your tools are filed off. Looked like somebody just did that today, actually -- there was a grinder out on a bench and a pile of equipment next to it."

"No, no, none of my stuff was hot ..." she said, immediately, staring at him incredulously. She'd been _careful_. She had even kept the receipts and made sure they were itemized and had the previous owner's name on them. She'd bought the entire contents of a man's shop at an estate sale, that was the bulk of her hand tools and a few things like drill presses and air compressors and some electronics. The rest of the purchases had been equally unlikely to be stolen. She knew how thieves operated; she knew how to avoid problems. She'd made a _point _of being careful and legal with her purchases at least partly because her father wasn't.

Bee's hand tightened a little more. Not uncomfortably, but in clear support.

"That _son of a bitch_!" The truth hit her. Rage. Fury. At a dead man. He'd been filing serial numbers off, not because he'd purchased stolen goods, but because he intended to steal and sell hers. It had not been the first time he'd stolen something from her -- though, apparently, it would be the last. "That asshole!" It was one thing to swipe fifty bucks from the till, but quite another to sell her livelihood, and that _asshole_, she knew, she _knew _that was what he'd been doing.

What, had Archie objected? Had Archie tried to horn in on the deal? Had the argument that had led to the shooting been about something else? She might never know. Perhaps it didn't matter.

The cop blinked at her. Bee's hand withdrew, and he said, "Mikaela?" in a questioning tone of voice.

"Leave me alone," she ducked away from both of them, from the cop and from the robot who was one of her best friends, and intended to run for the stairs to her apartment. "Everyone, just leave me alone!"

Except Bee grabbed her, before she could run, in a smooth, controlled motion that was so calm and non-aggressive that the cop didn't even react. He simply reached out, put a hand in front of her, and another behind her, and said, "Don't. They will think you have something to hide, and you do not."

She turned to him, aware that tears were sliding down her cheeks, and said in a voice that broke and quavered, "But ... but why did he have to be ... why did he have to be such a _._.. loser?"

"I'm sorry he was," he said.

She wanted to run. She wanted to hide from the world, she didn't want anyone to know how awful her father had really been. He'd been planning on _robbing _his own daughter, she knew it, she knew it with the same conviction that she had for the sun rising in the east, the sky being blue, and the grass green. It was totally and perfectly in character and _he had promised he was going to do better_.

"I'm better off without him, anyway," she said, savagely, not caring how it made her look in front of the cop.

"Mikaela, shush," Bee said.

"Don't shush me!" She punched his chest, slamming her fist into the car bumper that occupied the space that would have been pecs on a human. Bee flinched back, undoubtedly more startled than hurt. "Don't shush me, Bee! He was a God-damned loser and he was filing those serial numbers off because he wanted to rob me and everyone _always _screws me over in the end and ..."

"Mikaela, be quiet," he repeated. And when she hit him again, as hard as she could, he caught her wrist in concern and said, "Don't hurt yourself. -- Officer, if you will give us several minutes ..."

She didn't hear what the officer said. Perhaps he'd replied with silence. She didn't care. Bee wasn't letting her flee, and she wanted to _run_, and it was making her furious. She kicked him as hard as she could, booted foot striking Bumblebee's knee with full force. She might as well have been kicking a block wall, and that made it even worse. She wanted to _hurt _him. She wanted him to go away too. Everyone needed to go away and leave her alone!

"Mikaela, stop this," he said, "you are going to injure yourself."

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" She beat on him with her fists.

And he just stayed there, not moving, as she flailed at him. "Fuck you! Go away! Everyone just go away!"

"I will not go away," Bee said, quietly, his words cutting through her rage and grief like razor-sharp knife. It was nearly physically painful to hear that, she didn't _want _to hear that ... she didn't want to _believe _it. "Mikaela, please. You need to calm yourself."

"Thank God she doesn't have a chain saw!" That was Wheelie's voice. "We'd all be in trouble."

Bumblebee, turned his head, and snarled down at the little mech, "_Get the fuck lost, Wheelie._"

Bee's real rage -- the anger he had not shown towards her -- startled her. She took a deep, gasping breath and tried to step back again, tried to wriggle out of Bumblebee's hands. Bee's tone of voice had been downright frightening. She didn't know how Wheelie had reacted. She hoped he'd run away. Bee sounded like he was ready to blast the mech into small bits.

"Mikaela," he said, calm returning. He just wouldn't let go of her. He wasn't hurting her, but his hands were closed around her hips like a vise. "Mikaela, you _must calm yourself. _You can beat me until your hands are bloody later, but I need you to take a big breath and get control for the moment."

She shook her head, "I can't! I can't!"

Suddenly, he hoisted her off the ground, and held her against his shoulder, impossibly gentle, irresistibly strong. She ended up sitting on the top of his forearm-mounted cannon, hands grabbing at the top of the Camaro bumper in pure reflex. His other hand held her in place, across her back. She realized Bee was walking when he swayed dizzyingly and bounced with every stride and she heard the clank of metal against pavement and the whirr and click of servos and hydraulics -- he was crossing the street, clearly looking for a moment of privacy with her. Unsurprisingly, given that he stood well over twice the height of any human, nobody followed. Over his shoulder she could see them behind him, staring after them with dumbfounded shock.

He set her down on the edge of the roof of one-story building across the street, and he kept a hand across her legs to stop her from potentially fleeing. In a firm, dead-serious tone, he said shortly, "You will stop this _now_."

She blinked at him. She'd expected platitudes and gentle words and a useless attempt to sooth away her tears. He didn't sound mad, nor did he sound particularly sympathetic. He just sounded commanding.

"He's dead." Shouldn't that be a pretty good excuse for a total meltdown?

"Do not make more of a scene now, Mikaela. We are being filmed, currently, by multiple cell phone cameras and at least one quality camcorder with a zoom lense. I would suggest that you compose yourself unless you wish to be a bigger spectacle than you already are." His words were grimly serious, and she blinked. She hadn't even noticed the cameras among the growing crowd. "I need you to return to the police and allow them to ask you questions. You will answer those questions calmly and clearly. I am not going to go _anywhere_, and, in fact, I will be recording the conversation you have with them even if it means that they must take your statement in the police station garage."

"I ..." she stared at him. She couldn't quite believe he was speaking to her in that tone, given the circumstances. It felt like one more betrayal.

He lifted a hand up, to brush her hair back from her tear-streaked cheek with one metal finger. She'd once seen him demonstrate just how sensitive his hands were by picking an egg up without breaking it. His touch was that light, now. "I am sorry about your father, Mikaela."

"He was an asshole anyway."

"I'm sorry about that, too." Bee hesitated, showing a bit of uncertainty for the first time. He looked down, then back up at her -- the level of her eyes was a few inches above his, an unusual view for both of them. "Mikaela, you are already forgiven for striking me. I am well aware that your anger was directed at your father, not at me, and I was a safe target for your rage, in many more ways than one."

Her grief threatened to choke her. She shook her head mutely, though she didn't know what she was actually denying when she did so.

"Breathe."

She did, forcing herself to draw air into her lungs. The terrible drowning sensation faded a little, though her chest was in such a knot that she felt her heart might simply stop beating.

"Good. Now, we are going to go back to the police and you will be calm, and you will not make a scene." He reached up and lifted her down from the roof. Her hand was lost in his, but he reached out and held it and led her back across the street as if she was a small child.

She wasn't ready to talk, but Bee said firmly to the officer, "I believe she can answer your questions now, if you will give me directions to the station."

"Err." The officer was staring up at Bee, who was not crouching this time. "Miss, is he really your friend?"

"Oh." She blinked, and it suddenly occurred to her that she probably would have killed Bee -- she _would _have found a way -- if he'd tried to sooth her with gentle words and murmured sympathy. "Yeah. Yeah, he is. I ..." She let all the air in her lungs out in a long, shuddering sigh. "Let's get this over with, I guess. Where do we need to go?"

* * * * *

"Thank you," she said, much later, hours later. Bee nodded briefly, in quiet acknowledgment. It was late -- or early, depending on one's perspective -- and he was sitting down on the roof of a parking garage.

"Sam's ten minutes away," he said.

"Oh, God." She stood beside him and rested her head against his arm. She could hear something humming in that cold, hard limb, and his body gave off small clicks and vibrations and tiny movements, much the same way a human might have a pulse and gentle breathing. "I'm not sure if I can deal with Sam too."

She didn't want to talk about her father, and Bee wasn't asking questions. Sam would, though. He would try to be sensitive and loving and kind, and all those things that made him _Sam_, and all those things that made him so unlike the men she'd known all her short life. And his questions and sympathy and love would make her skin crawl in uneasy reaction to that well-meant caring.

"Sam loves you," Bee said, quietly, calmly. Not once in the entire night had he lost his composure. She wanted to know how he managed to do that -- though she suspected tens of thousands of years of life experience must have something to do with that relative unflappability. It was possible to rattle Bee, but it took effort. Bee continued, "And yes, I suspect he will fuss over you and fuss _at _you, and ask half a dozen times an hour if you are okay, but he will do this because he loves you and he is worried about you. ."

"Bee?"

"Yes, Mikaela?"

"Are you ever going to go home to Cybertron? If the war ends? Or if the fighting takes you off planet, what about then? Will you leave us?"

"Many people have broken your heart, Mikaela." He said this very soberly, and very seriously. "I cannot guarantee that I will always be here. I could die, or this battle could move on to another world, as you are well aware. But I promise you this: I will _always _be your friend, and I will never make a promise to you that I cannot keep. Do you understand?"

"He was such an asshole," she said, meaning her father. "I'm so angry at him. I should forgive him, shouldn't I? He's dead."

"Forgiveness is for the benefit of the living," Bee said. "It doesn't really matter much to the dead what the living think."

"Tell me about Autobot religion?" She wasn't sure why she asked the question, much less if Bee would give her any sort of an answer. That subject verged perilously close to topics which the 'bots didn't discuss.

His laugh was a soft, chuffing noise. "There's not all that much to tell. We're computers. We analyze and quantify, prove theorems and establish facts."

"So you don't actually have a religion?" That was both a bit disappointing and a bit surprising to her.

His response clarified matters. "We believe in something very similar to your God, or Gods, and I would note that there is not much difference between believing in multiple Gods, or believing in one God with multiple abilities and multiple aspects, from a practical standpoint." He shrugged, his arm moving slightly up and down where she was leaning against it. "We _know _souls exist, though we call them sparks. At some point in the distant past, someone, likely someone _organic _figured out how to put a spark -- a soul -- into a robot's body. I believe you have seen mine when you were helping to repair me ... "

He continued, in a conversational tone, "We know there is an afterlife -- I believe that Sam could verify _that _fact. There is very little else to tell. Our beliefs are not dissimilar to humans, though they are not nearly as complicated. Nor are they the subject of much debate amongst my people, not as religion is amongst humans. If you were to ask Megatron what he believed in, his answer would be very similar to mine. It's seen as fact, and is not open to much question, really."

"So your faith is very strong."

"Yes, I suppose you could say it is." He fell silent, and she wondered if he was talking to someone else over cell phone or radio frequencies, but then he said, "Mikaela, I can promise you and Sam this: if the war ends, and I am not needed, I will not leave Earth while you are both living. I care about you both very much."

"You have other friends, though." Somehow, she knew this was fact. Bee, with his warm heart and gentle soul, probably had many, many people who loved him dearly.

His voice held a smile. "Oh, yes. But they have lives measured in many millenia. They can wait one human lifetime."

"What if Sam and I break up?" She wanted to know. Surely, Bee would side with Sam. There was no doubt, she thought, who his favorite human was.

"I would hope that it would be an amicable parting," he said, without sounding at all upset by the question, "so that I would not need to split my time between the two of you. It would be annoying if I could not have both of you in the same room together. Also -- Sam loves you with all his heart, Mikaela."

"Are you ever jealous of Sam?" Sometimes she wondered about that. "Or ... or of _me_?"

"Should I be?" He blinked down at her, clearly a bit surprised by the question. It was the first time she'd managed to put him off balance all night. Then he shook his head, and murmured, as he figured out what had generated it, "Of course ... Mikaela, Autobots do not think like that, precisely. If you were to spend all your time with Sam, exclusively, to the point where you never had a moment to spare for me I would be hurt, of course. I would think that there was something wrong with me, that I had somehow lost your friendship because you did not want to spend time with me."

He hesitated, then he added, "But humans as a general rule form binary pairs due to ingrained, genetically based biological imperatives to reproduce, and Autobots, by inclination, form small groups of tight-knit friends, usually between two and four, and sometimes but not always siblings. Those small groups are generally inseperable, and there is _no _jealousy among the members if they are all mentally healthy. Though you might ask Optimus what happens when one of the group is no longer sane ..."

"That's a difference between us."

He nodded. "Not an insurmountable one, however. I will be your friend -- a good friend, to both of you -- for as long as you will have me, which could very well be your entire lives. There is certainly room in the way that humans relate to each other for that sort of friend, as long as we communicate well with each other."

"I ..." she buried her face in his arm. "Why? Why do you like me so much?"

He rubbed her back with his other hand, fingers barely rumpling her shirt. "Mikaela, why do you like me?"

"You're cool!" Her reaction was instant. How could you not like Bee?

His chuckle was soft, but made her look up at him. His blue eyes gleamed in the darkness, and he said, "Did it ever occur to you that I feel the same way about you and Sam? Mikaela, you hooked me to a tow truck when I was injured in battle and drove me back into the fight and that action was the decisive one. That let us win. And just two days ago, you reacted not with horror but with, 'oh, how does that work?' when I was injured -- something even many 'bots would not do. I much prefer the 'how does that work' reaction, I tell you. I'd had quite enough of horrified sympathy by that point. Mikaela, Wheelie calls you a Warrior Goddess, and I think that's accurate."

He shook his head, "But by the same token, you're an incredibly caring and empathetic person. You treat me like a person, something Sam doesn't always remember to do yet. Most humans either see us as monsters or computers on legs. You consistently remember we are _people_, with emotions and personal needs. We've all noticed that about you, Mikaela. Do not think that we have not."

She nodded. "I'm sorry for ... earlier ..."

"As I said, you are already forgiven."

"He really was an awful father." She sat down next to him, tucked her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. "I kept hoping he'd be a better Dad, and he never was."

Bee rested a hand on her shoulders, and sat there in silence. He didn't offer any silly, inane sympathy. She didn't want to hear that, anyway. He was just _there_.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's note: In the movie in my head, Leonard Nimoy is voicing Fangface -- Fang is a good bit more animated than Spock, but that warm, rough voice -- oh, yeah. That's totally and completely Fangface. Think of Nimoy when he's doing a speaking gig or a con appearance and being really funny.

* * * * *

Wheelie angrily kicked at a empty plastic soda bottle, sending it skittering and bouncing down an alley. "I was trying to _help_!" he told no one in particular, with real anger. "I hate them. I _hate _them. Slag you anyway, Bumblebee!"

He was alone. It was dark. It was a long, long, _long _way to the Autobot base. Wheelie was fast, but he lived in terror of human cars -- zipping down the freeway in RC car mode just seemed like a prescription to get flattened, his spark chamber burst like a balloon, and the end of Wheelie!

_And I don't know how to get there without following the freeways anyway. I don't have a slagging map! What am I supposed to do, go to a library and use Google there? 'Hi everyone, don't mind the midget robot ...' Ratchet wouldn't give me a damned aircard. Shit, he wouldn't even install a com-card for Autobot frequencies. I can't even scream for help until my energon runs out. I can't even use a _pay _phone ... and even if I did, nobody's given me their cell numbers!_

Fuck them, anyway. Fuck all _of them._

He kicked the soda bottle again.

He had no idea where Bee and Mikaela had gone. The shop was still crawling with police, and judging by the way they'd reacted to Bee, which was to reach for their guns, he had no illusions about waiting at the shop for Mikaela. Bee might be well armored enough to view small arms fire as merely a hazard to the humans around him, but Wheelie's knew his spark might as well have been wrapped in tin foil for all that he had any protection from projectile weapons. They could kill him, and easily ...

Maybe in a day or two he might return to the shop, but right now they were turning both the shop and the surrounding terrain inside out looking for evidence. A couple of unfortunate policemen had been picking through the contents of a Dumpster when he'd left. He suspected that they would be there for days, on and off.

_Where in the slagging hells am I supposed to _go_?_

It was really his worst nightmare. He had _no one_ -- absolutely no one -- he could turn to.

And then, with crushing force, a large metallic paw slammed down on top of him. It drove him into the ground so hard that he felt his struts bend. "Gotcha!" A rough, deep voice growled in his ear.

He screamed, "Let me go, you son-of-a-sparkless-drone! Slag you! Slag you to the Quintesson hells!"

Much to his shock, the paw lifted up. He cringed, expecting a killing blow, and when it didn't come he _bolted_ -- heading for cover as fast as he could. There was an small basement window across the alley and he figured he could dive headfirst through the glass ... if he hit it hard enough, the panes might break. Maybe. He weighed all of a couple of ten pounds and was halfway expecting just to bounce off.

He didn't get to find out if his mass could trump the strength of the glass. Suddenly, there was a foot in his way. He ran into the foot at full throttle, flipped end over end, and hit the building's wall so hard he was knocked silly as his systems reset themselves.

When he could see and think again, he realized he was face down in a puddle and something was sniffing his back. Puffs of air washed across his body as the mech used an olfactory sensor to give him a good once-over.

"Fuck you," he said, in English, expecting to be killed. The paws on either side of his head were armed with silvery blades and powerful-looking pistons attached to long "boney" fulcrums. This mech could probably rip any of the Autobots' armor open like a can opener. He didn't need claws to kill Wheelie -- he could kill Wheelie simply by stepping on him. Those paws were nearly as big as Wheelie's whole body!

"Tcha! Wheelie, Wheelie, Wheelie. Of all the unlikely places I'd ever see you again ... didn't recognize you at first or I'd have been a lot nicer. You've got a new form, though you still smell the same."

Wheelie scrambled to his feet, then stared up in shock at the owner of that honey-warm rough baritone. "F-F-Fangface!"

"Well, it's certainly not Cringer, if that's who you were expecting." The cat sat on his haunches, and swished a tail that was bristling with triple laser rifles around his front feet. "Good grief, Wheelie, it's been centuries and you're _still _a midget."

"I've been in stasis most of that time," he said, as terror turned into a flash of anger that warred with confused recognition, "So it hasn't been centuries for me. You scared the slag out of me, you jerk. I thought I was going to be dead."

"You realize I've been stalking you for almost an hour?" Fangface sounded smug.

"No, I didn't, you jerk. I seem to recall you're damned good at stalking people and you know it." Wheelie fought back the urge to kick Fangface in the shins. It wouldn't hurt the predacon and it might give him a flat tire. He decided he was just mad. It had been a lousy day and Fang's presence in front of him was just surreal. He thought he probably should be greeting Fang with glee, but he couldn't seem to find a happy spot anywhere in his spark at the moment. With real irritation he demanded, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Better question is what _you _are doing here. Starscream said you were feeding us information. Did the 'bots figure it out and kick you out? I'm amazed they didn't kill you, if that's the case." Fangface heaved a very expressive sigh through his olfactory sensors. He seemed unoffended, or perhaps oblivious, to Wheelie's building anger. "Optimus has his holier-than-thou moments, but he certainly wouldn't hesitate to kill a Decepticon spy."

"You're working with Starscream?" That seemed incredible to Wheelie, and short-circuited the good mad he was working up.

Fangface shrugged, rocking his shoulders upward with remarkable flexibility. "Desperation makes for odd bedfellows."

"You could always eat him." Wheelie found he was relaxing a bit. Where was that happy reaction? He really should be going, 'Fang!' in a tone of utter delight, not growling obscenities at him.

"You sound hopeful, brat." Fangface chuckled. That chuckle did it -- Wheelie blinked, and stared up at Fangface. It was really, really, really _Fang_. For real. Fangface had just materialized out of the darkness and was nearly sitting with his tail around his feet and looking smug in front of him. Fang continued, "For now, no. Shredding Starscream into tinsel is an appealing fantasy, and one I've shared with him a time or two, but that'd mean I would have to take his place, and I'd rather not be a direct report to Megatron."

Wheelie laughed hesitantly. He could see Fang's point, now that the Decepticon put it that way. Starscream was self-serving, violent, and arrogant. Megatron was all of that with a side order of insanely homicidal when the mood struck him. Wheelie had seen Megatron kill his own troops just because he was pissed off many, many times. And then the dam broke. With real joy, he said, "Fang, I have _missed _you! What are you doing here?"

"You first, runt." Fang nudged Wheelie with his nose, knocking Wheelie off his feet. That affectionate greeting made Wheelie grin ... it was so familiar, so much a part of his past life, and he'd never, ever thought he'd see Fang, ever again. Fang continued, in a mocking tone of voice that wasn't nearly as mean as it sounded because you had to know Fang to know he was all bluff, "I'm bigger, older, and meaner than you. Don't you forget that."

Wheelie laughed as he picked himself back up. "Bigger and older, yeah, sure! But the last? You should have been born an Autobot, you idiot."

"Was, for a few years, you know." Fang shrugged again. Wheelie did know about that, as the Decepticons had regularly teased Fangface about it -- something that generally made Fang laugh, rather than get angry. Fang continued, "Had better ideas. The 'bots are gonna lose, and I do _not _want to go down with them. At some point, you got to look out for your own aft, Wheelie. And you still haven't answered my question. Where did you disappear to for four hundred years only to show up in this alley?"

"Disappeared. Right." Wheelie shook his head. "I didn't disappear, I got _drafted_."

"Figured it was something like that," Fang nudged him again, this time with a lot less force. Wheelie put a hand up on Fang's nose and rested his head against Fang's cheek, suddenly, remembering what it had been like for the two of them. He had been _safe_ with Fangface. Fang whuffed another one of those very expressive sighs. He said, sounding bitterly angry, "Every small mech in the entire base got snatched up by Starscream, didn't they? Including _mine_. Starscream denied he took you, but I'm not even sure he kept records good enough to tell. I bet he threw all of you in a hold of a ship and activated a stasis field."

_His_. Fang had always been ferociously protective, and possessive, and had sheltered him from the worst of the violence and savagery at the Decepticon base where Wheelie had been created. Fang had claimed he needed a servant, and had picked Wheelie out of a lot of several dozen little mechs when Wheelie had barely been a week old. All he could really remember was Fang, until the day that Starscream's goons had done exactly what Fang supposed: seize every little guy on the base that couldn't run and hide fast enough. Wheelie had been running an errand, had thought he was immune because he was known to be Commander Fangface's assistant. He'd been wrong -- Starscream had respected no one's claims, and he suspected most of the Decepticons who'd lost their help that day had just requisitioned more from the next batch of new little mechs.

An hour later, it had been lights-out for four centuries. He was still pretty pissed off about that.

"I hear you joined Optimus's crew. Optimus is not half bad, but ..." Fang nudged Wheelie in the chest, and chuckled, "... but he's going to lose. And even he admits that's a possibility, if you get him in the right mood."

"I like Optimus," Wheelie said, quietly. Thinking of Optimus made him feel guilty for liking Fangface. They were enemies. Shouldn't he have to chose? Somewhat defensively, he said, "He's the first mech who's treated me with respect since I worked for you."

"Yeah, he's cool," Fang agreed. Fang's nonchalant tone set Wheelie's mind at ease. Fang didn't mind that Wheelie truly liked the enemy's leader. Fangface continued, "Maybe someday ..." he trailed off, and shook his head vigorously. "Believe it or not, I'm Starscream's second right now. First time he's put someone in that role who wasn't a Seeker, and it's because I beat the crap out of all of his Seekers, at the same time, six on one. He keeps trying to get me to grow wings, and that ain't happening."

"_You_? You guys get on like fire and gasoline!"

"Oh, yeah, we've had our, umm, discussions. But," Fang said mischeviously, "it's amazing how much better the little guys follow _my _orders than they do his. And Starscream appreciates things that protect his own aft, and that's my job: organizing anything six feet tall or shorter into a credible fighting force. If I'd had about a week more to work with the insecticons in Peru, I suspect we'd have won that fight. I had just arrived there the night before and we didn't have the pecking order sorted out yet, so their commander ignored my orders during the battle." He shook his head in aggravation. "I figured Optimus had an ambush planned and tried to get them to lob some missiles into those rocks, but they were just _dumb_."

"I didn't see you in Peru, but I take it you're the mech who put a hole in Bee's chest?" Wheelie wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Fang grinned around his namesake dagger-like teeth. His body form was modeled on that of an organic's, and the grin was very plausible. "Seemed like the right thing to do at the moment. I'm sure Ratchet patched him up later."

"Yeah, he did, but ..." Wheelie thought of Bumblebee's angry words, 'Wheelie, get the fuck lost!' and hesitated. He liked Optimus, but the other 'bots were never going to accept him: that much had become clear to him. They were a tight knit little clique, and he was, and he figured always would be, an outsider. "Fang, do you think ... do you think I could work for you again?"

Fangface bumped him again, hard metal nose clicking against the Autobot emblem on Wheelie's chest. Wheelie belatedly released that had been what Fang had been nudging all along. "It's too dangerous, kiddo."

"Fuck the danger. Fighting Decepticons isn't?"

"Megatron smashed two of my mechs flat yesterday because they made a noise when he was concentrating on a scout report. He _killed _them, and they'd done absolutely nothing wrong except walk too loudly when running an errand for Starscream. I saw it happen and could do absolutely nothing to stop it." Fang lifted his head out of Wheelie's reach, and shook it back and forth, human style, to indicate a negative. "I ... would lose sight of my goals, if anything happened to you, kid. You're better off our enemy than our friend at the moment."

"I'd never be _your _enemy," Wheelie said, with feeling. He just could not bring himself to imagine that. Fang had been more than a boss -- Wheelie's earliest memories were of that grin. Mechs didn't have parents, precisely, but it was pretty typical for the young of his race to be taken in by adult mentors. Wheelie figured Fang was somewhere between the human equivalent of a father and a big brother to him, with maybe a bit of 'best friend' thrown in. _If not for Fang noticing I was just a little bit smarter than my siblings, I never would have been anything but a worker drone -- another nameless, faceless slave toiling for the Decepticons._

"I would hope not," Fang said, chuckling. "But you need to go back to the 'bots, kiddo. Optimus will take good care of you, I can guarantee that."

"Optimus maybe, but I don't know about the rest of them. Bumblebee _left _me out here. I don't even know how to get back to the base!"

Fang sighed. "So that's what you were doing in this alley, cussing Bee out. I'd wondered. The girl's father died, and he's probably so worried about her he forgot all about you. Don't be too hard on Bumblebee, kid -- Bee has issues of his own, just like the rest of us. Thousands of years of war will do that to a mech. I expect he's lost so many people he loved that he's a bit over-the-top attached to the friends he has now."

"He left me all alone out here, the jerk. He could have at least radio'd for a ride for me. It's not like I can drive all the way back to the base by myself!"

"Yeah, I see your point." Fang nudged him playfully. "Is Mikaela's Mustang home?"

"Huh?" Wheelie said, a bit confused.

"Barricade's a moron, but that's beside the point. He tangled with that Mustang and lost pretty bad, so I'm assuming that's where my little present for Optimus ended up. Whatever hit him had the mass of a small locomotive. And _that _was why _I _was hanging around -- I wanted to make sure Grimlock woke up okay. I've had him stashed for millenia, you know, waiting for a good opportunity to send him home. Optimus's supply chain is pretty fragged, and I wasn't sure they had all the parts they needed to get him up and running again."

"The Mustang's a mech?" That was news to Wheelie.

"For a spy," Fang teased, with a laugh in his voice that completely took the sting out of the words, "you're sure out of the loop. But do me a favor and don't tell Starscream about Grimlock -- he was a present for Optimus, and a surprise for Megatron, if you get my drift."

Wheelie blinked, processed that, then burst out laughing. "You're playing both sides of the fence, aren't you, Fang?"

"No, not really. Just making strategic chess moves, shall we say. Like I said, I don't dislike Optimus." Fang's blandly nonchalant tone told Wheelie that Fang was, indeed, plotting something major, and there was mischief lurking in his eyes, too. Wheelie stared at Fang wondering what, precisely, Fang was up to.

"And in the meantime, to get you home, I believe I'll make a phone call -- do you have Optimus's cell phone number, by any chance?"

"Fuck it, _no_." That fact was still grating on him. He hadn't been given cell phone numbers for any of the 'bots.

Apparently sensing his anger, Fang said sensibly, "Okay, big fat stinking rule? Get contact information for all your commanding officers, kiddo. Bet that was just an oversight that they didn't give you the numbers. You're taking it personally, aren't you? Did you _ask_?"

Fang's guess was accurate, and Wheelie ground out, "No, okay? I didn't ask. I didn't think I'd get stuck ..."

"You didn't think, that's right. You could just as easily have gotten stranded because your ride got slagged. Pretty hard to scream for help when they don't trust you with a com-chip yet, and you don't know the numbers to call, right?" Fang's grin was broader. Smugly, he said. "Fortunately, I have everyone's phone number."

"How ...?" Wildly, he wondered who the other spy was among Optimus's mechs. "Hey, you could have said that to begin with!"

"Just checking to see if you're using your processors, kiddo. And the answer to that question was 'no' ..." Fang glanced skyward. "We have an eye in the sky who's pretty good at caller ID. You'd be amaze at the info we have. Hold a sec, and I'll let them know where you're at ..."

"Oh, shit, I would _love _to hear Optimus's reaction ..." Wheelie laughed out loud.

* * * * *

"Hello?" The call had a phone number attached that Optimus did not recognize. He answered warily, concerned that someone had leaked his private cell phone number. "This is Optimus Prime."

"Hiya, Mr. Prime, I'm your biggest fan. Could I have an interview? Please? Please? Please?"

"Hello, Fangface," Optimus said, without much amusement. The young Decepticon's rough, warm voice was as distinctive as his highly advanced form.

"Damn, you're good. Never could fool you for long." Fang sounded bouncily enthusiastic.

Optimus, who was in a truly somber mood, found he was only irritated by the Decepticon's laughter. He let his annoyance creep into his voice when he answered, "I would not say that, Fang. You've effectively deceived me at least once that I am aware of."

"Ouch! And how do you know that was deception? Maybe your perceptions of me were accurate and I was a holier-than-thou goody-two-shoes all along."

"I doubt it." What game was Fangface playing at, Optimus wondered?

"Now, now, and here I am being so very friendly."

"What do you want, Fangface? My patience with you is very short."

"Tcha! What do I want? Nothing. What do you want? I'll give you a hint: It's eighteen inches tall and called me a 'son of a sparkless drone' and told me to go slag myself."

"Wheelie." Optimus's spark seemed to freeze in his chest with fear for the little mech. "I thought he was with Bee ..." He trailed off, not wanting to give any information over the phone about Mikaela's father's death. The Decepticons were just evil enough to violate a funeral simply to be, well, evil. "If you hurt him, I swear this: you will face my wrath."

"What, you're not already pissed enough at me to take my head clean off if you ever got a decent chance at it?" Fangface laughed, sounding genuinely amused. "And don't worry. I haven't hurt the runt. I'm sure he'll tell you all about it."

"What's your price?" Optimus figured Fangface wanted something, if he wasn't killing Wheelie outright.

A chuckle, from the other end of the line. "I will tell you my price when I deliver him. You're a 'bot of honor, Optimus. I figure you'll keep your end of the deal."

"I'm not promising _anything_," Optimus said, concerned. "Where is he?"

"First off, I want you to come alone ... I do _not _trust your men to hold their fire ..."

* * * * *

"You cannot be serious, Optimus," Magnus was furious -- Optimus had seen him mad before, but never quite like this. Magnus's anger was backed by real concern for Optimus's safety and, Optimus thought, an even greater concern for the fate of their entire race. Bad enough his brother was potentially walking into a trap. Worse that his brother was the very last Prime.

"Fangface does not intend to hurt me," Optimus said, mildly, regarding his brother with some surprise. Magnus had grown, over the last few millenia. A few hundred battles, and being forced to make critical decisions during them (and, probably, the _right _decision, if he knew his brother) had done Magnus some real good. There was decisiveness in Magnus's eyes, and a real tone of command.

Unfortunately, Magnus was also directing that confidence and assertiveness in Optimus's direction. It was irritating, and it was unnecessary. Whatever game Fang was playing, Optimus was confident that it wasn't a game of 'kill the leader of the Autobots' -- if for no other reason than Fang had sent them Grimlock, and he had his suspicions about why Fang would do that.

"And while I'm gone, Magnus, you are in charge," Optimus said, keeping his tone even.

That served handily to derail both Magnus's objections, and that of the rest of the team. Half his 'bots looked at Ironhide, and the other half stared at Magnus in slow surmise, and he figured there would be quite the ... discussions ... around the base, over the next few days. Until now the chain of command had been clearly Optimus, then Ironhide. Magnus and Ironhide had about an equal rank, though. Ironhide and Magnus shared a look between them, Magnus's body language saying that he was uncomfortable with usurping Ironhide's position. Ironhide was completely unreadable, but Optimus knew Ironhide well enough to suspect he wouldn't mind all that much.

He knew everyone on the team had assumed that Ironhide would get the Matrix if anything happened to him, though, privately, he had contemplated Bee more than once, if it came down to a situation where he _had _to chose. It was a tossup between problems: Ironhide's lack of vision, or Bee's lack of fighting abilities. The Matrix would add power, but only so much, and he knew Bee, even augmented by that old artifact's abilities, could not take down Megatron and he would die trying. But brains and pluck could go a long way towards countering lack of strength, which was why Bee was in his inner circle to begin with ...

However, all that became moot with Magnus here. Magnus had the vision, he had the fighting ability, and he would rise to the leadership challenges.

For now, however, he was just putting Magnus in charge for a few hours. He was not even contemplating dying tonight.

"Me?" Magnus stared at Optimus in shock. "But ..."

Ironhide grunted, "You, Magnus. He's right. You've earned it."

"... Me?" Magnus repeated. "But I'm ..."

"... just a soldier," half the team chorused with him, including Hot Rod, who was standing close enough to Magnus that Magnus managed to cuff him upside the head before Hot Rod could dance away, laughing. The clank of metal on metal echoed through the hanger.

_There_, Optimus thought, with satisfaction, watching his 'bots. That had worked. He'd just effectively redirected them from one concern to another.

"Magnus, you got us reinforcements and supplies when nobody else could," Ironhide said, mildly, showing Optimus's assessment was accurate in that Ironhide would willingly accept Magnus as his superior. In a serious tone of voice, but with a lot less concern than Magnus had, he said, "Optimus, _be careful. _And remember that Bee and Arcee will be closer to you than the rest of us, if you do need assistance."

Arcee was taking Sam to Mikaela and Bee -- Optimus would have done it himself, but he'd been in a meeting and they had not told him of her father's death until after he'd gotten out, and Sam had grabbed the closest available 'bot for and nevermind his wariness of riding with Arcee! Optimus thought they would pay their respects to her tomorrow, but that it would be incredibly disruptive if the entire team showed up now.

"Thank you, Ironhide." Optimus transformed and headed for the door.

* * * * *

Fangface had given Optimus coordinates at an old junkyard. Optimus transformed before the gates and walked in, all but the last safety on his cannons disengaged and the weapons powered up and ready to shoot. He did not expect an ambush, but he also wasn't a fool. Fang had betrayed them once.

"You," Fang's voice said, "haven't changed a bit."

Optimus whirled around, just in time to see Fang transform and stand up from a pool of shadows. His bipedal mode was tall and slender, with elegant long limbs and the same feline head. Silver metal gleamed in the sunlight. His fangs were at least three feet long and hung down to the middle of his chest. Fang had Wheelie at his feet -- to Optimus's surprise, Fang picked Wheelie up as a human might a toddler, and held him in the crook of one arm. Wheelie didn't seem to mind, either.

"What do you want, Fangface?" Optimus demanded.

Fang calmly walked closer. "Nothing, for the moment, save that you keep this little one safe. It would destroy me if he were killed."

Optimus blinked, processed that request, and realized this might not be what it seemed. He'd assumed Wheelie would be used as a bargaining chip, with a very steep price attached. _Well, that explains why Wheelie has the capacity for love -- he has _been _loved. That makes all the difference in the world for a youngling._

"Wheelie was mine -- my friend, my assistant, my protege, for about twelve years, since the week he was made. I wish it had been a lot longer." Wheelie's body language told the truth of those words. Optimus had never seen Wheelie that completely relaxed around anyone -- Wheelie generally hid real fear with a biting attitude and a nasty temper. Now, though, he had his head resting against the bigger 'bot's arm, and in that moment looked very, very young. Optimus felt a responding surge of protectiveness for the little one, but he couldn't figure out if he should be protecting Wheelie from Fang, or from the rest of the world. Just because Wheelie liked him didn't mean Fang had Wheelie's best interests in mind ...

"It's a war, Fangface. I can't promise anything." Optimus sighed, suddenly feeling very tired.

"He is safer with you than he is with me. Megatron thinks nothing of killing small mechs like Wheelie and has, many times. I've seen him use them simply for _target practice_ when he was sighting in a new weapon. I could not bear to see that happen to my friend here."

"You could join with us again," Optimus said, a bit impulsively, but Fangface was not evil.

Fang sighed, echoing Optimus's earlier sound. "No, Optimus. My plans do not include joining with you. I am not one of your groupies."

"I do not particularly wish to face you in the field of battle," Optimus said, with real honesty compelling the words. Groupies? Hardly.

"Afraid, Optimus?" Fang teased, eyes merry. "I might win."

"Or I might kill you, and regret it, after." Optimus held a hand out, for Wheelie. "We could be allies, Fang, not enemies. There is no need to fight."

Fang's eyes widened in mock surprise. "What, the great Optimus Prime would consider a peace treaty with the Decepticons? I'm _shocked_. Shocked, I tell you." He transferred Wheelie to Optimus's hands, and Optimus lifted the small mech to his shoulder. Wheelie was silent, but seemed calm, head swiveling back and forth as he listened to the discussion.

Optimus considered Fang's words for a moment, then said, "I wasn't talking about a treaty."

"Maybe I was."

"You don't have that sort of power, to make those sorts of deals, and Megatron would never consider it. Megatron will fight me until one of us is dead or the universe itself dies a slow death of entropy." Optimus frowned at Fang. "You can't take Megatron, if that's what you're thinking of doing. You don't physically have the power, and he will see to it that you never receive those upgrades. I will note that he is a challenge for me to fight, and I have fairly easily defeated you twice."

"Don't remind me!" Fang held a hand up, chuckling. Optimus had forgotten how much this particular Deception laughed -- constantly, at everything, with great glee. Fang had never seen a situation he couldn't find humor in. And that laughter was real, and genuine, and had been the reason why most of his team had liked Fangface before he had betrayed them. "Yes, Optimus, you kick aft. And who said _I _was going to fight Megatron? Ask yourself this: why _did _I send you that tiny little gift?"

"I'd rather ask you that question," Optimus shot back at him. "Some might claim you're acting as a double agent."

"Oh, I am not helping both sides, precisely, and I only have one goal in mind," Fang's grin bared a few more teeth. "And you're going to help me achieve it."

"I said I would make no guarantees of any sort of pact," Optimus replied warily. So Fangface _did _want something ...

Fang snorted, a sharp sound of air hissing through his keen olfactory sensors. "That wasn't an offer of a pact, Optimus. That was me gazing into my crystal ball and predicting the future. And, with that note -- see ya!"

The cat transformed in mid leap, hit the ground running, and disappeared into the night. Optimus watched him go, arms folded, and quite a bit of unease, "That Predacon is far too intelligent for his own good -- our anyone else's."

Wheelie spoke up, then, very quietly, "I figured Fangface was dead. Turns out he's Starscream's second."

Optimus's response was equally subdued, "He could have been one of my officers, if he'd stayed with us."

"He says we're going to lose." Wheelie hunched his shoulders and folded his arms. "But he says I'll be safer with you. I don't understand. You'll fight to the _death _against Megatron. Shit, you already have, once! How will that make me any safer?"

"I do not intend to lose, Wheelie." Optimus shook his head, denying Fangface's assessment. "I have absolutely no intention of that."


	13. Chapter 13

"Optimus," Magnus said, "Can I talk to you for a second?"

Optimus was watching a congressional session on a live feed -- the monitor was set up on the catwalk. Currently, they were debating (endlessly) the world's economy, and Optimus had been watching it mostly because he was studying this world's political players. However, the session was also being recorded, and he could "watch" it later at speeds far faster than any human brain could process. He turned away from the monitor and said, "Yes?"

"Outside -- a walk, if you would."

Which meant that this was a very sensitive discussion. Optimus nodded, pushed the button wired to the catwalk that shut off the monitor, then followed Magnus out into the bright afternoon sunshine. They proceeded across the airfield after radioing the tower for permission, and then followed a path down to the river. Magnus waited until they were a long way out of earshot before saying, "Ratchet has been filling me in on what happened three weeks ago, here, and in Egypt. That was altogether too close of a call, my brother."

Optimus, a trifle uncomfortably, said, "Yes, I would agree ..."

"Bluntly put, we both know it is an unconscionable risk to send you into battle when there are others who can serve. So: will you allow me to take over field operations?"

Optimus nodded briefly. "I ... understand my responsibilities are greater than just that of a warrior, Magnus. Unfortunately, I am also the most powerful Autobot on this world. It is _necessary _that I fight."

"The humans have an expression I've recently learned: don't eat your seed corn." Magnus folded his arms and met Optimus's eyes with a level, unflinching gaze. Magnus had never been afraid of either of his brothers. "And I have plenty of power to spare, if kicking aft is required. I'm probably a better shot than you are, and I'm currently in better physical maintenance."

Optimus sighed, very heavily. "Magnus, even if I die, the Matrix does not necessarily die with me. Any of my soldiers on this world would be qualified to take it -- part of my criteria for chosing my team was to select Autobots that I could conceivably see inheriting the Matrix of Leadership. Some would be better Primes than others, but none would be disastrous in the role. They would all rise to the challenge."

Magnus shook his head. "It's not just that you're a Prime. It's that you're our leader and you cannot pretend that another Autobot could simply step into your tracks. And if something _does _happen to your Matrix, it is the end of everything. We would lose an unbroken chain of knowledge stretching back to the dawn of our race. Optimus ... let me lead those missions. Please. It is why I insisted they let me come."

Optimus regarded his brother thoughtfully, but said nothing. He would allow Magnus to say his piece.

"Do you think I am incapable?" Magnus demanded. "I am just a soldier, Optimus, but I am a _good _soldier. Your reasons are personal for not sending me in your stead, and you _know _it. One of your flaws, I am afraid, is that you do not like to step back and let others take responsibility. My brother, this sort of fighting is what I have trained for, and what I have done, for thousands of years and hundreds of battles and if you are reasonable, you will let me take this duty on."

"I do not think you are incapable," Optimus said, finally. "Very well, Magnus. I have a mission for you. I was going to go myself but you are correct -- you _are _capable, and if we can avoid endangering the sole remaining Matrix of Leadership, we should."

Magnus nodded shortly. "Thank you, Optimus."

"You are aware of the entire chain of events in Egypt, including the discovery of the bodies of the Six Primes, correct?" Optimus folded his arms and stared out at the sparkling waters of the river. "After the fight, Bee and Arcee concealed the cavern behind a holographic image. The batteries on that image will run down within two day's time. I had planned to retrieve them myself so that we may inter them in a suitable final resting place, but I am willing to cede this duty to you."

"I had fighting in mind," Magnus said, "with all due respect to both you and the late Primes."

Optimus explained, voice growing firm, "This is not a mission I would trust just anyone with, Magnus. Aside from the fact that they are our honored ancestors, they were Primes. We _must _recover the bodies. I do not want the technology they possessed falling into human hands. This world's scientists certainly have the capability to reverse-engineer and reproduce any device of ours that they can obtain. We have significant suspicion that they have already done so, with somewhat mixed results."

"I see."

Optimus watched the water for a moment longer. Magnus said nothing more, but was clearly not particularly happy with this assignment. On the surface, Optimus knew, it sounded like a job that could have been entrusted to any of the mechs -- even the twins. Optimus had a concern, though, and a bit of hope, both, and he preferred to have someone he truly trusted on every level handle this duty. He would not speak of his hope, however, as it was nebulous at best. If this panned out, Magnus would figure it out soon enough, when he saw the bodies -- he would give Magnus orders to check for sparks, even though he highly doubted any would be found. Magnus may well find more than sparks in those bodies, however.

It would be a nice surprise for that team, for sure, if his hopes and dreams were born out. He had planned to go himself, because of the nature of the mission, but he _trusted _Magnus to the very core of his being. And perhaps it was fitting that Magnus would make the official discovery, if he happened to be right.

Finally, Optimus added, when Magnus still didn't look appeased, "I am also concerned that the bodies may end up in the hands of Decepticons who may use them for parts. I need not remind you that each carries a quantum generator that would allow the bearer to create a space/time bridge. That is not an advantage we want the Decepticons to have. The cave is well hidden, but you may encounter Decepticon patrols seeking them. You will want to take a few 'bots with you for backup, and for assistance in carrying the bodies. You will also need a good sized trailer. Sam and Bee said that the late Primes were fairly large mechs, which is consistent with the knowledge my Matrix has of them."

Magnus matched Optimus's pose, also folding his arms. "Very well. Should I take Bee and Hot Rod?"

"Take one of Arcee along with Hot Rod. I need to have a bit of a conversation with Bumblebee before he goes out in the field again." Optimus was not looking forward to that discussion. He was rather displeased with Bumblebee at the moment, and more than a little disappointed in him. "Arcee is small, and the space you will need to access is very tight. And," he hesitated, thinking of Mikaela, then said, with regret, but decisively, with the instincts of a warrior who knew grieving came secondary to a mission, "Take Sam, as well. He will need to miss a few days of school but you may require human help for a variety of reasons. He is the only human I would truly trust with this."

* * *

The Mustang was motionless in the middle of the hangar, ticking quietly as its parts cooled. It, and Mikaela, had arrived an hour before. Wheelie rolled into the repair bay after Ratchet, who was currently assigned to be his babysitter. He was getting heartily sick of being kept in line-of-sight supervision of one of the big 'bots, though, after his discussion with Fangface, he now he had a good idea why. The Mustang apparently held a secret -- one the 'bots didn't want him to know. They didn't trust him, in any way, shape, or form, and they were concerned he might discover it.

Briefly, he contemplated pretending that he didn't know about Grimlock. That could be very entertaining, and quite possibly useful. However, his annoyance trumped any long-term plans he might have made. He headed in the secret Autobots direction and firmly ignored a tiny internal voice that was screaming this might be a bad idea.

Mikaela was leaning against the bumper's front quarterpanel, staring at her cell phone and pushing buttons on it. He was a bit surprised to see her, given the funeral was in two days. Well, maybe he could distract her from that for a bit ... this should be funny. Maybe he would make her laugh.

He transformed next to the wheel of the Mustang. "Hey!" he said, kicking the tire. "You! I know you're in there! Better come out or I'll give you a flat ..."

The 'bot transformed _way _faster than he'd been expecting. It was almost like an explosion: a tremendous puff of air, a violent motion, a deafening crash of moving metal parts, and an enormous growl. He tried to run, but the Autobot lunged after him so quick that all Wheelie saw coming was the palm of a hand that was bigger than his entire body. He screamed and ducked, expecting to be swatted flat.

"SMASH!" The 'bot roared.

"Warrior Goddess, heeeeeeeeelp!" He realized that the hand was hovering six inches above his head. He had not been swatted flat. Then the 'bot snatched him up and stood up. He was held dizzyingly close to the ceiling as the 'bot studied him.

"You're on your own there, buddy," Mikaela sounded annoyed. He couldn't see her. The only thing he could see were two ambers eyes, and a rather unfriendly-looking face, staring at him.

Ratchet said mildly, from somewhere behind Grimlock, "I believe that this is not called homicide, this is called suicide."

The new Autobot suddenly poked him with one finger. Wheelie snarled, "You crazy-ass damned bastard, let me go!"

"He cute," the Autobot finally said, "Me not smash cute little pest. Make pet. Love and cuddle and keep forrrrever!"

"He's all yours, Grim." Mikaela sounded pissed. "I think I have a dog collar that would fit."

"Warrior Goddess ..." he said, trying to appeal to her better side. "My glorious, beautiful, warrior goddess, she of the chainsaws and the cutting torches, I worship the ground you walk on and HE MIGHT KILL ME!"

"You kicked him." Mikaela's voice sounded like it was coming from the catwalk stairs. He couldn't see her, he couldn't see anything but a large metal thumb in front of his face, but she certainly wasn't even trying to rescue him. He wondered where Optimus was, somewhat wildly, as she continued, "And he's a six million year old warrior who is _known _to have a bad temper. It would serve you right."

"Not kill. Keep." Grimlock tried to rub Wheelie's head, the same as a human might scratch a cat's ears. Wheelie ducked frantically away, and Grimlock said, "Make good pet. No smash. Keep! Keep forever! Love and cuddle and he's _so _cute!"

"You crazy-ass old dinosaur, let me _go_!" Wheelie thrashed frantically. Finally, Grimlock's hand opened and Wheelie lunged for freedom. He tumbled all the way to the floor, hit hard enough to bounce, and bolted for cover under the metal stairs.

Mikaela was, indeed, sitting on them. She had a cell phone in one hand and she didn't sound particularly concerned when she said, "Wheelie, do you have any damage Ratchet needs to know about?"

"No," Wheelie said, sullenly. He watched Grimlock warily through the metal stairs, in the space between Mikaela's calves. "He didn't hurt me."

Mikaela nodded. "And Grim, if you're going to emulate the behavior of cartoon characters I would not suggest Elmira as the best choice. She is seen as quite annoying by humans. Try Goliath."

"Goliath?"

"Gargoyles. Google it. Your air card's working now, right?"

"Oh." Grim sounded somewhat distracted. "Me googling dinosaurs right now ... _cool _badass monsters. Like much. Dinosaurs _smash_."

Mikaela covered her face with her hands and said, somewhat muffled, and sounding moderately amused, "Probably all I'll hear about for the rest of the day are dinosaurs. Thanks, Wheelie. And I mean that seriously. It was monster trucks until now." She lowered her hands, and her voice, and said in tone that was every bit as frightening as Grimlock, "-- Wheelie, if you tell Megatron about Grimlock, I will personally smash you with a hammer. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Goddess." He wasn't about to come out from under the stairs. Grimlock could probably tear them apart like tinsel, but at least that would give him a moment's delay to race for elsewhere.

"Monster truck dinosaur!" Grim sounded very enthusiastic when he made that discovery, apparently via the Google searches he was doing in the background. "Shoots flames. Eats cars!" Then, in a somewhat dizzying change back to the subject at hand, he added, "Me, Grimlock, never smash little Autobot. Grimlock like feisty little guy. Take guts, kick Grimlock."

The 'bot sounded like he was holding back laughter. Ratchet, working on something at his workbench, was outright snickering. Belatedly, Wheelie realized Grimlock was finding the whole thing amusing and both Mikaela and Ratchet had known from the beginning that he was in no actual danger. From under the stairs he declared, "You, Grimlock, _asshole_."

"Damn straight," Grimlock said, and then transformed back into the Mustang. The Mustang said, "Me, asshole, read about dinos now. Big damn lizards. Lots fun. Big smash!"

"Yeah, you do that," Mikaela sounded somewhat distracted. Wheelie realized why when she dialed a number, and then said, "Hi, Aunt Bertha? ... Actually, no, I'm not okay. I'm calling about something that happened to my dad ..."

Wheelie slunk off away from the steps and hid under Ratchet's tool bench, half afraid Bee would show up and kill him just for his lack of tact. Maybe he even deserved it. Grimlock fell silent, too, and now he understood why Ratchet had made far fewer sarcastic comments than he would have expected.

* * *

Optimus estimated that it would take the small team five days total, assuming they didn't get caught -- it went without saying that this was not a trip sanctioned by the Egyptian government. The Egyptians had been profoundly displeased by the entire mess and had been pointing fingers at the American government for the last two weeks. However, both Hot Rod and Arcee could fit in a trailer, and with a few minor modifications to Magnus's truck form -- mostly in the appearance of the license plate -- he could pass for a local vehicle. Fortunately, Egypt also drove on the right, so Magnus's left-hand driver's seat would not stand out as unusual.

Magnus had never operated on an inhabited alien world before, but Arcee had. Magnus was, however, formidably intelligent and not easily rattled, and not likely to make dumb mistakes. With Sam's help he suspected Magnus would do just fine and he did not anticipate any trouble unless the team ran into Decepticons.

Sam, of course, had agreed to go under protest. Optimus, with some regret, had needed to appeal to Mikaela to get Sam to see the light. Once he'd explained the issues she'd shamed Sam into flying out with the team -- in fact, she had offered to go herself, but Optimus had declined. The funeral was planned for the day after tomorrow, and he was not going to ask her to skip it. Bad enought that Sam was not going to be there to support her. And yet he needed a human he could trust -- the holograms were a bit insubtantial if it came to dealing with other humans.

Retrieving the bodies of the Primes was critically important, however. He would have done it sooner, but there had been logistical concerns. To get the Primes out of Egypt on a secure American flight had, among other things, required the cooperation of the American Air Force and that had been easier said than done -- oh, they were willing to fly the bodies home, but they'd been distressingly reluctant to do so with Autobot escorts on the planes. After what they had done to Bee, Optimus was very disinclined to trust them with _dead _Autobot bodies.

However, the American president, in rather spectacular show of 'getting the big picture' had finally interceded, laid down some orders, and made it happen. One of his advisors had, somewhat sourly observed that dealing with nuclear proliferation was bad enough. They didn't _want _to deal with sun-destroying alien technology, and would Optimus _please _arrange for anything that sensitive to be shot into said sun as soon as possible?

There was no sun-destroying device on any of the Primes, but they had mostly been Seekers and all of them possessed interstellar transit capability. There was at least planet-destroying technology inside those bodies. Optimus had been gratified and relieved by the president's response, and that show of discretion.

With the immediate problem of how to retrieve the body addressed, and the team seen off, Optimus was powering down, somewhat reluctantly, for a necessary recharge. However, before he was fully asleep he heard Bee come into the hangar and aborted the recharge. He needed to have that talk with Bee,and now was a good time to do it.

Bee shut the door, turned around, and clearly saw Wheelie seated on the catwalk steps. Optimus transformed as quietly as he could. He did not want to wake the others.

"Hey, sorry about ditching you," Bee said, to Wheelie, sounding at least a little apologetic.

"Yeah, I made it home, no thanks to _you_," Wheelie snapped. He turned around and stomped as noisily as a ten pound Autobot could manage up the metal stairs. He'd made himself a nest in the rafters, out of reach of all but the tallest 'bots. Optimus winced as the two-thirds of Arcee remaining at the base both flicked on headlights in response to the noise.

"Bumblebee," Optimus said, steeling himself for this discussion. "I require a moment of your time."

"Yeah, boss?" Bee sounded reluctant, and hesitant, and looked sharply away.

"Walk with me."

This didn't require absolute privacy, just a reasonable amount of discretion. And, again, he didn't want to wake anyone else up. Optimus led him outside and down the road a bit. Stopping by a gaudily green-glowing Mountain Dew machine, he said shortly, "Explain yourself."

"I can't, Big Boss." Bumblebee had at least the grace to not even try to rationalize his behavior towards Wheelie. He very clearly knew exactly what Optimus was talking about. "I screwed up."

"And in doing so you placed not just Wheelie's life in danger, but also endangered our mission. I will remind you that, no matter how careful we are, Wheelie could have picked up sensitive information. Moreover, _he is an Autobot _and we do not put the lives of other Autobots in danger because we are simply annoyed by them!"

Bumblebee _did _defend himself this time. "He was rather ..."

"... he is _thirteen years old_, Bumblebee. You are many thousands of times his age." Optimus let his voice rise, just a bit. Bee, who had not been dressed down by Optimus in several centuries, reacted with a startled widening of his optics. Optimus found he was truly angry -- angrier, in fact, than if any other among his commanders had acted in such a way. He simply expected more out of Bee. "Wheelie is a child. I do _not _expect his behavior to be perfect. And yes, I realize that he lacked tact. The video proving that fact has been posted far and wide across the internet."

Bumblebee visibly winced. "I tried to get Mikaela to calm down ..."

Optimus let a real growl touch his voice, "Bee, do you know how those videos look? Mikaela is a very young, very beautiful woman -- the sort of woman human men become almost instinctually protective of. She was angry with you. Irrationally, perhaps, but she was. And the circumstances were quite sympathetic. And how did you react, on camera? You grabbed her, you picked her up, you forced her to do your will. There is now a sizable contingent of humans who believe we are _monsters _because of that video. It appeared to many people that you were an unsympathetic brute."

"It wasn't like that," Bee said, defensively. The glow from the Mountain Dew machine cast strange shadows across his face when he looked sharply away from Optimus. "There was no reasoning with her! I needed to calm her down somehow!"

"If you had been alone, with no witnesses? Your actions would have been acceptable. However, you were in public, where they would be misinterpreted it. Bee, you have damaged our appearance in the eyes of the public nearly as badly as Decepticon raids have done."

Bee would not meet Optimus's gaze. Dispiritedly, he said, "I have no defense, Boss. Would you like me to remain on the base, in the future?"

"I would like for you to offer a real apology to Wheelie, to make an appropriate public statement about your actions through the appropriate human media channels, and then return to guarding our human friends." Optimus ran a hand over his face. "Attend the funeral tomorrow, if Mikaela wishes it, and I suspect she will. I am also going -- we will need to park outside, but at least we can be close. Afterwards, I wish you to assist her in any way necessary with handling Mr. Bane's affairs."

"Thank you, Big Boss." Bumblebee sounded miserable.

Optimus let his voice soften a bit. "Bee, look at me."

Bumblebee, looking rather unhappy, briefly met Optimus's gaze.

"I know that you care about Mikaela and Sam. I know you consider them the closest of friends. I do not wish to interfere in your relationship with them, but I do wish to remind you that if Megatron succeeds, entire worlds -- including, possibly, this one -- could fall under his tyranny. In order to protect the two of them, you may need to take a step back. I believe you may becoming too close to them."

Bee said, unhappily, "I just swore to Mikaela that I will be there for her, and she needs me right now, very much. Particularly with Sam gone for several days ..." he trailed off.

Optimus sighed a whoosh of air through his vents. It was just like Bee to make a promise like that. And, in truth, he strongly suspected Bumblebee, on a personal level, needed the friendship of the two humans as much as they needed him. Unfortunately, _he _certainly had to keep the big picture in mind. "I am not going to restrict your access to your friends, Bee, at this time. Do not allow your friendship, your true emotional attachment to Mikaela and Sam, to interfere with the needs of this mission again, however. I do want to remind you that you have greater obligations and duties than one human couple. Do not forget this. I do not exaggerate when I say that the fate of multiple civilizations could be at stake."

"Yes, Prime."

Bee _never _called him by his title -- he'd been "Optimus" or "Big Boss" to Bee for as long as he could easily remember. Optimus added, "And Bee?"

"Yes?"

"It was Fangface who returned Wheelie to us. I would like to point one more thing out to you -- Fang brought us Wheelie because Fang was concerned that Megatron might harm him in a fit of pique. However, the reason that Wheelie fell into Fang's hands in the first place was that _you _endangered Wheelie, merely because you were annoyed with him. Now, do you understand why I am angry with you this night?"

"I'm sorry, Optimus. I really did screw up."

"Do not apologize to me. Simply do better next time," Optimus said, very firmly, then added, "You're dismissed. Go recharge so that you will be alert in the morning."

* * *

The cave was just as Sam remembered it -- dusty, big enough for full-sized 'bots to enter, but with a small alcove at the back. The fresco had been "replaced" by a hologram, hiding the hole; this, too, seemed undisturbed. At first glance, they'd apparently gotten lucky.

It was very late at night. The 'bots could perceive light into the infrared spectrum, meaning that they could effectively see in the dark. Sam, using a borrowed pair of military night vision goggles, followed Arcee through the doorway. In the cave it was quiet, except for one chirping cricket and the slight noises that Autobots made even standing still: clickings and whirrings and metal ticking on metal. Something on Arcee beeped occasionally -- he thought it might be a human-made tool.

Arcee said, "Sam? You want to do the honors? You found them."

"Yeah, sure." He couldn't help feel a real thrill as he fumbled his hand through the hologram and snapped the switch to turn it off. He'd found four thousand year old dead alien robots. It was very Indiana-Jones-ish and totally cool, though not quite up there with the "totally cool" factor of the three _live _robots behind him. He was rapidly growing very fond of Hot Rod, who definitely fell into the "warm-fuzzy Autobot" category, the same as Bee.

But then he got a good look inside the catacombs, and froze. The hole in the fresco was much larger than he remembered, and the first ancient mech had clearly been tampered with. "Aw, fuck, man. Someone's been here. They _found _them."

Hot Rod said a dirty word in Cybertronian; Magnus just sighed. Magnus said, "We did know it was a chance. Are they gone?"

Hot Rod, peering into the hole past Sam, shook his head, "No, Magnus. But someone tore the shit out of the first Prime. I can't see the rest. I'm betting they were after parts, but I sure don't know if they were human or Decepticon. Let's get them out and see how bad the damage is."

It only took a moment's work to make the hole even bigger. Hot Rod and Arcee pulled the ancient corpse through it, and Magnum hoisted the body up and carried it out to his trailer. There, under strong infrared lights, and through Sam's goggles, the damage was obvious: a huge hole had been torn in the mech's chest, exposing the inner workings.

"Were they after his spark chamber?" Sam said, in confusion, recalling what he knew of general Autobot anatomy. Wildly, he wondered if the Decepticons simply needed spare parts, or if, perhaps the ancient Prime had actually been in stasis lock and the Decepticons were now keeping his Spark in a jar somewhere.

"No, not his Spark," Magnus said, sounding unaccountably grim. "Now I know why Optimus wanted his most trusted people on this mission. This wasn't just about keeping 'bot technology from human hands, Sam. It goes well beyond that."

Magnus, Arcee, and Hot Rod were exchanging looks that Sam couldn't quite read. Arcee lifted what passed for an eyebrow at Hot Rod. Hot Rod shrugged, and looked towards the cave. Magnus said, "I don't know, Arcee. Maybe."

He realized they'd been talking over Autobot frequencies, excluding him from the conversation. Which meant that something was highly classified. He made a wild guess, and said, "What, did the Decepticons steal something from the bodies?"

"Yes," Magnus said. He sighed, and walked back to the cave. "Let's get them out of there before anyone else starts hacking off more bits."

But somewhat to the Autobot's obvious surprise, the next body they extracted was completely intact. So were the following five -- they appeared totally, and completely unharmed.

Arcee said, "But who would take only one?"

Hot Rod snorted. "Maybe they used it, and had a change of consciense?"

Magnus, slowly, said, "That's not entirely outside the realm of possibility, Roddy. But that's assuming they're still functional, and it's been four thousand years."

Arcee replied, "Actually -- I've seen Optimus's, a few times, when Ratchet was working on him. It's solid state. No batteries needed, no moving parts. If the component parts are radioactively stable enough, they may well have survived four millenia without servicing, though I bet the contact points are due for a good cleaning."

"You really think ...?" Hot Rod sounded like he was totally in disbelief.

Sam had not a clue what had the three 'bots so truly excited.

"I really do." She flicked a small laser cutter out of a storage compartment on her wrist. "I think we should find out, too, and I just asked Optimus -- he'd like us to check. He did _not _sound happy about the missing one, either."

"That is the coolest damn thing when you do that, 'Cee," Hot Rod shook his head, apparently referring to Arcee's link with her other two parts. "Bet it's damned useful on the battlefield, too."

"What, talk to myself? Sure. The encryption's so high nobody can crack it. And I can cover myself in a firefight." She crouched beside the closest body and traced a finger down the dead prime's chest. He had been a tall robot, but not particularly broad, and there were still traces of ancient red paint on his armor. "This feels very sacriligious, you know."

"He likely would have wanted it passed on. Go ahead, Arcee. It's very important -- I bet Optimus was suspecting this from the beginning." Magnus sounded the most excited that Sam had ever heard. Magnus _never _got excited. "He sure played this close to his chest."

"He'd have to. If he was wrong, can you imagine how disappointed everyone would be? Horrible for morale. Nevermind the problems that could happen if someone blabbed." Hot Rod shook his head. "I think I'll cry if we're wrong. This ... this changes _everything_."

"Here goes nothing ..." Arcee cut a neat hole in the ancient 'bot's breast plate. When she'd finished, she smacked the plate a couple of times with the palm of her hand until it came loose ... and when she picked it up, a rich blue glow illuminated her face from beneath. "_Ooooh_," she whispered, "Ohhh, it's still functional ..."

"He's alive?" Sam said, confused. Something clearly still had power in the 'bots chest.

Hot Rod glanced over and Sam, "No, the Prime's long dead."

"Then what ..."

The Autobots switched to a rapid round of Cybertronian, likely thinking he wouldn't understand any of it. He caught words that would normally be involved in obscenities: "Spark" and "Allspark" and "slagged" and one word he'd _never _heard in the context of swearing, but which he'd picked up in context: "Matrix of Leadership." The discussion sounded like a vigorous debate. Periodically, Arcee would fall silent, as if listening to an unseen voice, so he figured that Optimus was part of the argument, as well. He wondered if another third of Arcee was actually talking to Optimus face to face, halfway around the world.

"That's a Matrix?" he guessed, after the tenth time he heard someone issue the couple dozen rapid-fire syllables that meant "Matrix of Leadership."

They stopped. And stared at him. Apparently, that guess had effectively derailed the discussion. Hot Rod laughed, and shook his head, and said, "What, next you'll start hearing radio waves? Prime's right that humans are wicked smart."

"Optimus has one, Mikaela said," Sam responded. "You guys won't tell me what it is?"

The three 'bots fell silent simultaneoulsy. He absolutely knew they were listing to Optimus, or at least Optimus was talking to Arcee, and Arcee was relaying the conversation, and Arcee's words finally confirmed this. She said, "Optimus says you two should not be speaking of this, even between yourselves."

"Why?" Sam asked.

More silence. Arcee finally made a face, "Optimus says tell him the basics."

"Is that wise?" Magnus questioned.

Arcee nodded, "Optimus _says. _Sam, this is a Matrix of Leadership, as I guess you heard. The Prime in Optimus's name indicates he carries one -- any time you hear of an Autobot with the title _Prime_, they are carriers of a Matrix. It is, essentially, a memory storage device containing an unbroken lineage of the wisdom and knowledge of Autobot leaders, scientists, and philosophers dating back to the very dawn ages of our race -- and I will note that our civilization predate humankind. Not human civilization, but homo sapiens itself."

He digested that for a moment, then said, "Oh."

"Also, it's a hell of a power-up," she added, with a bit of amusement in her voice, "we're not entirely sure _how _it works, but 'bots who have a Matrix have much more active nanobots and much more efficient use of energon. That may be a deliberate design feature by our creators. However, the wisdom inherent in the device ensures that the power it gives will generally not be abused. There have been a few -- such as the Fallen -- who have. But that is extremely rare."

Sam tilted his head sideways, considered the concept, then said, "Hey, you guys needed the Allspark to make new mechs, right?"

That got him a startled look from all three 'bots. Arcee said, "Yeah."

"Well, the Allspark was destroyed, but _somebody _built it, a long time ago, right? Would a Matrix have the blueprints for a new Allspark?" They'd said the Matrixes were information storage devices, and it sounded that they were that old.

All three 'bots exchanged glances. Magnus said, sounding dumbfounded, "Out of the mouths of children ..."

"_Primus_!" said Arcee, "I bet it does. And somebody stole a Matrix!"


	14. Chapter 14

Edits to previous chapters: Wheelie has to be at least several thousand chronological years old, assuming they used a space bridge and not sublight travel to get places. In the first movie the Allspark's presence on Earth is said to be at least 4,000 years. Therefore, I need to go back to edit this fic a bit. However, my assumption is that he spent most of that time in stasis, in storage, for such a time as Megatron might need an army of disposable mechs. Also, Wheelie's age, I've made a small change to the last chapter, in the scene were Optimus yells at Bee. See if you can spot it.

Additional note: I am changing the punctuation on radio communications from normal conversational quotes to _:this structure:_ -- I will go back and edit the previous chapters for consistency later. (And kill some typos in the process, too.) I was trying to use regular quotes because ffnet has a tendency to edit out weird punctuation, but when trying to deal with radio chatter between the 'bots and/or humans plus speech at the same time even _I _was getting confused about who was saying what. Hopefully this will work.

* * *

It was threatening to rain on the day of the funeral. Bee, followed by Optimus, turned into the church parking lot. The "church" was in a strip mall, through somebody had bolted a plywood "steeple" to what ordinarily would have been a retail store's marquee. The paint was peeling. The bots parked without transforming -- Bee close to the entrance, and Optimus near the street, where he could take up two spaces and not inconvenience anyone. The Peterbuilt _would _fit in one space, and she'd seen him prove it once at a for-pay parking lot, when he'd given her a lift to get her business license for the shop. Optimus filled a space right up to the paint stripes, however, which made it awkward for anyone else to park next to him.

It was a sad, sorry little church, but her father hadn't been a church-going man and this was what they could afford. The funeral home had wanted significantly more to use their chapel, and as it stood, Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky had loaned her an uncomfortably large sum to pay for the plot, casket, hearse, chaplain, embalming, and all the other fees.

She'd suggested cremation and an urn on someone's mantle, as it was far cheaper, but her family would not hear of it. They wanted a 'proper' funeral.

She'd tried to save money in other ways, feeling cheap and tawdry even as she suggested them -- she had a friend who had access to an ambulance, she said, and the ambulance could carry the body. Why pay the fee for a hearse? Her grandmother had screeched that she was a terrible child to suggest such a thing.

She'd floated the idea to her family of forgoing the chaplain, perhaps, since her father was emphatically not religious and the man the funeral home suggested had never known her father in life. Her aunt was at least interested in appearing religious, however, and had smacked her upside the head for suggesting that _they _could come up with a service themselves and read a few words from the Bible and be done with it.

The shotgun blast had been to the face. The service would be closed casket. And yet, you'd have thought she'd have suggested throwing him out with the trash when she'd tried to avoid the cost of embalming. "He'll rot!" Her grandfather had said, horrified by the idea.

She had vented furiously to Bee, and had wisely said, "Just go along with them, Mikaela. Some battles are simply not worth fighting."

He was probably right. It was only money and the Witwickies assured her that they trusted her to pay it back -- or, as Mrs. Witwicky had implied with a hug, if she couldn't pay right away, that was okay too. She was family. "Maybe you'll make it official, someday, honey," Mrs. Witwicky had said, holding her in a tight, perfumey hug for a long moment.

The Witwickies were sending their son to college on _their _dime and Sam said they didn't expect to be paid back. By contrast, she'd had to hide the funds for the shop in an account in Mrs. Witwicky's name so her family wouldn't steal it -- money she'd earned herself busting her tail at an after-school job, which she'd also had to hide from her family. Sometimes, the inequalities and unfairness of life made her just want to cry.

Her own family had not helped at all, other than crazy great-aunt Bertha who had brought the flowers. Bertha owned a flower shop. She was angling for reimbursement, though, and Mikaela was pretending not to hear the hints. Especially since Bertha seemed to be looking for the retail cost of the flowers and not the wholesale, and really, who tried to make money on their nephew's funeral? Particularly since she'd have done without flowers, if it were _her _decision.

"Will you be okay?" Bee asked, quietly, when she sat in the passenger seat without opening the door.

"I wish you could go in with me." She unbuckled the seatbelt and rested her head on her arms on the dash.

"Sam says he left you a message on your voice mail. He's really worried about you, Mikaela."

"I heard it. Tell him I'm doing okay. How's the mission going?" Optimus himself had explained why they needed Sam to go, and it made sense, and she'd talked Sam into it, but she wished he was here now.

"Good and bad, both."

"Anybody hurt?" That was always a concern.

"No, no fighting. We'll talk about it later." Bee made a sighing noise. "Be strong, Mikaela. We'll be right here for you when it's over."

"Thanks, Bee."

At that moment, Sam's parents parked next to Bee. She climbed out of the car and his father gave her a quick hug and a firm, "Hey, honey. How are you doing?"

She honestly was not sure how to answer when people asked that question, so she simply said, "I'll be glad when this is over."

"Your family still giving you crap?"

Mr. Witwicky had a sarcastic sense of humor and, occasionally, was annoyingly macho. He liked beer and Nascar, shot pool with his buddies on the weekend, and told funny stories about being a jock in high school. He was also good people, and he'd treated her like she thought better fathers than hers treated their daughters from the moment Sam had introduced her. She liked him. And she had figured his sense of humor out long ago, and she made him laugh when she said, "I'm hoping we can get through this without the need for another funeral, though if my Aunt Bertha tells me again what those flowers cost, I'm going to strangle her."

Mrs. Witwicky said soberly, "Honey, those flowers," she nodded at the displays that Great Aunt Bertha was currently unloading from her Cadillac, "Were on display in the window of her store for the last two days. Normally, she'd be throwing them out now. So don't you _even _feel obligated to pay, and if she tries to force it out of you, refer her to _me_."

"Or me," Bee said, behind them, making both of Sam's parents twist around to look at the Camaro.

Mr. Witwicky snickered and patted Bee's hood. "Like the car said, 'or him.'"

"How are you doing, Bee?" Mrs. Witwicky stuck her head through the open window and addressed the interior of the car. She never did seem sure what to talk to when Bee was transformed.

"Good, Mrs. Witwicky," Bumblebee said. "It's good to see you, though I wish the circumstances were a bit better."

"Buddy," Mr. Witwicky told the Autobot, somewhat sarcastically, "_any _circumstances are good if they don't involve evil robots trying to kill us."

Yeah, she liked Sam's parents. The two exchanged small talk with Bee for a brief minute longer, Bee promised to visit them more often and to bring Sam home when he did, and then it was time to go inside. Mrs. Witwicky put an arm around her shoulders and guided her towards the front door, and Mikaela couldn't help but think about the strangeness of life. She was a tough kid from the wrong side of the tracks, with a family of losers -- there went her cousin now, with an ankle-monitoring thing on his leg -- and Sam's family had accepted her without much reservation.

Her folks, by contrast, didn't like Sam because he was from the _right _side of the tracks. She could see Bertha, now, talking to her cousin Melody, and read Bertha's lips from across the room: "... uppity folk ..."

Uppity? Mr. Witwicky liked _Nascar_. He was hardly Thurston Howell III.

Her father had been convinced that Sam just wanted "one thing" from her and had baldly stated that if she was going to give it away to a rich kid, she might as well find one _wealthier_. Her grandmother thought Sam was taking advantage of her for the sex, too, and had repeatedly said he was just going to dump her as soon as "someone better" came along. "Girls like you," Granny Bane said, "don't get to marry boys like that. You'll be lucky if you get child support out of him once he's your baby daddy."

And Bertha had snickered and said, "Hey, the child support might make it worthwhile. Kid's the sort that makes money when he's grown."

Who the hell was talking about babies? Hell, they were barely even _having _the sex that her family seemed convinced was happening every two seconds. And she did know about birth control, thank you _very _much. Mrs. Witwicky had made sure of that -- well, Mikaela had already known the facts of life already, but Mrs. Witwicky had made _sure_. And then she'd found a pack of condoms in her purse that night, and a note that Mrs. Witwicky wanted grandkids, but not until after Sam was out of college.

The funeral was every bit the ordeal she expected. The chaplain's words were formulaic, and didn't fit her father at all, yet everyone nodded along with him and chorused the 'amens' in all the right places. After he was done, everyone got up to speak and told white lies and polite falsehoods about what a good man, father, and all-around nice _guy _he was. There was not one word about his multiple felonies. There was not one word about the two years she'd spent in foster care as a kid while he was in jail and her mother dead and nobody else in the family wanted to take her in. Not one word about the time he'd nearly killed her in an automobile accident caused by alcohol. Not one word about the fact he had just recently missed her high school graduation because he was too hung over after he'd gone out the night before to "celebrate" that auspicious occasion. Not one word about the time she'd found him with a gun pointed at his _own _temple, high as a kite, and she'd had to talk him out of shooting himself -- she'd been twelve.

According to the eulogies, he was practically a saint.

And then it was her turn, and she stood up, and she told stories about the good times. There was, for example, the time when she was thirteen and they'd gone on a summer vacation that had spanned two months and twenty-four states plus Mexico, and had included camping at the Grand Canyon, swimming with dolphins in the surf in Baja California, and seeing bears and bison at Yellowstone. She didn't mention the bars he'd crawled through on that trip, or the times he'd crashed with a blatantly disreptuable buddy in San Antonio and the buddy had groped her when her father wasn't looking. Anyway, he'd put his "buddy" in the hospital shortly after _she _had given the man a black eye.

She reminded them that she'd spent two years in foster care, between seven and nine, and he'd busted his tail at a _real _job, and had stayed off drugs and out of trouble, for almost nine months after release from jail to get her back. She did not mention "back" had been from a nice foster family with a nice home in a nice neighborhood to a one-bedroom apartment in a crack-infested ghetto, where she slept on a futon stuffed into the master-bedroom apartment and sometimes found roaches in her sheets, but hey. He'd really and truly _tried _for her, when nobody else in the family had even wanted her. He had, at least, tried. Really. For awhile.

And there had been the birthdays -- he'd always gotten her the coolest gifts. Some were probably hot, and sometimes they were odd things to give to a child, but she'd always looked forward to his gifts. She'd gotten video game consoles and diamond rings, crystal teddy bears and fancy clothes, fine dinners and, when she was sixteen, tickets to a cruise ship for herself and her then-boyfriend, a jock she'd rather forget. He had been in jail then, and she really, really, _really _did not want to know how he'd made the money ... He'd tried, he really had, to make her happy.

She did not mention to the family that he'd tried to steal her tools -- her livelihood, her hard work, her living. Because he was a druggy. Because he was not anything like Sam's parents, who sat in the back row with their arms around each other and watched her with sad, concerned eyes.

When everything was over she was hugged by her family, who reminded her that he'd loved her, and who told her to keep in touch, and then Aunt Bertha asked when the will would be read and she had to remind Bertha that her dad had died destitute. There wasn't a will. He'd had five dollars and twenty-three cents in his pocket along with a nice silver lighter and a cheap cell phone. His room had contained an ash tray with change in it, a lamp in the shape of a lady's leg, a poster of some naked chick with big boobs, two packs of cigarettes, a half a bottle of two-buck-chuck, and a new and unopened box of wine (he'd probably been working on the chuck first), some pornographic magazines, a Louis L'Amour novel, and tickets to Cats. And a solid gold class ring. Her nineteenth birthday was coming up soon. She figured he'd planned to take her to the play but that the ring was hot -- a customer had complained of losing one that had been left in a car's ash tray, and she needed to make yet another phone call tomorrow.

That was pretty much the sum total of the estate, and the ring didn't count.

Bertha said, persisting, "Wasn't he making money working for you?"

She opened her wallet and handed Bertha the tickets without a word. Bertha liked the theater. Mikaela would not have been able to watch the play without crying. "He had a cell phone, too. Want that? It's pay-as-you-go and has a couple hours on it. I'm keeping the lighter. It was Grandpa Banes'."

Bertha stammered but couldn't seem to find her words. "Enjoy the play," Mikaela said, sweetly, dodged Mrs. Witwicky's attempt to say something soothing to her, and ran across the strip-mall-church's parking lot to Bee. It was beginning to rain, hard, and she had to splash through puddles that undoubtedly ruined the new shoes she'd purchased just for the funeral. Bee saw her coming and popped the door and she dove in and burst into tears as soon as she was in that safe refuge. When she could breath again, she said, "It was _awful_, Bee."

"Can I do anything?"

"Just drive." She curled up on the seat. "Really fast. Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, and did so. He drove throughout the day and long into the night, and she sat in the seat and let the tears flow, and watched the countryside scream by. He hit speeds double the limit, dodged cops by God-knew-what-method, covered four states, and did not get home to her apartment until nearly dawn, when she'd fallen asleep of utter and total exhaustion.

* * *

Optimus regarded the Matrixes thoughtfully. There were five of them -- five gently glowing ancient artifacts sitting on Ratchet's workbench, and his entire team plus the human children had assembled to gaze in awe at them. Mikaela had _insisted _on coming to the base, stating flatly that she needed a distraction. Later, he would find her words very ironic.

Sam offered Mikaela a sip from his Mountain Dew -- there was a machine outside that both humans had been frequenting. He found their reliance on chemical stimulants a bit worrisome; he was keeping them up very late and working them hard, to the point where they were _joking _about the large volumes of caffeinated beverages they consumed.

The team's plane had set down just thirty minutes earlier, and it was well past midnight. Still, both had insisted on staying up to find out the results of Ratchet's examination. And had both had made purchases from machine twice. The machine had "eaten" Mikaela's money, earlier, and when Ratchet had overheard her kicking the device he'd offered to open it up to get her can out. The soda had promptly rattled its way down into the little dispenser opening, much to everyone's amusement. Mikaela, tired and pale, had laughed along with everyone else when Mudflap had suggested that the machine had heard Ratchet coming and didn't want to experience Ratchet's tender mercies.

They'd all needed the laughter.

One third of Arcee was still escorting the bodies home, but Hot Rod and Magnus and Sam had caught a direct flight back because the Matrixes were so incredibly important. Optimus had moved mountains to arrange that fast series of military flight on both UK and American transport planes, and had Optimus been human, he would have also held his breath until Sam walked through the door with a canvas duffel slung over one shoulder and Roddy and Magnus escorting him with great protectiveness. The duffel had been gently illuminated from within, and Optimus had made an immense sigh of relief. That they had lost one Matrix was bad. That these were safe in his keeping, _that _was a miracle.

Optimus couldn't quite get over the sheer wonder that he felt at that sight. He'd hoped, and dreamed, that perhaps one of the late Primes might have a still-functional Matrix ... but _five_? And, presumably, a sixth, in the hands of an unknown party. The seventh -- the one that had belonged to the Fallen -- was probably destroyed. Sam had been quite right that a mech with a Matrix might be able to create a new Allspark. The knowledge was there, stored away so that his race could continue, in the event that the Allspark was destroyed. Everything he'd accomplished in destroying the Allspark could be undone if Megatron had that Matrix.

_But we could also renew our race, with a new Allspark. I have consigned our race to a slow and lingering death in the name of saving the worlds of other peoples. Perhaps, someday, I can also give our people life again on a new world. First we will need to unite our oeople again, however. _

The location of the missing Matrix was something he would deal with in the near-term _later_. Right now, he had five Matrixes of his own to protect. Because they were so very old and had not seen maintenance or even a routine scan in millenia, Ratchet had spent the last few minutes examining them. While they were designed to be nearly maintenance free, four thousand years in an oxygen-rich atmosphere without so much as a quick scan had made him nervous. "Are they ... well?" he asked.

"Yup," Ratchet said, tapping one with a screwdriver. Optimus, watching, fought back a wince. The Matrixes were designed to survive even the total annihilation of their hosts -- most of the ones that had been lost had either been deliberately destroyed, or literally lost due to problems like failed time/space jumps or issues such as this, where Six Primes had suicided to save a world. Still, banging one with a hand tool just to make a point felt sacriligious. Ratchet continued, either oblivious to, or ignoring, Optimus's pained response, "They're all in good shape. I wish I knew some of the secrets of our ancestors. I don't even know what that glass-like substance _is_."

Optimus knew all of them, including what the composition of the Matrixes was. But he did not say anything. There were reasons much of the knowledge of his people's ancestors was kept locked away. With a good bit more reverence, Optimus picked one of the Matrixes of Leadership up. It was warm to the touch, and pulsed gently in acknowledgement that he was another Prime -- each Matrix could communicate to the others when in close proximity. "The question becomes," he told the others, "What do we _do _with them?"

"Well, Boss," Hot Rod said, sensibly, making Optimus lift an optic ridge at him, "Tradition would dictate that if a Prime dies without designating an heir, the other Primes would select someone. You're the only Prime, so you get to choose."

He truly did not want the responsibility that the young soldier had been so bold as to speak up about. Optimus liked Hot Rod; the kid had a quiet, natural confidence and enough common sense for ten young 'bots. _He has never known anything but war, _Optimus realized, when he absently checked Hot Rod's file. Roddy had been created so close to the battle of Tyger Pax that he must have been one of the last of the sparklings.

He probably should select the recipients, and soon. Indecision would put them all at risk. However, only Magnus was an easy choice, though that was an argument he really wasn't looking forward to. _As the ancient Primes told Sam, a Matrix must be earned. Who has, truly, earned it? I can say with confidence that Magnus has, though he would argue. The others ... I do not know. _

He just wasn't certain of any of this. All could do it, but were they the best choices he had? In better times, the other Primes would have convened and discussed the matter at length. The debate might have spanned millenia, really, when there had been dozens of Primes and no real urgency to the decision. He was the only Prime, now, and there was no one -- not even Magnus -- that he felt he could consult with. It was a decision he would need to make entirely by himself. Normally, self doubt was not part of Optimus's character, but the ramifications of this decision were utterly enormous.

"Think we could shove one down Megatron's gullet?" That was Ratchet. "It might help with the crazy."

"With our sorry luck," Bee sighed, "he'd remain crazy and he'd be able to kick our asses all the better."

Prime shook his head, and elaborated a bit on Bee's comment, "I am afraid that the Matrixes offer wisdom, but there is no requirement that the bearer listen to it. It does not eliminate insanity. Likely, it would simply make Megatron a far cannier opponent. A Matrix would be wasted on my brother -- on _that _brother, anyway," he glanced at Magnus, and watched every other Autobot, plus Sam, follow his gaze.

Arcee nudged Bee. "_Told _you so."

Magnus studiously ignored everyone's gaze and Arcee's comment. Likely, that was going to be a very interesting discussion with him later. Forget forcing a matrix on Megatron -- he might need to physically wrestle one into _Magnus_. _If he says no, _Optimus thought, _I won't actually compell him to accept. But I intend to employ every bit of pressure I can think of to make him take it. We need a good tactician, and Magnus is better at that than even I am. Couple that with access to millions of years of stored data, and that will help our cause immensely._

"Magnus, can you send me a review of what you feel are the strengths and weaknesses of every 'bot under your command?" He had a list of their names, and he knew them, but was interested in Magnus's perceptions since his brother had worked with them more closely over the last few centuries. "And ask the captain of the ship for similar information on his crew members. Send a message by laser so it can't be intercepted ... I don't want to overlook anyone. This is a very serious decision. And Magnus, personality matters as much as experience -- Experience comes with the territory when you receive a Matrix."

Magnus's response to the 'experience' comment was simply an amused, "Yes, Orion."

He chuckled, though most of his team did not understand Magnus's remark. Magnus was about the only 'bot left alive who dared to tease him in such a fashion, though once Jazz had. It felt good to be with someone who _did _know he'd once been a lowly civilian, working on an energon supply station, a very long time ago, and who wasn't afraid to remind him of that fact when prudent. Magnus, also laughing, walked to the communications console and started to set up the signal.

"This is really a good thing, isn't it?" Sam asked, took a sip from his can of Mountain Dew, then added, as if he thought his point might not be clear, "I mean, multiple Primes."

"It might turn the tide of the war," Arcee replied to him, completely seriously. "Some say that it was the loss of all of our Primes that _led _to the civil war in the beginning. Certainly, when the Six died, that was a contributing factor to the split between Megatron and Optimus, long ago. And without their wisdom and, well, their ability to make peace ... Optimus is only _one _'bot, and can only be in one place at a time. He is a good leader but ..."

Optimus felt very tired, and very old, when he concluded the comment Arcee had begun, when she started to trail off, "... but I was not able to handle Megatron's growing megalomania and cruel arrogance alone. He reacted to power with paranoia, always concerned someone would take his position from him. At first, in the beginning, when I had the help of other Primes, I could spend time defusing Megatron and delegate them to resolving other issues. But when I had to split my time and attention between so many obligations, Megatron was often left to his own devices, and that was the beginning of the end of our shared rule."

Without looking up from the communications console, Magnus commented, "Optimus, you blame yourself too much. Megatron was solely responsible for Megatron's actions in starting the war. You did everything in your power to prevent it. I know. I was _there_."

"So was I," Bumblebee said, sounding a bit more hesitant than Optimus was used to. Bee was probably still licking his wounds, as the humans like to say, from reprimandd Optimus had given him. Bee was sensitive, and truly desired to please, and it was rare that Optimus had to correct his behavior. A little more confidently, Bumblebee said, "Boss, you _tried_."

"Mm." This wasn't a discussion he wanted to have, not right now. In retrospect, there were many things he could have done differently. _I cannot change the past. However, I can learn from my mistakes and be wiser in the future in my decisions. This team is certainly far less likely to betray me than Megatron was. I have grown far better at choosing who my associates are._

"Me speak Optimus." Grimlock's words surprised him. Grimlock had been uncharacteristically quiet since he'd been revived. Optimus gave the large mech a wary look because, after several days of Ratchet and Wheeljack's care, Grimlock was in much better shape. It was entirely possible that he was finally feeling up to being himself -- that was to say, ornery. Grimlock added, pointing at the door, "Outside."

Magnus was still working on the com-console. There seemed to be a problem, because Wheeljack had joined him and was running diagnostics. Optimus quickly reviewed the personalities and strengths of his troops, and decided, "Hot Rod, you're in charge of guarding the Matrixes until I return."

"Me?" Hot Rod blinked at him, optics irising open and shut in a rapid motion showing significant surprise.

"You heard me correctly." Optimus was a bit amused by that reaction, and he wasn't the only one -- Magnus was quietly smiling as he worked. Hot Rod was so young, to be astonished by such a request. He was as much a part of the team as any of them; they were too small to stand on ceremony. Hot Rod was capable, and everyone else was busy, so the honor fell to their youngest member. Who, Optimus knew, would probably die for those ancient artifacts.

With enthusiasm, Hot Rod said, "Yes, sir!"

Outside, it was a clear and starry night, with this world's one large satellite hanging low on the horizon and nearly full. He scanned the sky, noting only normal human air-traffic patterns, and the horizon, and his surroundings, as Grimlock did a quick survey of the same. Then, after they'd walked a suitable distance away, and stopped next to the vending machine, Optimus asked, "Grimlock, how are you _doing_? We have not had a chance to speak."

Amber eyes regarded him levelly. "Better. More repairs, each day. Can fight, now. Need me?"

"Not yet, my friend," Optimus said, relaxing a bit. Perhaps Grimlock just wanted to join in on the fun of the next raid. He'd explained the strategy to Grimlock, but Grim and strategy mixed like oil and water. Grimlock preferred use brute force on things until they died. He wasn't stupid -- even with the damage he'd taken, Optimus suspected Grimlock was one of the cannier warriors on his team. However, he was just used to being the most powerful mech in the neighborhood, and enormous use of power _was _a strategy that had worked well for him for millions of years. Optimus suspected Grimlock didn't see the point of expending any extra effort on _planning_.

_But we are facing Megatron. Grimlock, Megatron is not a handful of criminals who need their heads cracked together._

"Gnnnh." Grimlock's response wasn't exactly a word, and probably would not have been even before his language processors had been damaged. It was almost a growl. He slammed a hand down on the top of the Mountain Dew machine. "Need kick butt to kill Megatron, boss."

"Yes, and we'll make sure you're up to speed." Optimus wondered what Grimlock was getting at, now. "Remember, Grimlock, we will _need _you to win. You are essentially a potent secret weapon for us, in a fight where we need absolutely every advantage we can find."

Grimlock grinned. "Better weapon if stronger. Boss."

"You'll be stronger." Optimus wondered why Grimlock was even worried about that. Was it just left-over pyschological issues from being tortured? That was possible, he supposed; Grimlock might want to ensure he was never, ever, captured again.

"Me, Grimlock, be _lots _stronger if Grimlock Prime."

Optimus took a reflexive step backward in shock, and stared at Grimlock as if the old mech had suddenly grown a second head. He had never actually considered Grimlock for the role of bearing a Matrix. Grim was hot-headed, stubborn, arrogant, and just a little bit twisted. He wasn't evil, but his temper when aroused was legendary and at times genuinely frightening. Optimus had never cared for having Grim on his team because he seemed to spend as much time either soothing Grimlock's wounded feelings or breaking up fights -- 'loose cannon' didn't even _begin _to describe him. Grimlock was an excellent fighter, it was true, and he was loyal to the cause beyond reproach, but Optimus had long ago concluded that the trouble and chaos that Grimlock brought with him was not always worth it. He'd rather have five 'bots Bee's size than one heavy-hitter with an attitude like Grimlock's, even if one big 'bot used fewer resources than five smaller ones.

"No," he said, shortly. Not, 'No, sorry' or 'No, and I'll explain why ...' He just simply said _No_. He didn't think he actually needed to elaborate on his reasoning.

_He would be my equal. And he has an ego and a violent temper. I have had my fill of sharing leadership with angry, arrogant mechs._

Grimlock folded his arms and regarded Optimus with a level, even, and rather amused gaze. "Want win? Need me kick butt. Kick butt better, Matrix."

"No," he repeated. "This is not open for debate, Grimlock."

"Me, Grimlock, open debate now. You want win? Need Matrix. Need more strength."

"Grimlock, drop it."

"Not drop." Grimlock sounded he was getting angry, and Optimus instinctually brought a few defensive subroutines online. The added alertness was like a quick rush of power to his processors. However, Grimlock, in a clear effort to remain reasonable, whuffed a sigh through his vents. Optimus heard the distinctively quiet rushing sound of Grimlock flushing lubricant through his joints and gears: the equivalent of a human slowly letting his breath out. "Optimus. I serve. Loyal. Not break, when Megatron torture. Do what right, not what easy. Do what best for others, not what best for me. Even if hard. Even if me want, not keep. Not keep Matrix. Just for fight. Like torture -- not break, do right thing. Understand?"

_Oh_. Optimus frowned at Grimlock, realizing what Grimlock meant. "You plan to ... give it back? That would certainly be unorthodox."

"Win. Me, Grimlock, do whatever takes to win." Grimlock folded his arms and glared at Optimus. "Optimus not want Grim to be Prime, fine. Me, Grimlock, not like Optimus much either. Not want to be part of Prime club. But want to _win_. Whatever takes. Me, Grimlock, _win_."

Grimlock stamped a foot in clear indication of his aggravation, and continued, "Grimlock have _honor_. Want power, yes. Not without _honor_. Optimus know this. Optimus not want Grimlock Prime because Optimus think Grimlock quick mad, bad mad. Optimus think Grimlock fight too much. Optimus think Grimlock have no wisdom. Optimus think Grimlock have no patience. Optimus think Grimlock egotistical. Optimus think Grimlock too much like Megatron."

"I didn't say any of that, Grimlock," Optimus said, trying for diplomacy. Grimlock, however, was at least partially right. Optimus, however, fully understood that the basic difference between Grimlock and Megatron was that Grim would _die _to defend anyone he felt was being abused or slighted, and Megatron truly enjoyed causing pain and terror.

A grin, from the other 'bot that startled Optimus. "Optimus has flaws too. Not fight quick enough. Avoid conflict. Holier-than-thou. Me think Optimus idealistic, not good for winning. Optimus forget mission: beat Megatron. Ideals important, but get in way of win. No good reason not give Matrix Grim. Grim give _back_. Not be Prime forever. Not _want _job. Better job for thinkers, not fighters. Make sense?"

He would _not, _Optimus told himself, react in anger to that statement, since Grimlock had simply summarized what he knew to be some of his major temperment flaws, including that, sometimes, he lost sight of the big picture when confronted with a threat to civilians. He'd nearly lost the whole war a few times, and his life, trying to rescue people -- humans, lately. Logic would dictate that he save himself because he was Prime. Logic had no bearing on his decisions when he saw innocents being threatened.

Still, Grim's words struck home, and he felt his temper start to rise. Short of Megatron, there weren't many 'bots who could piss him off faster, or more efficiently, than Grimlock. He forced himself to remain calm this time, however. He was the leader, and he _had _to.

Anyway, what Megatrion had said weren't always flaws, not for a Prime, but Grimlock's words stung. Holier-than-thou? Optimus knew he was _supposed _to give moral guidance to his troops -- unfortunately, Grimlock was firmly and stubbornly attached to his own interpretation of morality, and it sometimes took outright orders (which were then only grudgingly followed) to get him to follow _other _orders that conflicted with his rather pragmatically violent approach to life. Therefore, Grimlock called him 'holier than thou' because Optimus's standards were so much higher.

Likely, even before the language processor damage, Grimlock would have been remarkably and truly blunt in delivering this message. Grimlock had signed on with the Autobots for his own reasons, largely having to do with friends dead at Megatron's hands and a firm and unwavering desire to kick Megatron's aft across the galaxy before smashing Megatron's spark chamber into small bits. Grimlock was not impressed by Optimus, only followed him out of necessity, and did not respect him, and Optimus _knew _it. Optimus had only much later learned that those friends had died long before the civil war began, when Optimus and Megatron had still ruled side by side, and sometimes he wondered if Grimlock didn't blame _him _for those deaths secondary only to Megatron. He didn't know. Grimlock wouldn't talk about it -- wouldn't even, precisely, tell him what had happened.

He and Grimlock had come to physical blows twice in their tens of thousands of years of history. Only Grimlock knew that Optimus had thrown the first punch the second time they'd fought, because neither Optimus nor Grimlock would admit it. Grimlock, because Optimus had hit him hard enough to knock him offline in one blow. Optimus, because he had been truly embarrassed later. The argument had been over a friend of Grim's that Optimus disapproved of -- Optimus had been right, and it had later turned out that the friend had been a Decepticon assassin waiting for an opportunity at the Autobot leadership. Grimlock had simply not wanted to listen to reason, however.

Amazingly, to Optimus, Grimlock had managed to get through his whole impassioned appeal with only a few flares of anger. Optimus had seen him in a towering rage over far, far less than being denied such a high prize. Perhaps because he wanted it so badly he was making a true effort to be calm; he _knew _Optimus would say 'no' with a lot more force if he started throwing punches.

And it had been four thousand years since the last time they'd come to blows -- which, Optimus noted now, had only been a few days for Grimlock. Optimus had won. Then he'd sent Grimlock off on that fateful mission, mostly to get him out of his sight, and despite his real, true anger at Optimus Grimlock had then performed well -- Grimlock's heroism had allowed the rest of the team to escape. Grimlock had never broken, even when he'd had justifiable reason to be very pissed at Optimus.

_Does he even know that Sabre made a try at my life two years later? _Optimus wondered. That fight was how Ironhide had gotten a scarred faceplate. _From his perspective, I told him he could not associate with Sabre, but then sent him on a mission with Fang and Fang betrayed them and he was tortured nigh to death. I was _right _about Sabre, but completely missed the call with Fangface. I am not even sure he knows I was right about Sabre just wanting access to the team._

And what Grimlock said in regards to the Matrix had some merit. A Matrix would give him a tremendous boost in power and endurance. Reluctantly, Optimus replied, "A remarkable amount, Grimlock. I will ... consider your suggestion."

"Not consider. _Do_." Another foot-stamp.

"I will _consider _it." Since Grimlock wasn't actively trying to take his head off, and was very likely to be reasonable since he _wanted _something so badly, Optimus blew air through his vents and then said, "Grimlock, we need to talk about a few other things."

The look Grimlock gave him was full of pure wariness.

"It's about Sabre."

"Sabre try kill you." Grimlock vented a frustrated hiss. "Me wrong. Megatron tell. Megatron laugh. Me say you too smart to die."

Oh, well, that was certainly a possibility he should have factored in. Grimlock did know, and had all along, and by his tone, felt bad about it. Megatron had probably gloated.

Grimlock folded his arms and said, sounding irritated again, "Me, Grimlock, be more careful in friends later. Too much flattery. Not good friend." A pause, and then he added, "_You _like Fangface. You trust. You wrong."

"Yes." Optimus knew he'd been wrong there. However, he added, "We all were wrong about Fangface. He felt like one of us ..."

Grimlock tilted his head a bit to the side, and fell silent, as if listening to something. At first, Optimus thought he was just thinking, but then Grimlock looked skyward and said, "Magnus still not have contact with ship."

"The com dish may be down," Optimus said, mildly. He, too, could hear Wheeljack, who was swearing at great volume in the background. Wheeljack's opinion of human technology was _very _low.

"Stop that!" Ratchet's voice was even louder. "If that blows up in your face, I will have to _fix _you! And I'll make the parts out of your other parts!"

Sideswipe stuck his head out the hanger door. He looked disgruntled. He always looked disgruntled. "Big Boss, we can't hail the ship."

"Yes, I know." Optimus's response was absent. "Keep working on it.

"Optimus," that was Grimlock, drawing his attention back to him, then pointing skyward, "I think we have a problem."

_He said, 'I'_ ... Optimus briefly frowned at Grimlock, then looked up, following Grimlock's gaze and finger.

There were streamers of glowing gold hanging motionless in the starry sky ...


	15. Chapter 15

There were streamers of gold in the starry sky ...

Optimus, survivor of countless space battles, recognized what that was in one nanosecond. That was composed of dense particles of smoke, and flash-frozen fluids, catching the sun and reflecting the light with fiery intensity. Humans had no craft near big enough to generate that sort of a signature. "The transport ship ..." he said, low and soft, horrified to the core of his being. Another nanosecond of calculation confirmed his guess that _was _the ship. Magnus had given him the orbital data. It was the ship, and the suspicious com-sat was within a few orbital degrees of that position.

Sideswipe's response wasn't articulate in the beginning. He just dropped to his knees, wheels spinning freely, staring up at that horrific sight. And he groaned, a terrible sound, full of horror and fear.

"Sunstreaker ..." That was Wheeljack, behind Sideswipe, as realization struck. "Siders, you don't know anything ... that could be a Decepticon ship our guys took out."

"Communications are down," Sideswipe managed to make a whisper sound like a snarl.

"You get the medical bay ready," that was Grimlock, to Rachet, acting with completely decisive action, "_I _will get any survivors."

Optimus had been about ready to issue the same order, though with less urgency, at least the 'medical bay' part. He was too upset to be angry at Grimlock now. He'd have words with him later, privately, because lectures with Grimlock generally turned into arguments with Grimlock, and he did _not _like his mechs to see that his orders could be challenged. Grim never had understood 'chain of command' all that well ...

Optimus didn't think the order was urgent, anyway, as any survivors would need to be able to endure a hot de-orbit. The humans had zero capability of engaging in orbital battles -- in fact, they would have a difficult time even mounting a rescue mission. Maybe not at all, if they were trying to rescue injured 'bots. He had been stunned by how _small _human spacecraft were.

Grimlock didn't ask permission. He didn't share his plans with the others. He simply leaped into a transformation, into his Mustang alt mode, shot down the road so fast he nearly clipped the Mountain Dew machine when he drifted around the corner, then raced at flat out full tilt across the tarmack. Optimus realized what he was up to one half nanosecond before every EM sensory he had lit up with screaming alarms and his battle-mask snapped into place with pure reflex. Grimlock hit the dirt beyond it, then with a crack like thunder he disappeared, taking a chunk of earth a hundred yards wide and a hundred yards deep with him. Optimus realized, _His onboard quantum engine. He shifted time/space. Made a small bridge. I didn't actually know he could do that; his design specs claim that his engine has been offline for millenia because of missing parts__._

Suspiciously, Optimus spun around and stared at Wheeljack and Ratchet. The two, engineer and medic, both backed up. In a dangerous tone, Optimus demanded, "Who fixed his engine and did not see fit to tell me?"

"You'd have said no," Wheeljack said, defensively. By Ratchet's expression, Ratchet was innocent -- he looked like he wanted to dismantle Wheeljack bolt by bolt right after Optimus got done with him. Arms folded, Wheeljack snapped, "He asked. Said he didn't want to be caught by Megatron again."

"I would have given permission," Optimus said, quietly, but in a tone that made everyone but Sideswipe look at him, "but where did you get the parts?"

"I assume Jetfire wasn't using them any more," Ratchet snapped, as if this was obvious.

"Those parts had gone thousands upon thousands of years without maintenance," Optimus ground out. He should have slagged those parts. They were old enough to be dangerous, not just to the 'bot using them, but to anyone around them. There probably was not enough power in that small quantum engine to put a hole through to earth's mantle, but it could sure make a damn _pit _in the ground!

"The parts were sound." Wheeljack gave Optimus a wounded look. "They won't blow up ..."

At that moment there was an explosion of fire and sound and light above the runway, as if to make lie of Wheeljack's somewhat dubious assertion. A section of the transport ship appeared in mid-air, moving at several hundred miles an hour directly for them. Fortunately, gravity trumped inertia. It hit the runway with a deafening noise of explosions and crunching metal and _impact_. The very ground shook beneath their feet, and Optimus and Bee simultaneously flung themselves in front of the humans because flaming shrapnel was flying through the air. He collided with Bee hard enough that they both hit the ground, and Mikaela and Sam dove for better cover behind a non-robotic armored personell carrier.

The transport ship, heavily armored for interstellar travel and combat, gouged a deep crater in the runway. An explosive fireball of flames -- energon fueled, likely -- thundered into the sky.

"Grimlock!" Optimus gasped. His auditory sensors had been temporarily deafened by the noise; they had shut down and until they reset themselves he couldn't hear a slagging thing. He could _feel _the roar of that fire, however, and the infrared from the heat threatened to wash out his visual receptors. His battle mask came back down, this time for the glare-reducing screen it contained. He switched to human radio frequencies and shouted at the base's tower, _:This is Optimus. We need fire control crews on standby NOW! Do NOT roll out until my word!:_

He didn't bother to tell them where to go. They could probably see that fire on Earth's moon. With the naked human eye.  
_  
:Optimus, what the fuck just happened?:_ That was Major Lennox's voice. N.E.S.T. had radios capable of transmitting over some Autobot frequencies -- Optimus simply switched to encrypted Cybertronian when discussing sensitive topics. _:Optimus! Optimus!:_

There was movement, in the flames, and for a moment he was too distracted to answer the Major. A figure appeared -- no, two figures, grappling in pitched battle. They'd survived the jump, the crash, and the fire, but were trying very hard to kill one another _now_.

"Grimlock doesn't have weapons yet!" Bee said, sounding horrified.

"When has he ever _needed _them?" Ratchet sounded less upset.

"Who in the _pit _is that?" Hot Rod demanded, clearly not recognizing the other 'bot, who had tentacles for arms and you couldn't see much else besides the outline of a very large pulse cannon. "Nevermind. I'm just going to kill him!"

"Roll!" Optimus, pretty much, agreed with the sentiment. He switched to radio, however, and issued a caution in the form of a name, _ :Soundwave!:_

Lennox demanded again, _:What the hell just happened? Optimus, answer me! _Any _bots, answer me!:_

_:We just found out what was on your slagging comsat!: _Bee replied to Lennox over the radio as he zoomed past Optimus.

And Sideswipe screamed past both of them, with a wail of complete and total and absolute _rage _that was dopplered beyond the point of understanding, if there had ever been words there to begin with. Sideswipe had a target for his anger. Sideswipe was going to kill someone now.

Grimlock saw them coming -- and then gave a hard shove to Soundwave with one foot, launching him into the path of the other Autobots. It was, Optimus thought, a 'here's a present for you!' gesture from Grimlock, who transformed and peeled out, moving far enough from the ship and the fight so as to not take anything vital _with _him when he shifted out. He disappeared again. Optimus hoped Grim had the sense to drop the next bit of ship a good distance away, and preferably take more care to damp down the speed to match Earth's spin when he did ... the chunk of ship was now recognizable as cargo bay, hence the energon explosion, so perhaps nobody had been in it but one very pissed off Autobot and one Decepticon.

Sideswipe launched at Soundwave with blades out and a scream in Decepticon that translated, roughly, to, "DIE, DRONE!"

Soundwave was already fairly badly beat up, however, and clearly the fight had gone out of him. With a nearly emotionless snap of, "I've had enough of this!" he simply leaped airborne above Sideswipe's blades and screamed into the sky, leaving a trail of smoke and vaporized energon behind. Sideswipe threw a six foot long sword after Soundwave, but missed him by several hundred feet.

Optimus got on the radio again. _:We need air support now! Lennox!:_

Lennox, sounding peeved, _:And there's a fucking crashed alien starship on the runway!:_

_:You have three runaways! Use another!_: Optimus commanded, impatiently, not understanding the hold-up on getting some of the several F22s stationed at the base airborne. Autobots would have been in the air within nanoseconds of the explosion, without waiting around for orders. They'd ask what to attack _after _they were in the sky. In better times, when they actually had an army worth mentioning, he had once seen over a thousand 'bots take to the air nearly simultaneously over what, later, turned out to be a fuel depot accident rather than an attack.  
_  
:There's pieces of runway littering the other two! What the fuck, Optimus?:_ Lennox sounded startled, scared, and _pissed _at the same time.

_:That was our transport ship!:_ That was Magnus, jumping onto the airwaves. Optimus couldn't see him -- Magnus had maneuvered around to the far side of the flaming hulk. _:Lennox, Grim ripped a hole in Shockwave's fuel tank. He won't get more than a few thousand miles before he has to put down for repairs. Get him on radar and tell us where he goes. We'll deal with it from there.:_  
_  
:We're not picking the fuck up on radar!:_ That was the Major who manned the base's air traffic control tower most nights.  
_  
:Slagging inferior ... might as well try to track him with my optics!:_ That was Ratchet. _:Damnit!:_

_:Roll fire control!:_ Optimus ordered, since no more Decepticons had emerged from the wreckage. _:We'll cover them in case there's any Decepticons on board!:_  
_  
:Can anything survive that sort of wreck?:_ Lennox wanted to know.

_:Hell yes! Well within the design tolerances of some of our bigger enemies!:_ That was Ratchet. _:And if it's unfriendly it's going to come out shooting!:_

_:Belay the fire control!:_ Lennox countermanded Optimus's demands. _:Optimus, I'm not sending firefighters into ...:_  
_  
:Inferno! Magnus!:_ Optimus ordered, seeing no point in arguing with Lennox -- and, it was true, humans _could _die, though any mech survivors in that rubble were in trouble. _:Deal with the flames! Bee, get on the internet and see if you see any reports of plane crashes. Soundwave may come down hard enough to make the news. Ratchet, go get that medical bay up and running now! Roddy! Do _not _let the Matrixes out of your site! Remain on guard duty!:_

There was another thunderous explosion, Grimlock reappeared, with two 'bots tucked under his arms and one clinging to his back. Optimus felt a small flicker of relief, of hope. Grimlock had found survivors. He, plus a few random bits of crumpled wreckage, landed unceremoniously in the middle of the runway. He dropped all three -- only the 'bot clinging to his neck was still operational enough to stagger away and collapse in a heap -- and surveyed the scene briefly.

_:Fuel status -- report!:_ Optimus barked at him over the radio, knowing Grim's energon had been low to start with. He had no idea how much energon those space/time shifts were using -- Wheeljack had not seen fit to tell him about the repair, much less send him the specs on it.  
_  
:Sufficient!:_ Grim replied, half a second before poofing out again.

Ratchet was halfway to the repair bay. He turned to go help the injured, but Optimus shouted aloud, "Ratchet, keep going. I'll get the wounded to you."

The conscious 'bot was not badly injured, except for a knee that had been bent the wrong way and now did not move at all, with pistons and gears twisted and jammed. That 'bot greeted him with a frantic, "Optimus, Optimus, Optimus, Optimus Prime! Thank Primus! We were attacked! It was awful! Out of nowhere, we hit a mine, and there was a huge explosion, and then Soundwave and his minions attacked us, and we fought and fought but they had the advantage because the ship was losing power, and we had no weapons except our own, and they boarded us, and ..."

"Easy, Bluestreak," Optimus said. There was wild panic on Bluestreak's face, even as he struggled to stand up and failed. He'd lost a couple hydraulic lines in the other leg. At first glance everything appearabled fixable, but what had Bluestreak seen?

"Lots of us died, Optimus. Lots of us! It was really awful, they just kept shooting. Hot Shot got a dozen mechs off the ship for a hot reentry, but we were trapped in the cargo hold. We fought, we _fought_, but then Grim came -- his new alt mode kicks _ass, _he looks like a predacon, I swear, only big -- he slagged Rumble in one bite!"

_Bite? _Optimus thought, a bit wildly, and wondering if Bluestreak had taken a bit of cerebral processor damage. Still, Bluestreak seemed coherent enough to not be in any imminent danger of stasis lock, so Optimus said quietly, "Easy, Bluestreak, slow down a bit," and then turned his attention to the other two.

One was in terrible shape -- Optimus assumed that the 'bot was dead, or close to it. He'd clearly been hit at close range by a pulse cannon; there wasn't much left of his body below the waist. Between the soot and burns, and thermal and shrapnel damage to the 'bots' face plate, he couldn't even recognize him.

The other 'bot was somewhat easier to identify. There weren't many small mechs on the transport ship, and this one had remnants of charred green enamel on his armor. The fury of the fire they'd both been in had burned all his sensors away, and burst most of his peripheral hydraulic lines, rendering his fingers and feet slack and immobile. Optimus could hear his cooling fans screaming as they tried to lower the temperature of his processor core. That slim, lightly armored protoform belonged to a body of a scout -- and the green identified him as Hound.

Optimus crouched beside the 'bot and started to pick Hound up. Hound reacted violently, flinging an arm at Optimus, then backing that blow up with what should have been a roundhouse punch if he'd actually been able to make a fist. Optimus ducked, grabbed Hound's hand, prayed that his tactile sensors were intact, and shoved Hound's limp palm against his battle mask. His battle-armor faceplate was strikingly distinctive.

Recognition. Hound went limp, and in a slurred, stuttering voice said, "Op-op-optimus! Th-thank the S-spark!"

He had _no _external sensors left that Optimus could see, no way to hear, or see. Optimus simply picked him up and carried him towards the hanger. Hound first, Bluestreak second, he thought -- Bluestreak might actually be able to fight, if something nasty emerged from that wreckage, anyway. Lack of mobility didn't mean lack of firepower. Bluestreak's guns were locked and loaded and fully powered up, too. Yes, he was not out of the fight yet.

As he hurried towards the repair bay at a flat run, he heard the thunderous _whoomph _of Grimlock returning. He sent a burst of radio at Grimlock, _:Take Ironhide and Bee with you! Stop fighting alone!:_

A response, _:Grimlock no trust Wheeljack work. Not take fight-worthy 'bots through Wheeljack's space bridge!:_ And a pause, _:Got Silverbolt. Good shape. Bring back. Silverbolt not survive reentry, get left behind by others. And someone else. Don't know who.:_

Optimus twisted back to see. Silverbolt, looking somewhat charred and a little disoriented, was climbing to his feet. He appeared functional, however, and his distinctive protoform was a head and shoulders taller than Grimlock.  
_  
:Boss, want me to pursue Soundwave?: _Silverbolt asked, over the radio, sounding rather reluctant.

Optimus asked, guessing at part of the reason for Silverbolt's caution,_ :Is your alt mode still a Nebulan passenger jet?:_  
_  
:Yes, sir.:_  
_  
:Stand down, Silver.:_ He would not risk what may well be his only flight-capable 'bot pursuing Shockwave.  
_  
:He'd win.:_ That was Magnus -- meaning Soundwave would defeat Silverbolt easily. _:Sorry, boss. The passenger jet was handy in the last battle. I had Silver running supplies between bases once we took out the Decepticon's ability to shoot him down.:_  
_  
:Your new guy need to transcan something more fightworthy?:_ Lennox's voice came on the radio.  
_  
:An F22 would work, and we seem to have seven of them handy,:_ Ratchet's voice crackled across the airwaves.  
_  
:Belay that.:_ Optimus also believed that Silverbolt was simply not a _good _arial fighter. He was too nervous, too concerned about his own safety and the safety of those around him -- he claimed one of his biggest fears was a crash that would kill others. Sometimes Optimus thought that the Decepticons had more fliers simply because good fliers needed to have just a little bit of reckless disregard for the laws of physics, and a slight glitch in their logic processors that let them ignore the possibility of being shot down. Optimus added, _:Lennox, will you show him the Hercules in Hanger 10?:_

_:Will do, Optimus,: _Lennox replied.

_:Optimus, where are the wounded?:_ Ratchet's communication was more of a demand than a question.

"I've got Hound here. He's got a lot of sensor damage." Optimus switched to auditory speech as he walked through the repair bay doors.

Lennox's voice said over the radio, _:You, big guy, follow me -- I'm in the jeep. We'll find you something more useful than a passenger jet.:_

At that moment, Grimlock burst through the doors behind Optimus with an armful of protoform -- small, slim, Optimus couldn't guess who because of all the soot and fire damage. Elita, possibly, and he simply was not allowing himself to think about that possibility. On the other hand, that meant she was alive -- his sensors were picking up plenty of life signs, and she was moving slightly. Grimlock dropped the 'bot on the table even as Optimus was heading outside to go retrieve the part-of-a-bot that he suspected was a corpse.

The fire was dying down; energon burned hot and hard and quick. His 'bots were not really watching the flames, however, except for quick glances in the direction of the wreckage to verify that nothing hostile was emerging from the flames. That fire was _not _hot enough to harm a well-armored Decepticon; whatever had burned the troops to a crisp had been a good bit hotter. _Tactical nuke, possibly. _"Ratchet, are you detecting any radiation from the incoming troops?"

"Negative, boss."

_Hell of a big bomb, then. Maybe a missile. Soundwave has some very nasty tricks. However, given humanity's technology's weaknesses to EM, we are likely fortunate that Megatron has not yet done a high-altitude airburst._

Radiation was much less of a danger to Autobots. It could certainly damage their systems, but not immediately, and generally not irrepareably for well-armored 'bots like his mechs, unless there was sustained exposure to a high-grade source. The thermal effects and blast wave of a nuke were a lot more immediate and deadly, however -- which meant that the Decepticons fairly frequently used tactical weapons during warfare. The Autobots did not, partly because Optimus found them ethically questionable due to the high probability of collateral damage, and partly because they just didn't have the resources to manufacture them. Plutonium was a pain in the aft to work with, since it was not only wickedly radioactive, but also very reactive, and had an alarming tendency to spontaneously _combust_.

_I'd cheerfully have dropped a nuke on that Decepticon base on Nieryl Six if it would have let me bring Magnus's team with me, here. Nothing on that airless rock that could die but a large number of Decepticons. But ... I will not use them on inhabited worlds._

There were quite a few mechs that were mildly to moderately radioactive from the after-effects of such combat -- Nelson had discovered, apparently, that Frenzy was a bit hot. _Probably the reason Frenzy was so crazy was the effects of radiation damage to his processor core. He had no shielding whatsoever. _

His troops were watching Sideswipe, who had fallen to his knees next to the probably-deceased body. Optimus, with no pressing action required, quietly walked towards Sideswipe as well. Without asking, he knew who the fallen 'bot was now. Optimus had not recognized the body, but Sideswipe knew his brother far better. Optimus watched as Sideswipe picked up one relatively whole hand and examined it, moving articulated fingers, then folding it into a fist.

"Siders," Bee dropped to one knee beside the larger 'bot, who was now trying to pull the entire body into his arms. "I'm sorry."

Sideswipe said gruffly, "He always got mad over even a _scratch_. He wouldn't want to go out like this."

The 'bot's one hand suddenly whacked Sideswipe in the head. And then twice, proving the movement wasn't accidental -- the product of randomly discharging capacitors. It was an open-handed, deliberate _slap_ the second time. "Not," Sunstreaker's voice emerged from somewhere in that tangled wreckage, "d-d-d-dead _yet_, you idiot."

Sideswipe nearly dropped his brother. "STREAKER!"

"And yeah. G-glad m-my optics are out. I got _o-one _auditory sensor working and I hear you practically singing a dirge. And you'd better get me to Ratchet because I think I'm pretty slagged here ..." the voice faded. "G-gonna re-recharge now."

"Streaker?" Sideswipe said. There was no response. Optimus strongly suspected stasis lock over recharge. He scrambled to his feet, and took off as fast as he could, skating nimbly around Mikaela, who had appeared from inside the building with a toolbox on a dolly behind her.

"Optimus, are there more incoming?" Mikaela asked, joining them. She looked scared but ready to work on the casualties, and given that was Ratchet's smallest first aid kit in her hands, she was probably going out with Ratchet's permission and blessings. He wondered where Sam had gotten to -- then stopped wondering, when Sam appeared from inside the hanger, riding on Doc at a high rate of speed.

Doc transformed, standing not that much taller than the children. Doc was _small _-- hardly armored at all, far more humanoid (or Nebulan-oid, as it happened) appearing than any other 'bot, and unarmed. His Autobot emblem was worn like a piece of jewelry, on a chain around his neck. "Optimus," he said, "I apologize, I was deep in study and didn't hear the alerts -- the boy got my attention. Is that the transport ship on fire?"

"Part of it," Optimus said, grimly. Apparently, Sam had noticed the absence of the base's other medic, and had gone looking for him. Good thinking on Sam's part, Optimus observed. He'd been too busy handling everything else to deal with Doc, who'd probably had his com circuits turned _off_ and was small and weak enough that Optimus did not particularly want him on a potential field of battle anyway. "Doc, Mikaela, go help Bluestreak -- see if you can get him back on his feet. Then check out Silverbolt, make sure he didn't take any damage he's not reporting." Silverbolt was a frighteningly large target for shrapnel.

With a sudden _roar _of fire, two mechs appeared over their heads, locked in combat. Bee, standing closest to Sam, lunged over Sam with his back arched to take any potential impact. Doc dove for Mikaela, and Optimus tackled both of _them_, since Doc's armor was composed of ATV parts and was, for all intents and purposes, useless. The fighting mechs crashed to the ground with an enormous bang of metal on cement runway and a hail of flaming bits of ship followed.

A chunk of bulkhead bounced off Bee's back hard enough that the small 'bot had to have taken damage, or at least a few dents. When the debris quit raining down on them Optimus looked up and realized that one of the combatants was one of Shockwave's cassettes. He wasn't sure which one. The other mech appeared to be a predacon with an _enormous _alt-mode -- it had huge clawed rear feet, a lashing tail, and the largest jaws this side of a sharkticon that he had ever seen. Plus ridiculously tiny arms and hands. It was clearly bipedal. The size discrepancy between the two was almost laughable.

The mech-with-the-jaws kicked the smaller mech forward with his back feet, caught it with his teeth, and rendered identity moot for all but historical purposes -- one chomp and the Decepticon was in two twitching, sparking, pieces.

The predacon rolled rather nimbly to his feet, roared, and then stared at them.

He had no earthly idea why a predacon had just eaten one of Shockwave's mechs. Wildly, he wondered if Fang was making a move at a coup ... possible, he supposed, but now that predacon was stalking in their direction, dragging half the dead decepticon in one hand.

"Err." Mikaela and Sam were both backing up.

"Doc, get the children out of here ..." Optimus locked and loaded his weapons. That thing was truly enormous.

Then he saw the Autobot emblem affixed to the mech's chest. Just as Mikaela said, "Oh, shit, Grimlock found some Youtube videos of a monster truck rally yesterday night ... he disappeared for a few hours from my garage. Said it was Autobot business."

Grimlock shot flames out of either side of his head, punctuating that comment, and continued right on past them, heading for the repair bay. Doc stared after him, then said with as much humor as the circumstances would allow, "He always did like big things ..."

"_That_," Optimus said, sounding a bit annoyed, "Is just about the most impractical alt-mode I've ever seen."

Sam shrugged. "I dunno, it's kinda cool, actually."

"And just how is he supposed to blend in as a giant, fire breathing lizard?" Doc stared after the Autobot. Grimlock seemed to be in a hurry to get to the repair bay, perhaps to see how the injured 'bots were doing. He was jogging, and going thirty or forty miles an hour as he did so. The sound a life-size metal tyrannasaurus rex made, running, while dragging half an enemy, was impressive. Not only was he not going to blend in, he probably wasn't going to sneak up on anyone, either. Doc continued, "I suppose he could hire himself out at film festivals as Godzilla, but I don't think he'd care to pose for pictures with fans much."

Optimus was a bit too busy to figure out what 'Godzilla' was and asked Grimlock over the radio, _:Grim, do you think there are any more survivors?:_

_:Yes, and lots of Shockwave's slagging little bastards, too,: _Grimlock responded, then turned his com off.

Doc said, "His language skills get significantly better when he's riled up, don't they?"

"Yes." Optimus stared after Grim for a moment. He wasn't sure what Grimlock wanted in the repair bay -- more energon, perhaps, or a quick repair from Ratchet. On second thought, he sent a warning at Ratchet, _:Don't shoot Grimlock when he comes through the door in 2.3 seconds. He's got a new alt mode.:_

_:Ah, good, figured he was due for something less subtle than the Mustang.: _A moment's pause. _:Well, that's certainly _not _subtle. It's a dinosaur.:_

Then Lennox's voice came on the radio, and Optimus had a whole new set of concerns. _:Optimus! Did you, or did you not, just lob a bunch of ballistic missiles at everyloving __Russia?! I've got the Sec Def on the phone and he's about to shit himself!!:_

_:No,:_ Optimus replied tersely, _:I did not. What makes you think we did?:_

Lennox, rather efficiently, fired a file of telemetry at Optimus's processors from a computer somewhere -- by the routing information, he was in the base's tower. The file was three minutes old, and was from a radar installation somewhere in Russian territory, and showed incoming missiles heading fast and hard for the Decepticon base in Siberia. It had a short, terse, rather frightened message in Russian attached, from the US defense secretary's Russian counterpart, basically demanding to know who the _fuck _was shooting at them.

_:Tell the Russians to stand down. It's the surviving crew,: _Optimus said, with a bit of relief. Apparently, around ten to fifteen protoforms were big enough to register on radar as a missile, not a meteor. He wouldn't put it past Megatron to start World War III for the hell of it, but the deorbital path traced right back to the transport ship and ended somewhere near the Decepticon base they'd been worried about. The conclusion was obvious: Hot Shot had decided to take the fight to the Decepticons. Given that the transport ship's communications had been down from the beginning, and likely jammed by Decepticons, that wasn't a decision without protocol or entirely requiring the authorization of higher officers. Someone attacked you? Attack back. Except that they were likely headed directly into a fight with the Decepticon leadership, including Megatron. Nobody on that team was enough of a heavy hitter to take Megatron on singlehandedly, but they were all experienced and probably very _angry _soldiers. That counted for something.

_I will find it very ironic if a small team of furious soldiers does what I have not been able to do for tens of thousands of years, _Optimus thought -- with a little amusement. _After all, one small human won the fight for us last time._

They were currently over the Pacific and inbound fast towards the heart of Russian territory.  
_  
:Russians are firing anti-ballistic missile defenses on the slagging crew!:_ That was _not _Lennox, that was Magnus. Who promptly patched Hot Shot through. Routing on _that _message said that Hot Shot had figured out how to reach Magnus -- his direct commander -- via shortwave radio. Later, Optimus would learn it was a channel they'd used on Nieryl Six. It was not one he normally used on Earth, vastly preferring close-range communications or patching calls through this planet's existing communications structure.

_:We're under freaking attack by the natives!:_ Hot Shot sounded more pissed than frightened by that.

"Primus!" Optimus swore a very rare oath, and realized to his desperation that this situation was rapidly spinning out of anyone's control. Reentry was pretty close to design tolerances for any whole, uninjured mech. Add some battle damage and then hit them with a thermal weapon like a laser, and the results could be catastrophic. Though, likely, it was more of a nuisance than anything else. He started to say, "Hot Shot ..." and was frantically interrupted.  
_  
:Optimus, you've got to stop them! They're hitting us with -- I don't know what they're hitting us with! Laser weapon, maybe! Optimus, make them stop! We're not attacking them! We just need a place to come down! Slagging Decepticons hitksssshhhht!:_ His transmission abruptly cut out, whether from an attack or simple radio interference caused by superheated air, Optimus did not now.

A hot deorbit was nearly completely uncontrollable -- you aimed, hit the atmosphere, and prayed you landed close to the target. If the atmospheric winds were kind, you came down close to the designated location, as Grimlock had. A little less luck, and you landed hundreds of miles out, as Magnus's team discovered. There were no brakes, there was no way to make it back into orbit, and minimal steering capabilities -- protoforms steered like bricks with wings. They were committed. At best they could abort by landing hundreds of miles away, but that would still put them in Russian territory.

_:Numbers surviving in attack party?!: _Magnus screamed at Hot Shot.

_:Fifteen! Ksshtdead! Sunstreaker, Elita too injured for reentry! Streaker probably dead! Left Silverbolt behind, had to, Primus, we had to!: _To Optimus's relief there was a response.  
_  
:I'm down safe! Hot Shot, Grim's alive and he's got a aftkicking new alt-mode!: _Silver burst onto the airwaves.

Fortunately that transmission was encrypted enough that the Decepticons would not immediately be able to break it, but Silver had just inadvertently tipped their hand. The Decepticons were sure to crack it eventually.

_:Grimlock? Primus!:_  
_  
__They may or may not defeat Megatron, assuming they survive reentry, _Optimus thought, wildly, _but then how are we ... Grimlock! _The solution hit him. He said over the radio at Grimlock, _:Grim! The survivors are five minutes out on the Decepticon base. You want to smash Megatron now?:_

There was no answer. Either he was being ignored -- unlikely, given the offer he'd just made -- or Grimlock had his com off.

"Optimus," Bee said, "I want to go with you."

"Yes, of course, Bee," Optimus decided, making a snap decision. His hand was being forced on a number of things. Over the radio, he started issuing commands, _:Magnus, Bee, Ironhide, Ratchet, Hot Rod, Arcee yellow, you're with me. Doc, Wheeljack, take over from Ratchet. Wheeljack, you're in charge of the repair bay until Ratchet gets back. _Don't _improvise if you can avoid it! Bluestreak, Silverbolt, Sideswipe, Arcee pink, Inferno, you're on base defense_. _Sideswipe, take perimeter patrol." _That would keep Sideswipe busy, and Primus protect any Decepticon who tried to sneak past their defenses now! _:Skids, Mudflap, cover the firefighters when they put the flames out. I don't believe there are any Decepticons in that rubble, but there may be sensitive technology that we do not want the humans to have.:_

He continued, assigning personel to various critical tasks at a rapid fire rate, _:Inferno, get Bluestreak's leg working. Wheeljack, Doc, if you can get Elita operational, put her to work hacking in to the Russian defense systems and shutting down their capability to escalate matters at the Americans until we can sort this out. Elita has priority over Sunstreaker now.: _Elita was the best programmer he knew -- which, among the Autobots, was saying something.

He hated that last order. Sideswipe was enough of a soldier to understand why he'd done it, he hoped -- triage, get the least injured in fighting shape first -- but it could very well cost Streaker is life. And Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were so close that he had _deliberately _split them up, sending one with Magnus, simply because he knew they would place each other's welfare before any mission, any cause, they might be fighting for.

_ :Optimus, are you _trying _to start World War Three?: _Lennox demanded, even as Ratchet started to scream about leaving his patients behind.  
_  
:Lennox, get on the phone with the Defense Secretary. Tell him to warn the Russians we're incoming in three minutes and _now _would be a good time to attack that Decepticon base. Tell them _... _tell them we apologize for this and ask them to please be reasonable.: _Optimus ignored Ratchet's fury at being told to abandon his work on the critically injured Sunstreaker -- he was wholly sympathetic, but Doc and Wheeljack were competent. He might need Ratchet in the upcoming fight.  
_  
:Optimus, you are out of your fucking mind! You can't just attack the Russians!: _Lennox shouted.

He didn't have time to argue, so he ignored that. He wasn't attacking the Russians, he was attacking Decepticons on Russian land. Lennox would relay the message. Optimus was pointedly not calling the White House himself -- he was a bit busy and he _really _didn't need that argument. That nice young American president was going to have his hands full in the next few days, Optimus suspected. He felt rather bad for the political mess he was about to create, but saw no alternative. They needed to finish this.

Arcee got on the radio, _:Permission for Arcee pink to go with you_, _boss. My yellow unit has a flaky optical sensor. Caught a flash when dino-boy popped in the last time.:_

_:Granted.: _Arcee's yellow unit was marginally larger, and a little better armored, but she was right that they didn't want to risk that optic going completely out in a fight.

He turned towards the repair bay to track Grimlock down. Ratchet was angry enough with Optimus's orders that he'd terminated contact.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's notes: Here's a good image of a missile launch from Vandenberg that I found -- I'm assuming a space battle would look very similar. It's an eerie, but beautiful, sight:

www (dot) flickr (dot) com (slash) photos (slash) yourmap (slash) 45868524 (slash)

* * *

Hot Rod stood, somewhat agitated, by potential threat to the Matrixes, and by the fighting outside, and by the carnage directly in front of him. Sunstreaker, possibly Cybertron's most vain mech _ever_, who took great pleasure from his own beauty, was in snarled ruins. Elita was in stasis lock, deliberately put there by Ratchet when she'd started screaming in pain and he had not been able to reach the right neural node to shut her pain sensors off because her armor was jammed and couldn't be retracted. Bluestreak was maimed. Silverbolt alive and relatively unharmed, but apparently profoundly unhappy about being told to take the form of a Hercules, whatever the heck that was. Silverbolt claimed the craft was slow, ugly, and primitive even by the standards of _this _world. Silver was probably bitching and complaining to hide his real fear, and as a latent reaction to being left behind ...

_Not that Hot Shot had any choice. They were in an untenable defensive position. They needed to go on the offensive._

And of the rest, he did not know.

But it also occurred to him that if the Decepticons knew they had the Matrixes -- or even suspected -- this would be a great time for a raid to try to steal them. His weapons were locked and loaded, and he was taking 'guard duty' critically seriously. _We need to get these safely merged with Optimus's officers_. _They will be safer there. Though -- the boy was right, these likely carry the secret of the creation of a new Allspark. Perhaps we should just shoot them into the sun to keep them from Megatron's hands. Better our entire race die than Megatron's ambitions see fruition._

Somehow, his ancestors had wrested the Fallen's Matrix from him. He did not want to think too hard about how that had been done, though that answer, too, was likely contained within the Matrixes on Ratchet's workbench. Perhaps it had not been Prime-on-Prime warfare. Perhaps the Matrix had simply rejected him, when the Fallen had decided to destroy an entire world of sentient beings, primitive though their technology had been then, in the name of power.

The thought of Primes fighting Primes was too awful to contemplate. _It would be like Optimus fighting, well, Optimus. I cannot conceive of this._

He was curious about who Optimus might chose to bear the Matrixes -- and, by implication, who he wanted to give the task of forging the beginnings of a new Cybertronian civilization. Magnus was a foregone conclusion; Optimus had all but said his brother would receive one of them. And given the thousands of years that Hot Rod had served under Magnus, he thought this was a good choice -- Magnus was a fair, compassionate leader, with a good head for tactics. He was courageous, too; he was not a commander who willingly sent others into battles he would not enter himself. More than once, Hot Rod had seen Magnus take point on an attack that seemed to be suicide.

_And he lived each time because he's one of the better fighters I've ever known. I would not be alive today were it not for the skills he's taught me. And by taking point, he saved us, too -- he's hands down the best close-range fighter on the team._

Yes, Magnus was an excellent choice. Even if Magnus claimed he didn't have the guts for politics and preferred just shooting things, because that was simpler, and black and white.

Of the others ... _Bee, probably. He's rarely had a chance to lead, though I hear he kicked aft at Tyger Pax. He is wicked intelligent and very empathetic. Good traits for a Prime who might focus on the _future_, after we win. We will not always be at war. Someday we will have to pick of the pieces, and go on. I'd love to live on a world that had Bumblebee running things. Maybe even serve him directly. He'd probably need a few loyal soldiers he could truly trust, and I could certainly give him that._

Hot Rod considered the problem a bit longer, then decided Optimus would probably chose Ironhide, simply by default. Ironhide, crotchety old mech that he was, had no real minuses. He was smart, a good tactician, devoted to the cause, and he certainly had seniority.

_If Kup survived that attack, he'd be on my list as well. He's a canny old cog, and he's smarter than most folks realize. Also, laugh though people may about the stories he tells, he _does _have quite a bit of personal experience. Optimus implied that personal experience counts less than personality, but surely, it has to count for _something_. If nothing else, several million years of living _affects _a person's personality -- in Kup's case, for the better. I don't think I've ever actually seen him rattled._

That was three. They had five Matrixes -- six, if they managed to locate the missing one. But five, for now.

_Not Wheeljack. Primus save us all if he got access to the schematics that I assume are stored in the Matrixes. Lots of brains, no common sense._

"Hot Rod!" Ratchet shouted, "Come here a second. I could use a third hand ..."

The walls of the hanger were thin aluminum, tacked on with tiny screws. A Decepticon could crash through them, grab the Matrixes, and be gone, in the time it would take Hot Rod to run back. "Ratchet," Hot Rod said firmly, though his heart was breaking, "I'm on guard duty."

"I've got it," Wheelie scrambled up onto the table, where Ratchet was trying to stop something critical, quite possibly a reserve battery pack for Sunstreaker's spark chamber, from shorting out. It kept arcing and throwing sparks across the table. Sunstreaker was a slagged ruin -- Siders was staring blindly up at the ceiling. Ratchet hadn't even considered asking for Sideswipe's help. Sunstreaker was _crumpled_. He looked like he'd been run over by a train.

Ratchet gave Wheelie a dubious look, but pointed at a bundle of wiring. "Hold that out of the way. It keeps flopping over and I can't see what I'm doing. His spark chamber's got a crack. He's going to go offline _permanently _if I can't seal it. But I need to disconnect his spark chamber from his processor core to fix it, and the reserve power pack's _slagged_!

Hot Rod glanced at Sideswipe, who was sitting on the floor by the steps with his head in his hands. He had been right about the power issue. That did not sound good. Ratchet was racing time right now. The other half of the vainglorious twins gave no sign that he'd heard that, though likely he had.

"Gotcha." Wheelie did as he was told. Hot Rod thought the little 'bot looked frightened -- he was literally shaking -- but he was game to try to help. There was good reason to be frightened, too. Some of the capacitors close to the spark chamber could discharge with enough oomph to toast even a large 'bot. Ratchet knew what he was doing, but there was enough carnage there that wires could easily be crossed, leading to a deadly _zap_. Wheelie held the wires cautiously.

He remembered when he'd met Wheelie, on the first day. Wheelie had rolled up to him and announced, "I'm Wheelie! I'm the newest Autobot!"

And he'd chuckled and said, "You mean I actually have seniority over somebody now? I like you already, Wheelie."

And Ratchet had commented, "Give him enough time and you'll get over that feeling, Roddy."

_Poor guy. Nobody's being very nice to him. They're scared he's going to turncoat, but the way they treat him, they're practically giving him an incentive. Maybe ... _Hot Rod mulled over asking for some Wheelie-watching assignments. _Kid's kinda funny, really. Reminds me of me when I was that age. All guts, no brains, hiding his fear and hurt with fury. Took getting my aft handed to me a few times before I learned to think before I leaped ... but we're all that way, when we're little. We're ready to fight from the moment we're created, but it's not until we're older that we learn there's more to life than the next blasted battle, and there are things like love, and joy, and beauty in the world._

_Most of the crazier Decepticons have never learned that lesson, I guess. Never moved past being Sparkling-crazy. Maybe nobody ever took them in hand and showed them.  
_  
He was the youngest of the Autobots on this mission -- one of the last of the younglings, before Optimus had sent the Allspark into space. _Wheelie and I are probably close to the same age. I should ask him when he came online. For all I know, we could practically be brothers. _

Unsettled, he returned to wondering who Optimus would assign the Matrixes to. It was that, or go as crazy as a Sparkling worrying about the fate of his teammates, and from watching the rather graphic display in front of him, fifty feet away, on Ratchet's table. Ratchet was now trying to hot-swap in a new backup power pack that, by the size, had come from a much smaller 'bot, and by the wear, was used. _Probably Jazz's_, Hot Rod thought, _they lost him last year. Unless it's Bee's and Ratchet just kept it as a spare when they were doing maintenance. _Normlly, replacing a backup power module wasn't difficult -- there were six of them, total, plus the energon generator that supplied primary power. Apparently, the only thing keeping Sunstreaker's spark from departing this place of existance was one badly damaged power pack. And if he went into stasis lock, he'd drop the failsafe forcefield inside his cracked spark chamber, and _poof_.

The knowledge that Sunny was conscious and aware of what was happening to him made Hot Rod exceedingly ... uneasy.

There was an awful lot of yelling going on over the radio. Apparently, the humans were concerned that Hot Shot's return attack on the Decepticon base might trigger a retaliatory attack on _America_ -- with nukes. Concerned, he did a quick search of the internet for information about what this world's capabilities were for nuclear weapons. What he found surprised him, though not in the way that most humans would react.

Optimus was busy -- he could hear him yelling, both with auditory sensors, and over the radio. He asked Magnus, _:Captain, you too busy to hear a bit of speculation on the situation?:_

_:Your insight is generally useful. Go ahead.:  
_  
_:Magnus, humans may not actually be as heavily armed with nuclear weapons as either side would like to let on: _He sent a quick, encrypted message at Magnus, with the relevant files attached. It was amazing what you could find on the web -- he suspected _these _files, from a server with rather easily broken protection in the form of simple nine-character passwords, were not actually supposed to be available to the public. Espionage, probably -- the server traced to a Middle Eastern country. As an afterthought, he sent the files to Lennox with a note to forward them on to his superiors, and the address of the server in question. To Magnus, he said, _:Many of their larger weapons use plutonium and are at least twenty years old, some decades older.__ And both countries have significantly cut funding to their research and maintenance programs. Assessment: they may be shooting duds if they try anything, and both sides know it. Since neither truly knows the capability of the other, but they _are _suspicious of their own weapons' soundness, this incident may lead to nothing more than a lot of posturing at each other.:  
_  
It went without saying that plutonium was a difficult material to work with, from a design standpoint. Magnus's grasp of the fundementals of weapons tech was far better than Hot Rod's, and he knew it, so he didn't bother to elaborate. Plutonium absorbed water, including humidity in the air, and as it did, it expanded in size. Humans, as sensitive as they were to accidental criticality events, and with their limited ability to build autonomous robots, were probably _not _going to be very eager to machine new cores for their weapons. And the design tolerance for nukes was measured in micrometers.

Magnus replied, _:Acknowledged, Roddy. Let's try not to test that theory, though, shall we? The president just e-mailed Optimus to tell him he's gotten the Russians to stop shooting. The Russians are sending reinforcements to back us up at the base, given that they don't exactly have a choice in our mechs landing there. And they do want the Decepticons gone. I believe the expression is 'making the best of a bad situation.':  
_  
_:Or possibly just making sure that they've got soldiers on the ground in our vicinity if we turn out to be an invading force.:_

_:True.:  
_  
At that point, he heard the sound of a huge running mech. He heard Optimus warn Ratchet not to shoot Grimlock. _And what about me? _Hot Rod thought, with amusement, though he'd certainly overheard the warning. Either Optimus had overlooked him, or Optimus figured he had more sense.

Then, a very, very, _very _large Predacon thundered through the open repair bay doors.

Wheelie -- who could not yet hear Autobot frequencies -- screeched an obscenity in Cybertronian and dove under the catwalk steps. Sideswipe lunged to his feet, ready to fight, blades flicking into his hands. Hot Rod locked and loaded his cannons, disengaging all safeties, and simultaneoulsy running an analysis on whether it would be better to grab the Matrixes and run or stand and fight. The Predacon appeared unarmed, if you could consider anything thirty feet tall, with jaws the size of a small car and clawed feet that looked like they could rip a mech's spark out by force, _unarmed_.

_Then _he realized this was Grimlock, and started to relax.

Ratchet snapped, "Roddy, I'm about to start welding on a live spark chamber. If you shoot those cannons at Grimlock and make me jump, I will _feed _them to you through your exhaust manifold."

Sideswipe said, grimly, as he put away his swords, "He makes you jump, he won't have an exhaust manifold _left_."

"How Sunny?"

Ratchet suddenly tilted his head sideways, as Hot Rod also heard Optimus's commands -- including the fateful one to abandon work on Sunstreaker. In reaction, his faceplate was set in a ferocious scowl. He thrust the tiny welding torch he'd been using into Inferno's hands, which caused Sideswipe to make a small, very unhappy sound. Inferno had certainly processed some advanced field medicine modules, but he did not have Ratchet's skills.

Ratchet, arms folded, was a silent and very ... angry ... presence. Optimus was emphasizing the order to get Elita working _first_.

"Ratchet! Don't listen to him!"

Ratchet rounded on Sideswipe, optics narrowing to a cold, hard, furious _glare_. Sideswipe's hands balled into fists as Ratchet snarled, "Optimus, like it or not, is _right_. Elita has priority now."

"He'll die!" Sideswipe nearly screamed in rage. Hot Rod tensed, wondering if he would need to break up a fight between the two Autobots -- Sideswipe wasn't exactly the most levelheaded mech to begin with, and Hot Rod knew that Siders loved his brother. Their relationship was close enough that Magnus had agreed to take one, and Optimus the other, to avoid situations precisely such as this. The brothers had been less than pleased about this, and Hot Rod remembered Sunny nearly coming to blows with Magnus over it -- because he couldn't watch Siders' back if Sideswipe was halfway across the galaxy. Sideswipe, more prone to sullen brooding than violent shows of temper, likely felt the same way ... and now Sunny was a tangled, dying, ruin.

Ratchet, however, did not show much sympathy. He snarled, "He probably will. Welcome to war."

Ratchet snatched one of his larger first aid kits down from a shelf, yanked it open, and started shoving fistsfuls of tools and cables and wiring and spare parts into compartments on his arms and legs. Then, to Hot Rod's surprise, he headed not for the door but for the workbench with the Matrixes on it. Ratchet looked murderously angry, more likely at Optimus (and secondarily, at Soundwave, and up that chain of command to Starscream and Megatron) but he _was _following orders.

Grimlock padded after Ratchet. Ratchet turned to him, looked up, and growled, "You take any battle damage I need to know about before we do this with Megatron?"

Grimlock grunted. "No."

"Meh. With that alt mode, I do not expect to see you in my repair bay often. There's no part of you that's _not _armored." Ratchet said to Grimlock, but he was staring again at Sunny, who was a slightly twitching form all alone on the table. Ratchet's expression softened a bit, just a hair.

Mikaela, sounding a bit breathless, ran through the hanger doors at that moment. "Ratchet! You said you needed me?"

Apparently, Ratchet had made a cell phone call while simultaneously either being yelled at by Optimus, threatened by Sideswipe, or confronting Grimlock. Hot Rod marveled at that level of sheer aplomb. Ratchet said, to the human, "Mikaela, I'm heading into battle in a few moments. That 'bot," he pointed at Sunstreaker's mangled form on the table, "has a cracked spark chamber. If he loses containment he dies. I know you can weld. Patch the crack. Mind the capacitors. Then, when that's done, assuming he's still in there, there are some power packs in a box on the third shelf up. You can identify them, right?"

"You showed me on 'Bee." Her eyes were enormous in her face, and she hugged herself. Hot Rod was more than a bit impressed that the organic child had enough knowledge to even attempt something like this. Or that Ratchet would ask it of her. Though it wasn't like they had any other options. Keeping Sunstreaker alive was far, far, _far_ down the list of priorities at the moment.

Ratchet continued, tone razor sharp, "Well, they're too small for Sunny, but you'll need to make them fit. I've gotten one hooked up, but get at least two more. I don't trust the integrity of the mounts -- the contacts may be burnt, so we want redundancy ASAP. Then, when that's done, start hunting down anything that might be shorting out, and _fix _it. There's plenty of electrical tape in the box under my bench. We can do proper rewiring later." He paused a beat, then added, "And if you're dumb enough to electrocute yourself you will never see the inside of my repair bay again, girl."

She ignored the threat, and said uncertainly, "Ratchet, I don't know ..."

"_Do _it." Ratchet snapped, in a tone that was, actually, a good bit softer than what he would use on his fellow troops. "Or he dies. He won't survive until they're done with Elita. It's you or nobody."

"I could help ..." Sideswipe said uncertainly.

Hot Rod spoke up, "Siders, your orders are to guard the base." _If he works on his brother and his brother dies, the guilt because of that failure will destroy him. At least this way, he can blame Optimus. Or, better, blame Megatron and Soundwave._

Ratchet clearly got it as well, because he pointed peremptorily at the door. "Orders, Sideswipe. Move your bolts. Sunny's not conscious enough to know if you're here or gone, anyway."

"Yes, sir." Sideswipe headed, reluctantly, for the door. He turned back, though, and said a bit quietly, in Cybertronian, "Thank you, Ratchet. For training the girl."

"Don't thank me until we see if she can pull this miracle off. Then, thank _her_." That was delivered in Cybertronian. He switched to English, "Mikaela, move!"

Galvanized, Mikaela scrambled for the welding rig and got immediately to work. Ratchet huffed something under his breath that sounded like it contained a lot of obscenities as Optimus, Magnus, Arcee, Ironhide, and Bumblebee, trailed by Sam, entered the bay.

And at that moment, as if he had been waiting for an audience, Grimlock reached out and picked up a Matrix. It was so quick that Hot Rod had no time to react. Horrified, Hot Rod said, "You aren't supposed to touch ..."

Optimus just sounded tired when he interrupted, "I had wondered what you wanted in here, Grimlock."

"Give _back_, later." Grimlock was staring at the Matrix. "Fight, now."

"Optimus, I'm sorry ..." Hot Rod didn't quite know what to do. He should have been more aware.

Optimus said, sounding irritated, "Roddy, you were to defend the Matrix against potential Decepticon attacks. Grim's not a Decepticon."

"He's an idiot," Bee muttered, every line of his body radiating outrage. "We don't have _time _for this."

"And we lack time for ceremony, as well." Optimus simply picked up the next Matrix on the bench, and with little formality, thrust it into Magnus's hands. No surprise there. Magnus looked like he wanted to argue, but didn't. Optimus continued speaking to Grimlock, "Grim, it's yours, though I may live to regret it. Ratchet, Ironhide, Bumblebee, the reason I selected the three of you long ago to be the core of my team on Earth was that I knew, aside from the possibility of my own death, there was a chance we would find the lost Primes on this world. Magnus, you were needed elsewhere, or I would have brought you with me. And ... Jazz, of course, was on the team. I have a faith in all five of you," his eyes flickered over Grimlock -- not with doubt, but something else, perhaps, that Ratchet couldn't identify, "will be worthy of the honor."

"Me?" Bee said, in absolute, flat, total _disbelief_. He seemed far more stunned than the others when Optimus passed him a Matrix. "But Optimus, I'm just a scout. I'm no leader. I'm not ..."

"Shut up," Ratchet said, scowling. "Quit your whining. We need to do this. It's _necessary._"

And then ... the Matrixes began to twist and flow. Hot Rod had expected Ratchet to need to do minor surgery to install them. But they coursed over the hands of the 'bots holding them, turning from hard lumps of metal and glass-like crystal to a gently glowing misty sand, then quietly disappearing through the cracks of the 'bots armor. _Nanotech_, Hot Rod realised, belatedly, and very advanced nanotech at that. Beyond even what he knew and understood. They began the change, subtly, in appearance. _Nanotech gets an upgrade, they say, for the lucky 'bots who become Matrix bearers. _

Ratchet grunted, staring at his fingers, "Hnnh. Few possibilites in here I never thought of ... when this is over, I have _got _to talk to Wheeljack." He seemed taller, broader, but not enormously so.

Optimus smiled, briefly, and a bit sadly.

Ironhide grunted. "Yeah, Ratchet, some _great _weapons systems."

"Is that all you ever think of?" Ratchet sniped back.

"If it'll get our Sparks out alive and on to the next battle, you bet I do." He sounded annoyed, which meant he sounded like himself.

Hot Rod thought, somewhat giddily, at himself, _What? You thought he'd sound like _Optimus_? Optimus probably sounded like Optimus when Optimus was a day old Sparkling. When the other Sparklings were still shooting up the lab with blind fear, he was probably waxing philisophical about the meaning of his brand new life. He's Optimus. And Ironhide is Ironhide._

Optimus said, to Ironhide, in a mild tone, "Vector had some very good ideas. You'll find his transcans in there somewhere, if you'd like to do some urgent upgrades to your guns. You are close to the same size and his should work."

Ironhide blinked, then got slightly crosseyed as he, presumably, began to search through memories and data modules not his own. Ironhide seemed, not taller, so much as _more presence_. It was the only way to describe it. He'd always been a grumpy, authoritative old soldier. Now he _filled _his spot in the room to overflowing, and made Hot Rod want to take two steps back. Hot Rod held his ground only because he could picture Ironhide's snorted reaction if he flinched. _They are still the same 'bots, _he told himself. _They have more data, more experience, more power, more strength. But at their cores they are the _same _mechs they have always been._

Grimlock was still in the dinosaur alt-mode. He folded the form's tiny arms and said, "_Smash_."

_Riiiiiight. _Hot Rod wasn't fooled. _Me, Grimlock, have bigger vocabulary than that -- Grimlock, you're as much of a dumbass as you are a badass, but you're not _that _stupid. _

Bee sighed, however, and said, "Grim, you _would _react with a _smash _to this."

"Best use." Grim lifted a steeply sloping shoulder up in half a shrug, and with surprising flexibility. Hot Rod took note of that. Underneath that continuous armor plating there was a pretty athletic frame. And that armor served a second purpose, besides its normal one -- for all Grimlock's enemies knew, he had a starship-sized pulse cannon lurking under those metal plates. He was actually still unarmed, though that didn't seem to be slowing him down much.

Bee's smile was as sad as Optimus's. His reaction was a little different than the others, but very Bee-like. "There's so much _music_ ... seven million years of _music_." Bumblebee didn't look any different, save that he seemed to have gotten a new paint job -- gleaming gold, his armor unmarred by scratches or dents.

And Magnus ... Magnus was staring at the Matrix still in his hand. To Hod Rod's genuine surprise it had not changed. Its glow was undimmed. With no obvious regret, Magnus met Optimus's gaze, and said, "It says I am not suitable. It says I ..." he trailled off, and looked up at Optimus, who was now staring at him with an expression akin to shock. "... it says I would never be _happy _in the role, and that misery would eventually be a breeding ground for evil things."

"But you ..." Optimus could clearly never conceive of his brother being anything but _good_.

Magnus interrupted him -- a rudeness only Magnus would ever have dared with Prime in this sort of mood. Optimus was radiating impatience, anger, and frustration from the very lines of his body. Magnus said, "... I have never had the desire nor the confidence to be anything other than what I am, to the core of my very being." Magnus sounded, not angry precisely, but annoyed. He was focused on his brother, and, somewhat impatiently, he passed the Matrix to Hot Rod while he spoke. "Megtron was always right -- my Spark should have been born into the body of a civilian. I'm not even particularly happy as a soldier and we both know it. If not for this war I would long ago have decomissioned myself. Let's go, though. We have a few dozen mechs to kill."

The Matrix was warm in Hot Rod's hands. It didn't precisely buzz on contact with his fingers, but there was a definite feeling of static and power. And then _recognition_. Something uplinked with his processor core, so fast and smooth he had no chance to even deny it access. Later, he would learn that there was a specially built pathway for this; that it physically could not be prevented. It was a hardcode built into every Cybertronian -- anyone could become a Prime.

The Matrix that Sam had briefly carried had said it could not be stolen, and must be earned. That wasn't the whole truth, else, there never would have been a chance of the Fallen using its circuits to trigger the harvestor, something only a Matrix-bearing Prime could do. However, it was close enough. And what Sam hadn't known -- what only another Prime _could _know -- was that the slagging thing was at least a low level sentience all its own. Perhaps it had to be, to sort through and categorize all the data it received, and offer up the right information as needed. And it had to have some decision-making capability all its own, to _choose_ a new bearer.

Before he could even blink, he was scanned to the core of his being. The Matrix searched through his memory files, categorized them, did a quick analysis, and declared, "Host: Suitable. Commencing merger."

The warmth, now, was composed of affection and love from the Sparks of the past bearers. He could sense them, and their approval, their acceptance, and their dreams for him. He had never envisioned that might happen. A voice said, in the very core of his being, _"You are the one who will lead us through our darkest hours." _And then, silence.

The others were staring at him. He didn't think they'd heard the voice, but they definitely looked surprised. Optimus looked ... nonplussed, and no longer pissed off, though there was deep sadness in his eyes anyway. Ironhide was clearly shocked. Bee clapped him on the shoulder -- a shoulder that seemed to be a couple feet taller, because Bee had to reach up -- and said, "Welcome to the club, junior." Ratchet just sighed. And Grimlock ... Grimlock was impossible to read, except that he was shifting his weight from foot to foot impatiently.

Optimus and his brother exchanged a long, long look, lasting several seconds.

_:Optimus! Damnit, you've got to _do _something! The Decepticon base just fired intercontinental ballistic missiles!_: That was Lennox. _:Go!:_

Optimus demanded, _:Telemetry?:_

_:Sending you the file. But the base here is the destination. Sir.:_

_:He's probably shooting small tactical nukes.: _Optimus's assessment was met by silence by the team.

_:NUKES?: _Lennox's voice held outright horrified disbelief._ :He's insane!:_

_:Well, yes.: _That was Ratchet. _:You do have the capability to shoot them down, right? That is not a serious attack. He's just trying to distract us -- split our forces up. By now I'm sure that Soundwave's reported we have a jump-capable mech with really big teeth and Megatron's crapping out his exhaust:_

_:We _missed_!: _Lennox's voice held utter horror. _:Size?:_

_:Several megatons. Probably uranium. Not larger. At a certain size the cost/benefit falls.: _Ironhide replied, sounding grim.  
_  
:You guys fight with _nukes_?: _Lennox practically screamed into the phone.

_:We're robots. Nukes are just big damned bombs to us.: _Ironhide shot back, a partial truth. _:And the Autobots don't. The damned things are too resource intensive to build! Need I remind you the Decepticons are fucking evil bastards?:_

_:Fucking-A I've got to evacuate everyone out of this motherfucking ...: _Lennox's transmission abruptly cut out.

Suddenly, Optimus went still for a second, then reported, aloud_, _sounding almost amused, "Well, that's helpful. Fang just sent us the passkeys to the missiles' on-board computers. Wheeljack, you're the best among us right now at writing code. Get on it!"

Wheeljack replied, "Got it, Boss! On it, I can do two things at once!"

_:And you're so good at blowing things up!: _Ratchet shot, over the radio.

Ironhide, somewhat impatiently, said, "Are we going to go beat up some Decepticon slaggers or _not_?"

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

Fang, grimly, stared out the hangar door at nothing in particularly. Somewhere, there was a fight raging, and he knew the battle would come to them in short order. Starscream was shouting commands over the radio. Megatron was snarling back. Barricade, recently back online, was shouting at Deathwheels, their latest heavy-hitting recruit.

_Who happens to be one of mine, _Fang thought, with a grim smile.

His weapons were loaded and primed, and he was ready to go. He would be fighting Autobots he once considered friends, on behalf of Decepticons he cared not for at all, and he felt terribly, terribly alone. _The Autobots are in the right. Yet, they cannot win. Not in the long term. My strategy ... my strategy has not changed. Only my chances of winning are greater, now. If I get the opportunity, I will act, today. Megatron has succeeded in making even Barricade angry with him. _I _had to fix Barricade's chassis, because Megatron would not authorize the repair bay to do it -- he said Deathwheels was less likely to be damaged in an automobile accident!_

He was pretty sure Barricade would not forget that he'd stayed up all night without a recharge, getting Barricade functional again. Some of his welds had not been very pretty, but he'd earned a sullen-sounding 'thank you' at the end. He'd then shoved Barricade against the wall in retaliation for his tone of voice, demanded more gratitude, and gotten a much politer response when Barricade had realized that one of Fang's back feet was hooked into the armor over his spark chamber in clear threat. "Megatron wrote you off," Fang had snapped, "_I _can kill you without any repercussions. You're alive because I like you and think you have potential on _my _team. Don't change my mind."

It was odd, though, despite the impending battle (and apparently, Grimlock had managed to fix his long-disabled quantum engine) -- it did not feel like a day to fight. Or, perhaps, he was just depressed. It was a gray, cool, rainy afternoon -- fall, on the steppes, and soon to be winter. Perfect weather for a gloomy mood.

"Captain Fangface?" A small voice said, somewhere near his hip. Fang glanced down. The mech was one of the base's maintenance bots -- small hands, slim bodies, just big enough to be good at repairs to the bigger 'bots. The Autobots had a different approach, of course -- they trained all their crew in repairs, and had a few heavily armored specialists who could do the advanced work. Ratchet, while not as powerful as Optimus, would certainly not be easy to injure. They put far more value on the individual.

Well, Fang could certainly sympathize with that 'valuing the individual' mindset. _The reason that I attacked Bee_, Fang recalled, _Was that I could not risk an injury to myself, yet I also wanted to make the point -- to them, and to Megatron -- that I am not an Autobot, and never will be again. The Autobots still have not figured out Megatron has a spy in their midst. He knew I nearly killed Bee, and yet he discredits my abilities. He doesn't realize that if I wanted Bee dead, he would have been. It is probably a good thing both of them underestimate what I can do in a fight.  
_  
The little mech, in a very tentative, scared voice, repeated, "Boss? I'm sorry, sorry, _sorry, _to interrupt your ..." a hesitation, "... to interrupt you, but Starscream says there are Autobots inbound and he wants you at his side during the fight."

_Cover his aft, he means. _Fang shook his head, allowing exasperation to show on his face. It was the little things, he hoped, that would help him establish that he was a sympathetic leader ... an ally, against their evil overlords.

The repair mech flinched back.

Fang vented an aggravated sigh. The mech flinched further.

He crouched down, realizing that he'd just terrified the poor thing half out of its mid. This one didn't know him at all yet. Well, he'd have to change that. He much preferred for them to trust him than fear him.

The mech froze, staring at him.

"I need to apologize to you," Fang said, low, after a quick glance to make sure nobody was looking. "I didn't mean to frighten you. You're new, aren't you?"

A scared nod.

"I'm Captain Fangface. You'll probably end up under my command anyway." He rested a hand on the little 'bot's thin shoulder. It likely transformed into some sort of equipment -- a very large radio, perhaps. It had big speakers on its chest. He could feel it shaking as its processors tried to overload from terror, but at his touch, it calmed a little.

"They said Megatron killed my predecessor." The mech fidgeted in place before asking, "Is ... is that true?"

"He did." Fang confirmed, quietly. "Stay out of Megatron's way, if you can help it. Other than being scared, are you well? You've probably spent centuries in stasis."

A nod. However, Fang thought that the little mech wasn't telling the complete truth. He persisted, "Were you injured, when they captured you? I'm assuming you did _not _volunteer for this."

In response, the repair bot held up a limp hand.

There was a battle coming. He should be preparing for it. However, even the other little mechs would not fix their own injured without a direct order. They seemed to think that the fewer of them that there were, the more valuable each individual was. Therefore, they almost celebrated each time Megatron offlined another of their numbers. Fang was not so sure that Megatron thought that far ahead, though, particularly these days. After he'd been revived by the Fallen he'd become even crazier than every before.

Fang blew a short, sharp sigh out through his auditory receptors, a noise that made the mech give him a wary look. He was working on the attitude the little mechs had towards their peers -- his job was keeping them organized and useful, and that would be a lot easier if they weren't so bloodthirsty towards one another. _Most are bare Sparklings anyway ... they will improve as they gain age and wisdom. It's my job to help them along that path._ _Assuming they survive ... well, most of us won't. Still ..._

He warned the repair mech, '"There are Autobots coming, probably in a few minutes. They're very angry and they _will kill you _if they catch you."

"Starscream said I was supposed to fight." Confusion, from the mech.

"And you will die, and do little for our cause." Fang put a hand on the little one's shoulder again, and turned him around with a push. This repair was simple -- just a couple of loose wires. At his size, the mech didn't even had hydraulics -- just electrically powered servos and motors. He pulled a bit of electrical tape out of the pouch he carried at his waist, and did a quick patch. "There. That will hold you for a few hours. If we both survive this battle, see me, and I'll fix it better. Nobody else will work on you little ones."

The mech stared up at him in wonder.

It was easy, really, to earn the affection of the little ones. Take care of them and they adored you. Discipline them, and they followed your commands. Teach them, and they did their jobs better. Simple. Effective. And Starscream, in a million years, would never understand how he managed to so effectively work with the sparklings. Most of the Decepticons didn't, though he had a feeling Soundwave understood. He almost -- almost -- liked Soundwave, simply because Soundwave cared for his minions.

"Thank you," the mech whispered. "I haven't ... not in a thousand years ... nobody's ever been kind ..."

"Mmmhmm." He gave him a gentle shove in the direction of the repair bay. "Best go look like you're getting ready for a battle."

And then the skies over the base exploded with noise, and sound, and Autobots screaming war cries came raining down.

Fangface didn't even jump in surprise. He simply lifted his arm, took aim with one of his laser weapons, and calmly nailed Bee in the battle mask, before Bee even hit the ground. He was, after all, a Decepticon.

* * *

Bee had gone through a thousand space/time shifts in his life, and the short transit from the base to the Decepticon camp was the worst of his life. Grim's jump was staticky and uneven, vertigo inducing. _Damnit, that quantum engine needs some serious maintence. I am _walking _home. Grimlock is insane!_

He came out the other end disoriented, also fifty feet above the ground, and promptly got hit in the battle mask with a relatively harmless but blinding flash of laser. Optics washed out despite the shielding of his mask, he landed awkwardly on a random piece of equipment -- the equipment went _crunch _and emitted sparks, and he scrambled to his feet and charged his pulse cannon and dove for the cover of a half-seen building entrance. He couldn't make out anything than lights and shadows, all overlaid with enormous purple afterimages, but his hearing worked and he could _hear _mechs swearing in Decepticon.

Something struck him in the shoulder, hard; he whipped around, prayed one of the others was not in his way, and fired at the sound of the click of metal on metal. There was a satisfying small explosion.

_I've got energon for forty-five blasts_, he thought, absently. A scant five minutes ago, it would have been half that -- his energon use was now dramatically more efficient. _And six rockets. Save the rockets for the bigger mechs. _He could see his heads-up display even if he couldn't use his primary optics_, _as that as a direct feed to his processor core, and he toggled it over to a view from his secondary sensors. Normally, those sensors were only used for detecting anything that would otherwise sneak up behind him, or for vision when he was in alt mode, but they'd work until his vision improved.

_:Bee, report your status: _Optimus demanded.

He could see Optimus, now, with slightly less acuity. The Prime -- no wait, not _the _Prime anymore! -- was crouched behind the cover of a trailer, visible through the door. He stated, _:Primary optics temporarily offline. Secondary functional.:_

_:ETA to autorepair?:_

_:Ten minutes or less.:_

_:Good.: _Optimus sent him a quick video file of what he was seeing -- which was a completely empty road between hangars. Bee reciprocated with an image of the empty hangar he'd dove into -- the only mech in it was dead, in pieces, against the far wall. Some sort of maintenance mech, Bee thought, with no small amount of regret. He had not known what was shooting at him, only that there was a threat, and this was war.

The structures were all of Decepticon design, which was both reassuring and decidedly _not _-- they'd entrenched themselves well enough here to be able to afford the resources to make large buildings. Also, human hangars tended to have thin corrugated aluminum walls, designed simply to protect the contents of the hangars from precipitation and solar radiation. They generally lacked even climate control. By contrast, Decepticons built armored structures that were proof against anything short of high explosives -- he would _not _be kicking his way through that reinforced concrete.

_They've been here awhile_, Bee thought, _A few years at least. But they _are _building everything to Decepticon specs, which tends to lead me to believe they are not occupying this land with the knowledge or cooperation of the human government that claims it. This is a rather remote and inhospitable area._

The wind that whipped through the door was cold even by mech standards, and he bumped up his internal heaters a notch. Cybertron had an average surface temperature about half again what Earth's was. Mechs were not built to tolerate temperatures significantly below the freezing point of water, as hydraulic lines seized up. They were a lot closer, geographically speaking, to this world's northern pole than the Autobot base, and it was only early morning, so it was uncomfortably cool.

Then an explosion ripped open the rear of the hanger and a very _large _Decepticon tank roared through. Bee shot a wordless video plus a quick scan of the mech's EM profile at the rest of the team, preferring to let the picture speak for itself, even as he dove away from the tank.

_:SHOCKWAVE: _Optimus's warning was confirmation of what Bee feared. It was an ugly surprise.

_:I thought we killed that slagger on Nieryl Six! Sorry, Prime -- Primes!: _Magnus sounded truly disgusted with himself. _:Now we know what hit the transport. If I'd known he was here ...:_

Hot Rod put in, _:We weren't sure, but we hoped his damage wasn't repairable.:_

Bee said, grimly, "I'll handle Shockwave. You guys go take out Megatron."

_:Be careful, Bee.: _Optimus said.

_:Do NOT create more work for me than I already have,: _Ratchet snarled, and Bee knew he was hiding his concern with anger.

"You would challenge _me_?" Shockwave said, in true astonishment, as Bee did not flee even as the others moved out to continue their assault. Instead, Bee took full advantage of his natural speed to dodge several blasts from the tank's pulse cannon.

He was not bigger than Shockwave. Point of fact, he was 34.23 percent of Shockwave's mass. Shockwave had enormous reserves for that blasted cannon, he was fast, he was smart, and he was likely _very _heavily armored. And he had a potent forceshield.

However, Bee was faster. _That's my sole advantage. Got to use it._

Additional point of fact -- it took .03 seconds for that cannon to recharge after each blast. And Bee's own pulse cannon had just gotten a surprise upgrade. He realized this in one nanosecond. Then he heard the slight whine of charging capacitors that preceeded a blast from that tank's weapon. He dodged upwards, bounced off the ceiling, avoided getting slagged by far too close of a margin -- he'd be fixing his paint, tomorrow, assuming he survived today, and his sensors screamed warnings as plasma washed across his arm -- and headed straight at Shockwave with a tremendous thrust of his legs off the cement rafters. Shockwave brought his gun to bear, and Bee saw straight up the barrel as the insides start to glow.

Bumblebee shot down the muzzle of that gun, as it was the only part of Shockwave that wasn't armored. There was a muffled _whoomph _as his energy pulse overloaded already highly charged capacitors. Shockwave made a garbled sound, jumped convulsively, then quite moving.

Not trusting Shockwave to _stay _out of the fight, Bee bounced off the gunner turret on the top of the tank, landed on the far side of the vehicle, thrust his pulse-cannon laden arm under the chassis and fired off three more good shots at what was hopefully his vulnerable undercarriage.

Grimly, Bumblebee thought, _Forty-one rounds left. Six missiles. Go. Follow the others._

Followed by a moment of clarity as he realized, _Primus, I just took out Shockwave!_

_:Shockwave's down!: _He reported. _:Primary optics still offline.:_

_:Good job, Bumblebee.: _Optimus's praise made his processors hum with pleasure. Getting back into Prime's good graces was never very hard, but still, it felt good to hear Prime's praise. _:How are you doing with your Matrix?:_

_:I never would have tried that move without it,: _He responded, candidly, sending Prime a video of the fight. _:I knew I would have a nanosecond to spare, and went for it. I think one of the previous Primes who carried this Matrix was built for speed. More than me.:_

He slipped out the hole in the back of the building, emerging onto a nearly deserted alley between two rows of forboding cement structures. Living quarters, he thought, to his right -- they were the right size for barracks. The number of barracks was a bit ominous. _They could house a couple hundred Decepticons here, easy. This was not on the satellite photos or in the Russian intel -- they must be using holographic shielding over the base. _Slagging _Decepticons -- I wish I'd had time to do some recon of my own._

Arcee reported, _:Wheeljack says the nukes are offline. Repeat, the nukes are offline.:_

_:Hallelujah.: _Ratchet snapped. _:You'd think the humans could at least develop the technology to shoot down their own missiles. That's _basic _self defense.:_

_:Politics are involved on that,: _Ironhide said, sounding aggravated. _:Apparently, developing defensive capabilities is seen as threatening by one's enemies.:_

_:Well, yeah, that makes political sense.: _Hot Rod just sighed. _:If your enemies can't defend themselves, they're must easier to defeat if it comes to a shooting war. -- Optimus, where _is _everyone? You'd think they'd be trying to kill us by now.:_

Arcee transmitted a quick image of an entirely deserted human graveyard -- implying it was both quiet, and that there would be death here as soon as they located the enemy, and accompanying the message by an icon indicating irony. Apparently, they were discovering the same thing that Bee was -- lots of barracks, lots of buildings, no Decepticons except for the unfortunate maintenance 'bot and Shockwave. For that matter, why had Shockwave attacked?

_:He didn't know I'd gotten an upgrade.:_

That answer was obvious, in retrospect.

He slipped as quietly down the alley as possible, two missiles locked and loaded and pulse cannon fully charged. His sensors were extended to the max, listening, watching, and _feeling _for any threat. Humans often vastly underestimated the information mechs could take in -- he could detect everything from the electromagnetic spectrum to minute vibrations in the ground. In this case, warning came from a subtle change in the atmospheric composition -- less oxygen, more CO and NO, indicating some sort of a combustion source inside a building ahead. The walls of the building were too thick to permit a thermal image, even had his primary optics been online, but he could "smell" something coming from the building's vents.

Mechs had highly efficient fuel systems. They didn't emit many waste products, though some were inevitable, even using energon and electrochemical reactors for fuel -- and since their homeworld had no organic life, pollution was merely seen as wasteful, not harmful. He stood quietly, and sensed no vibrations in the ground to indicate a human-made combustion engine generator or other machinery. He did, however, hear the whisper of gears, the slight click of metal on metal. If he had been moving, he would have not sensed anything, and few 'bots had sensors to equal his own.

_:Careful.: _He warned, _:There's something ahead ...: _He transmitted GPS coordinates to the rest of the team.

_:Got it. We're on the other side of the building. The door's fifty hundred meters ahead.: _Optimus said.  
_  
:They're likely laying an ambush, but I'm behind them. Suggestion: I surprise them the same way Shockwave tried with us?: _Bumblebee thought it might work. Likely, Shockwave's attack had been intended to set them running up the road, blindly heading into an ambush. He had not counted on running into Bee-with-a-Matrix, however.

He knew what Optimus's answer would be -- which was an affirmative. He dropped to one knee, waited for confirmation from the team that they were ready, and then unloaded a charge from his pulse cannon into that wall. This punched a hole a couple meters across through the concrete -- he then unloaded both missiles into the interior, guiding them with his heads up display after they launched so that they both passed through that small hole.

The explosion was deafening, and screaming curses that followed were most satisfying. He was pretty sure both missiles had hit the backside of a very large mech -- he didn't know who, but they sounded furious. The mech spun to face him, and he realized it was a constructicon. He didn't have a name for the Decepticon, and didn't really care -- he just noted a face that had "teeth" made from the bucket of a large tractor, and a really, really, _really _big rocket launcher between the thing's legs.

They shot video as a matter of course during a battle. Later, they would show the videos of the fights to their human allies. Every single woman who ever saw that Decepticon would burst out laughing hysterically. Five seconds later, when Arcee took him out with a well-placed laser rifle shot to the magazine of rockets, which was clustered beneath the barrel of that launcher, every human man would react with a wince.

They never did get his name.

The explosion was tremendous.

Arcee, proving she watched nearly as many human movies as Bumblebee, snorted over the radio, _:Guess he wasn't as happy to see me as he looked.:_

Bee lunged through the opening, plasma cannon at the ready. The inside of the hangar -- which appeared to be a repair bay -- was full of the ambush party. Multiple large mechs, mostly constructicons, a few predacons. No leadership. Just minions. The fight was a melee -- his processors were stretched to the max as he kept track of the locations of the rest of his party, watched for incoming shots, and hit as many targets as he could.

He got hit twice, once in the shoulder and once in the knee. Neither strike, both from pulse cannons, did much damage. On one level, this surprised him. On another, he knew he could thank the Matrix for that. His systems were _seriously _upgraded, in ways he was just beginning to appreciate.

A whistle, from the hangar doorway. And mocking laughter. "Die, Autobots!"

Bee looked up, just in time to see Megatron there, out of the blue. The damned crazy-ass leader was grinning a terrible grin. He lobbed something into the middle of the fight and ducked around the door.

Bee saw it, arcing through the air, something the size of a couple basketballs.

_He set us up! _Bee realized, in real horror. Not only had he set them up, probably guessing they'd detect the "ambush" -- but he'd sacrified at least a dozen of his soldiers to do it!

Hot Rod's oath rivaled one of Ratchet's for descriptive language. Bee, very rarely, had heard Roddy say anything anywhere near close to that profane. The -- grenade, Bee guessed -- bounced across the concrete floor and rolled to a stop against the dead and twisted hulk of the unusually endowed Constructicon. The smoke was so thick that Bee couldn't see precisely what it was.

Grimlock threw a still-twitching mech against a far wall with a toss of his head, then lunged for the grenade, even as the rest of the team was diving for the door as one frightened mass. Ironhide was first, and he leaped out the door shooting, but now the _real _ambush was outside -- Bee, close to Ironhide's heels, saw him get hit with a plasma cannon blast at startlingly close range, and heard Starscream's shriek of glee.

Bee skidded to a halt so quick that Arcee ran into him, propelling him into the open. He saw Starscream, perched on the roof of a building opposite, and saw the inside of Starscream's cannon, and raised his own to shoot back, but Optimus's hand closed on his shoulder and yanked him backwards through door. Plasma snarled past his head, blistering his paint and leaving all his auxiliary optics on that side of his body overloaded.

Behind them, rather than an explosion, there was the distinctive _crack _of Grimlock's quantum engine. Sunlight suddenly streamed in over their heads, and concrete gravel trickled down. He'd shifted out, and taken the roof and a sizable chunk of floor with him. Nearly simultaneously, there was a double crack-crack as Grimlock popped in, and out again, directly over Megatron's head. Rubble, and presumably some sort of explosive, fell down.

Grimlock landed back in their midst, looking proud of himself, just as an _enormous _wash of light and fire and a blast wave that probably would have killed a human hit them. The ceiling, already structurally unsound, collapsed, doing little damage but burying them under a couple feet of rubble. Bee kicked frantically, terrified he was going to be trapped and pinned in place

_:Solar grenade!: _Ratchet identified. In the confined space of a reinforced hangar, that likely would have killed them all. _:He's pulling out all the stops!:_

_:Their supply chain is way better than ours,: _Bee snapped.

_:Ironhide! Can you read me?: _Optimus demanded, even as he was pulling Bee out from under a concrete slab. Bee was definitely surprised by how little damage he was taking.  
_  
:Operational. Megatron's not moving.: _Ironhide's response was reassuringly steady.  
_  
:Status report, yours?: _Ratchet demanded, of Ironhide. Bee, knowing that Ratchet would want the same from him, had already fired off a quick assurance that the falling concrete had dented his armor and he had gravel in his gears, but he was still able to fight.

_:Operational. Playing dead until I can get all my processors online. Bunch reset with the impact. Then I can party again.:_

_:Clarify.:_ Ratchet wasn't buying that assurance that he was in fighting condition. He grabbed Bee's arm without warning or apology and had a closer look at some of the damage caused by Shockwave's pulse cannon.

Ironhide impatiently dumped a report that was mostly machine-language at Ratchet, cc'ing the rest of the team. He'd lost all the hydraulic lines in one arm, but it was not his shooting arm. As he'd said, he was also busily bringing a good chunk of his processor core back online as the shock of the impact had shorted a few vital circuits out and his auto-repair routines had not rerouted power quick enough. He could fight, given a few more seconds.

_:Visual on Starscream?: _Optimus asked.

_:No sir.:_

_:Bee, hold still or you're going to lose power to your cannon the next time you fire it.: _Ratchet's finger changed into a pair of pliers and he roughly pried a bit of Bee's armor aside with his other hand; Bee hastily released the plate or Ratchet probably would have bent it.

_:Problem?: _Optimus demanded. He warily peered around the remnants of the door, then jerked his head back when a burst from a laser rifle hissed through the air. That rifle didn't have much power, but someone out there had _very _good aim.

_:The conduit from Bee's energon reactor to his pulse cannon's slagged. It's a wonder it's still working.: _Ratchet produced a replacement length of cable from a compartment on his leg.

_:Time for a repair?: _Optimus asked, matter-of-factly.  
_  
:Minute or less, if Bee can hold still while I do it. I'm not going to take anything offline while we do this.: _

"Owe!" Bee protested, as Ratchet yanked the original cable out of its socket and warning pain -- and warning errors -- hit his processors. Ratchet thumped him hard upside the head for flinching.

_:You pinch my fingers, Bee, and I will ...: _

Whatever Ratchet planned to do to him was lost when Starscream flipped over the edge of the remaining roof and nailed Grimlock in the head with a pulse cannon blast. Behind him came a tide of small mechs, flowing over the crumbling walls of the hangar -- and bringing up the rear was Fangface, gleaming silver, lithe and graceful.

"Fang MINE!" Grimlock roared, lunging for him, right over the heads of the several hundred insecticons that had suddenly appeared. Being hit in the head with a pulse cannon only seemed to have pissed him off. Bee made a mental note to take a peek at Grimlock's stats -- Bee knew that would have offlined him, Matrix or no!

_:Megatron's moving, and we got trouble, boss. Barricade, something that looks like a monster truck, and a slagged ... I don't know _what _that pit-inspired thing is, but it's got eight wheels and a missile launcher and it's military.: _Ironhide still wasn't moving, though he followed this message with a burst of machine code from his repair subroutines indicating he was as functional as he was going to get.

Bumblebee yanked partially free Ratchet's grasp and fired every missile he had at Starscream, who he judged to be the biggest threat -- though Grimlock was probably being tactically smart to go for Fang, since Grimlock was still unarmed except for his teeth and claws. Fang had the lightest weaponry and the least amount of armor, though he packed a whopping big forcefield for his mass.

Ratchet screamed obscenities and threats both as Bee's missiles hissed past his head, but did _not _let go of Bee's arm. The missiles, plus Arcee's laser rifle, and Optimus's pulse cannon, all hit Starscream simultaneously, and he _kept _coming, a forcefield crackling around his torso. He'd apparently upgraded his defenses, and he was big enough to carry one massive powerplant to drive that forcefield. The blast wave from the exploding missiles was blinding, and knocked them all backwards, though it also took out a tiny mechs.

Ratchet slammed the power cable home into its casing, snarled, "There. You can go suicide on Starscream's cannon now!"

Across the room, Grim lunged for Fang, and Fang neatly dodged the larger mech's snapping jaws. "You're not my target!" Fangface said, cheerfully, "We'll have to fight another day, you and I!"

Megatron appeared in the hole that Bee had blasted in the wall. He knocked it larger with his fist, and then lowered his cannon and aimed it at Optimus, even as the rest of the team was screaming warnings. Fangface flattened himself to the ground as Megatron shot over his head, nearly singing the cat's armor. "Dude!" Fang snapped, at Megatron, "Am I not at least valuable enough to you to _miss_?"

Fang then dodged another attempt by Grimlock to bite him, which coincidentally gave Megatron a broadside shot at the Autobot. Megatron, however, was aiming for Optimus -- Optimus, sensibly enough, was _running. _There was no cover in the remains of the hangar, except for Starscream, standing in the middle of it. Optimus took that dubious protection, since Starscream was currently shooting at a very rapidly moving Arcee, and dove behind Starscream just as Megatron fired.

The blast hit Starscream square in the hip. Starscream went down with an oath of surprise, as _more _Decepticons entered through the doorway -- Barricade and the monster truck (who now had monster truck tires on either side of his head). The eight wheeled army vehicle now stood taller than the roof, and stared over it. Ironhide leaped to his feet in a sudden flurry of motion, rammed his rocket launcher into the monster truck's abdomen, and fired. The truck went down, twitching, clearly either offlined or dead.

Barricade and Hot Rod were tumbling wildly across the floor. Bee's spark contracted in fear, as he monitored that fight while simultaneously trying to get to Optimus through a veritable tide of kniee-high mechs all bearing laser rifles, and with annoyingly accurate aim -- he'd personally fought Barricade himself more than once, and knew exactly how nasty of a close range fighter he was. Hot Rod was so young. Barricade was so experienced.

To Bee's relief, Hot Rod won, leaving Barricade in a sparking, twitching ruin. Looking satisfied with himself, though with more than a few dents, Hot Rod scrambled back to his feet. He started to take aim at the downed Decepticon's spark chamber, then shook his head and just blasted his head off. Barricade went into instant stasis lock, though he was not dead.

"Megatron!" Starscream snarled, "You shot me!"

Fang ducked between Grimlock's legs, grabbed his tail, kicked him in the hip, and knocked him off balance. Then he snarled to the other Decepticons, "See how little your leaders cares even for each other?"

Bee got hit in the optics _again_. With an annoyed snarl he switched over to radar and sonar, and used _that _to target his shots. This gave him significantly less resolution, most of the targets were just big enough to bite his kneecaps off, had wings, or ran on four legs. It wasn't like he had any trouble identifying what to shoot at.

Optimus, still running, tackled Megatron. The two 'bots went rolling and tumbling across the rubble-strewn floor, neither able to get a shot in. Fangface dodged a missile from Ironhide (who had rejoined the fight), a swipe from Ratchet's saw, and bounced off the wall. He leaped into the air, across the field of battle (Arcee narrowly missed him with her laser rifle) and ...

... much to Bee's shock ...

... hit Starscream dead on in the chest. The cat sank his teeth into Starscream's shoulder, yanked his clawed back feet up, and ripped into Starscream with deadly efficient power. Once he had the armor torn away he whipped his laser-rifle armored tail up and fired it into Starscream's spark chamber. There was a thunderous explosion of released energy. Fang hit the ground hard, flopped a couple of times, scrambled to his feet, and said to the very surprised Autobots (and the not so surprised, as it turned out, Decepticons), "What? Never seen a coup before?"

He cocked a hind foot forward and inspected it carefully, before seizing a bit of crumpled metal with his teeth and worrying it loose. He seemed completely unconcerned that either the Autobots or the Decepticons might shoot at him. After a couple seconds, he looked up, and said, "You might want to help Optimus with Megatron. I value my hide too much to wrestle with that one."

Grimlock snorted fire, then said, _:Get Megatron now. Deal with cat later.:_

"Fangface, I will see you _dead_!" Megatron snarled, even as he was trying to do the same to Optimus. However, when he looked up and saw _every _'bot headed his way, he yelped in a very different tone of voice. He thrashed free of Optimus's grasp, and tried to leap aloft ...

Grimlock lunged into the air after him, jaws closing on his foot. And then there was a _crack, _and both disappeared ... replaced by several cubic yards of ... something ... that exploded violently in a fiery hot shower of molten rock. That rock was hot enough to char even their armor, and Decepticon and Autobot alike screamed in shock and pain.

One nanosecond later, Grimlock reapeared, minus the leader of the Decepticons. His armor was smoking, and looked slightly melted.

"Where did you _go_?" Ratchet demanded.

Grimlock pointed down. "Eighteen point three miles. Roughly. Earth _smash_."

"You ... teleported ... into the earth's _mantle_?" Ratchet said, in real disbelief. "Hot Rod's right! You're not a badass, you're a dumbass!"

Mournfully, Grimlock said, "Quantum engine _broke _now. Too much strain, jumping back out so fast. But we won."

"You sure about that?" Fang asked, walking calmly over to them. The army of little mechs parted before him.

Six Autobots charged their respective weapons. Grimlock just bared his teeth and shot fire from the vents on the side of his head.

"Oh, put those away." Fangface sat on his haunches and regarded them, with an apparently thoughtful air. "You note my troops -- and they're _my troops _now -- are not attacking you anymore."

"You're calling a truce?" Bee said, incredulously.

Fang inspected his claws. "You have twelve very angry soldiers incoming, who should be here ..."

A fireball blasted overhead.

"... any second. We'd win, but the cost would be too high. I don't like fights where I can't be the clear victor. Go home, Autobots. We'll talk later."

_:We could probably take him_,_: _Ironhide suggested.

"You could kill me," Fang said, mildly, though he could not have understood that encrypted comment, "but then you'd need to deal with whoever took my place. Likely, that would be Soundwave. Who would you prefer as an enemy?"

_:He has a point. Stand down, for the moment, but stay alert,: _Optimus said, sounding almost amused. "I must ask, Fangface, if you intended this all along?"

The cat inspected his other forefoot before answering. "This? Totally unplanned. Completely. I never plan _anything_."

"Liar," Bee accused.

"What, you think I betrayed my best buddies four thousand years ago because Starscream offered to make me an officer, not because I wanted to be a Decepticon, but because I thought I could end up a Decepticon _leader_?" Fang chewed on one talon for a second, then pointed the nail at them. "Nah. Too complicated. Too likely to fail. Though it did work."

"You ..." Bee stared at him, absolutely floored.

Fang shrugged. "Maybe I thought the best way to make changes was from inside. Or maybe I just wanted the power. Maybe both. Or maybe this was pure impulse today. You figure it out."

Hot Shot skidded through the hole in the wall, guns up, looking ready for a fight. Optimus held a hand up to him and said mildly, "Stand down, Hot Shot. I think the battle's done for today."

"Damn, I missed the party." Hot Shot sounded disappointed. Then he eyed the staring Decepticons and said, with his cannons primed to fire, "Are you _sure_, Boss? Because I still see some live enemies."

"He said, STAND DOWN!" Ironhide snapped. "That's an ORDER."

Fang chewed on his nails again, then said, still sounding amused, "I can see we're both going to have hot-heads to deal with, Optimus." He rose, then, and turned away, then added over his shoulder, "The future's going to be very interesting, between us, isn't it?"

Optimus seemed to relax, just a little, to Bee's eye. Gravely, their leader said, "I expect it will."

"Oh, and keep Wheelie with you. That way, you know I won't attack lightly." Fang sighed, and paused, and half turned back, and said to Optimus, "The kid should honor his oaths, anyway. He needs to learn to do that. Or -- if he does break them, there better be a damn good reason besides simply being unhappy. Teach him that, will you, Optimus?"

"Of course," Optimus said, gravely.

"I expect we _will _meet again on the field of battle." Fang headed for the remains of the door. Without looking back, he added, "And you, Optimus -- go a little easier on Bee. He's just a kid too, you know."

Stung, Bee started to fire off a retort, but Optimus effectively shut him up with, _:Bee, did you tell Fang, somehow, about our discussion?:_

_:No.:_

_:Then we have a spy.:_

_:It probably _is _Wheelie_,_: _Bumblebee sighed.

_:Perhaps. -- __Arcee, will you have Arcee Yellow tell Silverbolt to come pick us up? I believe it is time to go home.:_

Bee checked his chronometer, and realized that the battle had taken less than ten minutes, total. He felt like he'd been fighting for days.  
_  
_

* * *


	18. Chapter 18

Ten Minutes Earlier

* * *

"Damn!" Mikaela swore, as something in the ruined 'bot on the table before arced and sent sparks shooting at her. Several landed on her wrist, leaving burns -- _not _the first ones, either. She hissed, then poked gingerly at the offending wires with an insulated screwdriver, shoving them apart so they wouldn't contact each other again. Hopefully. The amount of amps that the 'bots ran through their systems was truly frightening, and she had taken Ratchet's warnings to heart.

Sunstreaker smelled of ozone and burnt rubber, charred carbon and leaking coolant. Occasionally, small servos and motors clicked and whirred in that ravaged body, often in reaction to her touch as she shoved bits and pieces of things out of the way. He was conscious, and hurting, but not able to move much -- fortunately.

"Buddy," she said, as she tediously worked on the crack, "stay with me here."

That got her a stronger than usual twitch. He could _hear _her.

"'Kaela, can I get you anything?" Sam said, making her jump.

"No!" She said, startled. The welding mask she was wearing limited her field of view, and the noise had deafened her to his approach. Then she reconsidered. "A soda from the machine."

It was hot work -- the 'bot had been through a fire, and waves of heat rolled off him. His armor was so warm still that she'd thrown an old blanket over it, so she could lean on his chest plates and not burn herself, but she was still doing damage to her fingers and forearms. The welding threw off heat, as well, and it was a warm summer night. Her shirt was stuck to her back, her hair hung down in strings in her eyes, and she suspected she smelled like a locker room.

The weld was about half done. It was frustratingly slow going -- it couldn't be rushed, she had to be precise and neat.

"Am I goinksshhhhht die?" The 'bot said, startling her. His voice was full of static -- electrical shorts, she thought, causing that.

"Not if I can fucking help it," she assured him.

"Where did Sidekss!httt go?"

"Patrol," she said, truthfully, "We're worried about a raid."

"Radio's out. I can't kkssskkkttttt him."

"He's out there. He's fine. I promise."

"I don't kkkkkssssssht voice. You kksssshshh or new voice kssssshhhtt?"

She guessed he thought she was a 'bot, and decided to let him keep that assumption for now. "I'm new."

"Not many new kkksssssshhht these kksssshhht."

She had five inches to go, of that terrible crack. Through it, she could see a blue glow -- she wasn't sure if she was looking at a forcefield, or at his very spark. His soul. He fell silent, for a bit, and she worked steadily.

Then he said, in alarm, "Power dropping ... power dropping ... ksssshhht dropping ..."

Wheeljack looked up from Elita and snapped, "Mikaela! You're losing him! Better hurry, girl!"

"Right. Working on that." Three inches.

"Kssshhhht ... kshhh ... kssssssshhhtttttt!"

No words, just static.

Belatedly, she realized, _Ratchet said he was worried about the power pack mounts being compromised. I wonder if the static I'm hearing is from that?_

She shoved her welding mask up and squinted at the contacts. The power pack was comprised of an exotic metal she couldn't begin to identify other than 'silver in color.' It was held in place by _very _sturdy mounts and several screws. However, as Ratchet had indicated, the force of the explosion had been so ferocious that there was a crack through the battery itself. It seemed to be solid state, fortunately, not containing liquid -- but the mount beneath it was bent.

She could see the barest hint of a flicker of a spark as electricity arced between the power pack and a contact plate.

"Hrmm." She poked at the power pack with her insulated screwdriver. It jiggled and Sunny issued a wordless hiss of static. Alarmed, she rammed the screwdriver into a strategic space, jamming the battery pack into place a bit better. The arcing quit, and Sunny said faintly, "That's better."

Three minutes later, Elita jerked to life on the next table over. Broken, mangled, burned, she still managed to sit up and demand, "Wheeljack. Passkeys? -- Thank you. Writing code ..."

"I couldn't figure it out," Wheeljack growled at everyone in general, disgruntled. "Programming? Not my thing. I'm a better engineer than a programmer."

"Which isn't saying much," Inferno growled.

Mikaela more or less ignored both of them. She had half an inch to go ...

A quarter of an inch ...

... _There_.

Done with the weld, she moved away. Sam was next to her -- he offered her the soda, and she took a long drink, then snapped at him, "Get the batteries off the shelf. You'll need a ladder ..."

"I already got them, Goddess." That was Wheelie. She really noticed him for the first time -- he'd apparently been seated on the head of the table, in a miserable hunched position, for quite awhile. She had been aware of him peripherally, but had not known he'd retrieved the box of power packs. He also had a second box of small pieces of scrap metal, flux, solder, and an iron.

"Thanks."

Hesitantly, Wheelie said, "Can ... can I help?"

She gave him a cautious look, wondering if he wouldn't just get cooked on something electrical.

He hunched further, and said in a soft voice, "I'm a maintenance 'bot, by design. Fang ... taught me on his own systems, Mikaela. He didn't trust the Decepticon repair bay -- both because he just didn't trust them politically, and because they weren't very good. He needs pretty regular maintenance, not to mention any repairs. He's basically a prototype and if the war hadn't happened, there'd be a lot more like him -- but the program that built him was cancelled for funding reasons. Most techs don't even have the modules to know how to work on him, and most don't care to learn. He's a bit of an expensive drain on their resources, y'know? That was his reason for picking out a sparkling, he claimed: he wanted to train someone himself. He pays for most of his own repairs, has them done by his own personal tech, because the leadership wouldn't find it cost effective."

Wheelie blinked a couple of times, then added, "He _needed _me, as much as I needed him. I expect he's found a replacement for me, but ... I am trained, Mikaela. I may not be Ratchet, but this ..." he gestured hesitantly at the twitching ruin of a 'bot "... mech's systems are _way _simpler than ..." he trailed off. "I suspect I'd have gone into stasis lock from the shock of it if they'd ever brought Fang back in this shape, though. And _not _been able to fix him."

"That's encouraging to hear," the bot on the table growled at him.

Mikaela nodded, however, and said, "Get a soldering iron. You work on that side, I'll work on this side."

Elita reported, "Missiles offline!"

"Thank _God_," Sam breathed softly.

Some part of her had been peripherally aware that there were _nukes _headed there way, and also that the plan was to head for the hills when they were forty-five minutes out, the wounded be damned -- that Silverbolt had parked himself outside their hangar, and that the human soldiers were already loading mission-critical equipment (mostly laptops, PCs, and records) into him and into helicopters at a frantic rate. That there were sirens screaming outside, and people madly running, and more swearing than she'd ever heard in her life and she'd grown up in the ghetto.

She was only distantly aware of this, however.

Elita made a small sound and collapsed backwards with a crash of falling metal. She seemed to be speaking, or trying to, in English, but the words were garbled nonsense.

Doc said, sarcastically, "At least she didn't blow _up_, Wheeljack."

"Shit, her processor core's destablizing!" Wheeljack seemed to find this more of an emergency than Doc. "We're going to lose her too!"

Inferno grabbed a tool off the shelf, ripped a plate off the other bot's chest, and then kept working.

Mikaela was only peripherally aware of that, too. Her focus was as tight as the six silvery battery packs, smashed into bits by shrapnel, and soldering new connections and welding new brackets for them.

"This is temporary," Wheelie said, "No offense, but I don't trust that weld you made until we can x-ray it."

"Neither do I."

"That's _so _great to hear," Sunny snarled, "Who's working on me, the two Stooges? Where's number three?"

"Number three would be you," Mikaela snapped, stung a little.

"I think ..." Wheelie ignored Sunny's comment and gave her a nervous look. "If you'll protect me from Ratchet's wrath later, I think I know how to install a new energon power plant."

"Get it wrong and you'll need to face _my _wrath." The 'bot sounded a good bit better, possibly because she'd managed to connect the first sound power pack. However, his tone was distinctly unfriendly and he waved his one mobile arm around, knocking Wheelie to the floor with a crash.

"Hold that arm still or I'll weld it to the table," Mikaela said, sweetly.

"Like she said, be nice," Wheelie snapped, as he jumped back up. "I don't know if you followed everything, buddy, but you'd be _dead _if not for her."

"Sunny? Be nice?" Wheeljack sniped from across the room. "Wheelie, for lousy dispositions and nasty tempers, he beats _you_."

"I _heard _that," Sunny growled. "_Don't _call me Sunny!"

Wheelie lifted a middle finger up in Wheeljack's direction, at his back (which, Mikaela knew, did not necessarily mean Wheeljack didn't _see _the gesture) then crawled across Sunny's ravaged chest with a pair of wire cutters. Wordlessly, he cut several good-sized wires. The arm went limp.

"Slag, I can't move at all!" The bot twitched on the table, and the small movement nearly pinched Mikaela's fingers.

She snapped, "Hold still."

"Hold still or I'll just take your processor core offline," Wheelie clarified, "You've got aux power _and _that weld is probably good enough. You won't lose spark containment. Probably."

"Slagging _hurts_," the 'bot complained.

"Yeah, well, maybe we _should _take you offline, then." She waited, making sure she wasn't going to lose part of her hand.

Sullenly, "I'll hold still."

"Good." She returned to work.

Sam said nervously, "Um, Mikaela? Shouldn't you be, umm, _nicer _to him?"

"He's an Autobot." She found a charred bit of wire, and ripped it out. "He'll get over it."

"Just because he's an Autobot doesn't mean he's a nice guy," Wheelie muttered.

"No, but it means he hurts me later, _after I save his life_, he faces the wrath of quite a few 'bots. I think I'm safe." She paused, considering that. "Besides, he's a 'bot. He wouldn't be on Optimus's side if he wasn't a good guy."

Wheeljack snorted, and commented even as his hands worked at lightning speed inside Elita's chest, "Consequences later never stopped Sunny from being stupid in the now. And good is somewhat relative in a war."

"I sure am not taking on that crazy pit-born fool," Doc said, though he, too, sounded like he was in a vastly less tense mood than minutes earlier. "And Optimus says we won, by the way."

"Won, or won-won?" Sam said. "Won as in won the fight, or won as in Megatron's toast?"

Quietly, Wheeljack said, "Megatron and Starscream are both dead."

"Woohooo!" Sam pumped his fist in the air. "Go Autobots!"

The Autobots, curiously, did not echo this celebratory yell. Mikaela, sensing the mood, said, "Was anyone ... hurt?"

"Only those on the transport ship," Wheeljack sighed. "The team took some damage, but nothing really major. It's just that ... Mikaela, you know what our battle cry is, right?"

"No?"

"'Till all are one'." That came from Sunstreaker, with a good bit of sarcasm in his voice. "Don't believe that'll _ever _happen. -- If Megatron and Starscream are out, that'll probably mean Shockwave takes over. He's smart, and vicious, and very good at tactics."

"Oh, well, Shockwave's dead, too. Bumblebee collected _that _notch on his gun." Wheeljack sighed, though, despite his snarky comment. "There's quite a few Decepticons who will by vying for the top slot, though Optimus seems to think Fangface ..."

"_Fang_?" Sunstreaker said, in disbelief.

"... has a good shot at it." Wheeljack grinned. "I seem to remember you never did like Fang, Sunny."

"He scratched my paint."

"When you tried to kick his aft and failed!" Doc laughed.

"You realize I'm not always going to be stuck on this table ... You, what was your name? Fix my radio. I have _got _to hear what's going on," Sunstreaker demanded, apparently of Mikaela.

"Sorry," she said, "your motherboard for your com sensors is in pieces. It's not fixable, at least, not by me. Probably not anyone. There's a chunk missing."

"_Damn_. Install a new one." His voice held real anger. She was somewhat glad he couldn't move.

Sweetly, hiding her irritation with a voice that dripped with honey, she said, "The threat to weld you to the table still holds. Be nice."

He twitched, hard, torso bending. Something went _pop _in his chest. There was a tremendous flash of light, and the smell of ozone.

"SHIT!" Wheelie grabbed for the soldering iron. "That was his spark capsule's forcefield! He's going down .... he knocked the damn batteries bracket _loose _when he moved! If there's any crack in that capsule remaining he's _toast_!"

Mikaela snatched the torch from Wheelie and, unmindful of the burns from overheated metal that she was receiving, dove for the bracket in question. She yanked a battery from one of the brackets, pulled two likely looking wires out of the assembly, and directly tacked them to the contacts on the battery pack, remembering only at the last second, in her panic, that Autobots grounded positive.

Silence.

"You still in there?"

"I think that knocked him offline," Wheelie said, cautiously. "I don't think he lost his spark. I think ..."

"Get that powerplant you mentioned," she said, quietly, but in a tone that made Wheelie run. She was scared, now. That had been too close. Her heart was pounding in her chest. He was going to _die_ ... she couldn't let him die.

_There's been too much death, lately_, she thought. _Too many people have lost loved ones. Bee _still _gets that distant look in his eyes when someone mentions Jazz -- he never talks about it, but I know he misses him. Soldiers I knew, _dead, _fighting Decepticons._

I lost my father. Not a thing I could do. Couldn't save him from himself, much as I tried. I handed him life on a silver platter -- a job, a home, a thirty-second commute from the home to the workplace. And he got himself killed _... I couldn't do a damn thing._

She hated that terrible, aching helpless feeling ... and _refused _to feel it again. She could do something here. She could _win _this fight.

"Sam!" she shouted at him, "Help Wheelie with that part! I am _not _going to let this 'bot DIE!"

By the time she got the old part (cracked, broken, bent, charred) out and the new one slammed into the right (distorted, burnt, charred, cracked) place, and a few modifications made to make it fit, her hands were burnt and scraped up to the point of looking like raw meat. She realized she was crying, halfway through, and just let the tears flow. He _would _live. He _would._

He will. He will. I will not fail. He will. This time I will win.

Half an hour later, a quiet voice said, "Mikaela. We can take over."

She looked up to see Wheeljack there. He jerked his head in Elita's direction. Elita was sitting up again, though she was very still, and Doc, standing behind her on the table, appeared to be welding something on her back. "She's stable, and she's working on a virus to take the rest of their missiles down. Though I think the shooting's mostly over."

She stepped back, allowing him in.

He grunted, surveying her work. "Good job. I think he might actually live."

It was then that she saw the tall, dark 'bot -- Sideswipe -- standing in the doorway. He watched her for a moment, battle mask down -- it was always down. She didn't think she'd ever actually seen his face. He grunted, "I owe you and the little Decepticon both," and then he turned and left.

* * * * *

Sam fell asleep in a corner of the hanger somewhere around dawn. Mikaela, unable to do the same because of the pain in her battered hands, nevermind her nerves, headed outside. The sun was just coming up. Most of the 'bots on the base were recharging, except for Arcee Yellow and the twins, keeping a cautious patrol up, and Sideswipe, who was sitting a silent and brooding vigil beside his brother.

She slumped to the ground with her back to the wall, and watched the sun come up. She'd been there perhaps ten minutes, too numb to really do anything, when Wheelie appeared with a human first aid kit and a can of Mountain Dew in his small hands. He stopped before her, and looked up at her, and then said quietly, "You're injured, too."

"Yeah. It's nothing compared to them."

"Will you let me ...?" He stopped. Hesitated. Clearly, he was afraid she'd shove him away. Reject him.

Instead, she reached out to him, and pulled him into her arms. He tensed up, perhaps fearing an attack, then realized she simply meant to hold him -- and went gratifyingly limp, with a small sighing sound. She rested her chin on the top of his head, as he relaxed against her, and said quietly, "We did good, I think. Wheeljack thinks he'll live."

"Watch: It'll just mean one more Autobot who'll hate me, even if I _did _save his life," Wheelie said, bitterly. He reached a hand out, without removing himself from her lap, and pulled the first aid kit and the can of soda closer. "Here. Let me see your hands, Mikaela."

Not Warrior Goddes. _Mikaela_. She wondered when that had changed. She looked at the Mountain Dew in some surprise as he handed it to her, after cracking it open with his claws.

"You saved his life, you know." Wheelie glanced up at her, as she took a sip.

She realized she hadn't eaten breakfast yet, and was starving, and her mouth was parched. She'd been sweating over an boiling hot half-dead Autobot for several hours. The cold, sweet, caffeinated liquid was pure bliss, and she closed her eyes for a moment.

Wheelie frowned, optic ridges pinching together, as he focuesed on her fingers with his mismatched eyes. "Mikaela, I think you need to have your hands seen by a doctor. Those burns are deep."

She ran the lesser-damaged palm over his head, gently. "I know. I'll go in a bit. I wanted to let them recharge before I asked someone to drive me, though."

He sighed, and leaned against her again. She put her arm around him, suspecting he needed to feel safe after he'd seen so much death and destruction. There wasn't anyone else at the base he coud turn to -- half the 'bots were outright hostile to him, and only Optimus and (weirdly) Grimlock seemed to actually like him. He studied her hands, then asked, "Don't they hurt?"

"Yeah."

"I think the base has a couple human medics," Wheelie offered. "I could go find one for you."

"In a bit." She didn't let go of him.

"Sam should have noticed." Wheelie's tone held censor

"Sam saw. He made me wash them off. I wouldn't let him tell the 'bots." She held him tighter. After a moment, she said, "Wheelie?"

"Yeah, Goddess?"

"He was an awful father, but I loved him so much." She didn't know where those words came from, except that the funeral was only two days past, and she'd had _nobody _to talk to. Wheelie, at least, was here, right now, and he wasn't likely to make fun of her. He might say tactless things, but he didn't do so deliberately.

Wheelie rested his head on her shoulder. He didn't say anything, for a minute, then, very hesitantly, he offered, "I used to recharge between Fang's front legs, under his chin. It was ... safe. He was so worried something would happen to me. He loved me. He _loves _me. And I just wish I could be with him. He's my best friend in the world, and probably pretty close to what a human would consider an adopted father, and I miss him so much. I'm scared they're going to kill him. Or that he'll kill Optimus. Or ... and it's all so unfair, Mikaela. It's all so unfair. I like Optimus and I love Fangface and ..."

He trailed off, and shifted his weight. He was a lumpy armful, but not nearly as uncomfortable as she might have expected. He only weighed about ten pounds. It was funny -- he was probably the ony Autobot she _could _effectively hug. And until this moment she'd never thought she would even have reason to try.

Quietly, she said, "I don't think I've ever had anyone in my life that I felt that way about -- at least, not anybody human. I loved my father, Wheelie, but he also scared me. My mom died when I was little, and he started doing drugs after that, and then stealing cars to feed his habit. We lost our house. And he was always so angry ... he'd get better, for awhile, try to kick the habit, but then he'd get sick again. He was bipolar, too, and wouldn't take his meds. It was ... and my family, they're awful. They're just awful."

He sighed. "I ... Mikaela, do you know why I like you so much?"

"My legs?" She teased.

He made a raspberry noise. "No. Don't be silly. I know you _are _damn hot by human standards, but that doesn't mean I'm attracted to you. Hello! Asexual robot here."

She giggled at his reaction. He'd matured a lot in a scant few weeks, she thought -- he'd come a long way from the terrified mech who'd humped her foot in a desperate, awkward, and completely clueless attempt to earn her affection.

He said, in a serious tone, "I like you because you protect people. Including, probably, me. If I needed it. Though some help with Grimlock would have been appreciated ..."

She flicked him in the head with her finger, earning a hiss from him that quickly faded. "Grimlock wasn't going to hurt you, and you sorta pissed me off. Bad timing, there."

He shrugged. She supposed he really was that clueless -- he was both young and often deliberately kept out of the loop by everyone. He said, in a fairly calm tone of voice considering how quickly he could go from happy to hysterical, "If you hadn't noticed, I'm pretty damn defenseless here. You learn real quick when you're my size who you can trust, and who you can't, and one of the big things you look for is how people treat their lessers. Fang, for example, treats everyone with respect, even if they don't really deserve it. Usually gets it back, too. Kicks anyone's ass who mistakes his concern for weakness."

"He's now the leader of the Decepticons. I hardly think he's prince charming," she said, cautiously. She didn't think _anyone _could get to the top of that bunch by being a paladin.

Wheelie's grin was bright and unoffended. "Oh, he has his flaws. He likes power quite a lot, thanks, and he has a _horrible _temper. He remembers a slight forever, and will quietly get revenge when mechs least expect it. He _plans _revenge, then he'll deny he did it with this perfectly innocent look on his face. He can smile to your face and stick a knife in your back. He's _not _always a nice guy. Particularly to his equals. But to me? He _loves _me." Wheelie glanced up at her. "And he made sure I knew it."

She blew out a short, sharp sigh. "I envy you, kiddo. I never had anyone to protect me, when I was little. There were a lot of things ..."

He twisted around to face her, red eyes somehow gentler than she'd ever seen before. "You know, you have friends who _do _care about you now. You should go back to Sam. Let him take care of you. He wants to, I think, and those hands need to be seen. How do you think he feels, when you _won't _let him help you? I may be a stupid little salvage drone, but I see the look on his face. He feels like you don't even trust him enough to let him help you."

Wheelie hunched his shoulders, and tensed up, as he continued, "We both wear masks, Mikaela. We both do."

"Masks?"

"We both hide our true feelings behind other feelings. Both of us. That boy of yours, on the other hand, he's so honest it's painful. What you see on his face? It's the real thing. Believe in it. I've -- once in my life, I've had someone who really, truly cared about me, with no pretenses and no artifice. That was Fang. He let his mask down around me." Wheelie stood up and clambered out of her lap. "You should go to him. You never know when something might tear you apart from your friends."

* * * * *

Sam woke when Mikaela touched his shoulder gently. "Sam?" She said, hesitantly. "I think I need to see a doctor ... my hands, they really do hurt."

And he blinked, because it wasn't like Mikaela to admit to anything that was wrong that was _major. _She could bitch about minor stuff with the best of them, but big ordeals? She shut down, clammed up, and wouldn't so much as discuss them. She'd flat out point blank refused to even _consider _going to the ER earlier.

He sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face, and considered the list of available 'bots that might give them a ride. Things had died down quit a bit -- Wheeljack, looking so exhausted by his body language, was welding something in Sunny's guts. Inferno was a silent hulk in the corner, finally recharging. Arcee and the twins were patrolling the perimeter of the base, watching for trouble. The new Autobot Silverbolt, along with two American cargo jets, had taken off an hour ago.

There wasn't anyone he trusted -- Sideswipe was still awake, but he wasn't even going to go there.

"My Mustang's in a storage unit on the base," Mikaela said. "Let's not wake them up."

Sam frowned. Driving an unfamiliar and unreliable vehicle, without an Autobot escort, and with presumably at least one Decepticon -- Soundwave -- still on the loose seemed like a bad idea. Double bad idea since Soundwave was a master of surveillance, and his alt mode was a jet. With guns. Triple bad idea since Soundwave very likely knew what Mikaela's mustang looked like, and could easily mistake it for an Autobot.

"Mikaela," Doc's voice said, making both of them jump. "Wheelie found me. He said you were hurt?"

"Her hands -- 'Kaela burnt them pretty good," Sam explained.

Doc's eyes shuttered closed for a moment. "Would you allow me to look?"

Mutely, Mikaela held them out. Doc bent over a bit and frowned at them, then said, "You did this working on Sunstreaker?"

"Yeah."

"Next time," he said, giving her a look of annoyance, "Wear welding gloves. I'll be sure to order some for you. Though I do appreciate that the situation was somewhat urgent." Doc ran a hand over the smooth metal dome of his head, digits clattering faintly and metallically as he did so. He confessed, somewhat mournfully, "I don't know what we're going to do with him, now. All our replacement parts were on the transport ship and he's going to need a total body rebuild." He hook his head. "We might be able to fashion something from Jazz's frame, I suppose, and Grimlock was kind enough to bring us back a couple dead Decepticons. Sunny is going to be very displeased with the results, I fear. Err -- stay out of his way, both of you. He's a nasty son of a gun."

Then, as if dismissing the problem, he shrugged, "I'll let Wheeljack and Ratchet deal with it. If those two can't come up with something, nobody can. Now, girl, let's look at your hands up in my office."

His 'office' was upstairs on the catwalk, and he clomped up after them. He was not much taller than they were, but having been tackled by him once last night, Sam damn well knew he was _heavier_. He was glad the stairs were sturdy.

They'd recently built a little loft-like annex for Doc onto the catwalk. It had three walls around it, blocking the view inside from the catwalk. He lead them through the door, revealing a a nearly normal looking office space, except that one side opened out onto the hanger below -- likely, Sam guessed, so that the other bot's could talk to Doc at eye level. The catwalk was shoulder height to Optimus, and head height to most of the rest of the team.

Doc had no computer in the office -- he _was _the computer -- but he did have a printer, several chairs, a large cabinet, and an assortment of what looked like lab equipment. And a sink. He gestured at the lab stuff. "Don't mind that. I tend to bring my work home with me."

"Err. What _do _you do?" Mikaela asked.

"I'm a researcher, mostly," he pulled open a drawer and retrieved a bottle of betadine soap. "Not a fighter, that's for sure. I've been working with some of the local university's medical center staff the last few weeks. Come here."

With clear reluctance, Mikaela let him wash her hands off. She flinched repeatedly, but he was more-or-less gentle -- at least, as gentle as a creater with metallic fingers could be.

He said, mildly, "Your biology is actually strikingly similar to another race the Autobots have dealings with, called the Nebulans. They're not identical, of course, but the basic biological solutions are the same, which means much of the core research I did on their world is translating nicely to Earth. I'm not reinventing the wheel, I'm just retreading it."

"What are you _studying_?" Sam asked.

Doc shrugged. "Valuable things. We extended Nebulan lifespans several times over, and cured a number of their diseases. That sort of thing might be possible for humans, too, with enough time. Here, Mikaela, rub this cream into your hands."

He offered her a jar of a silvery substance.

She took it, and scooped a dub up with one unburnt finger and sniffed it. Sam watched, curious. "What is it?"

Doc smiled. His features were strikingly human, as was his body language. The 'bots generally seemed a bit artificial, but Doc, except for being an ATV that changed into a robot, seemed strikingly human. He explained, "A product for dermal repair. It works quite nicely on the soldiers who have volunteered to try it. It's harmless -- it cannot possibly harm you. But if it does work, it could lead to treatments for much more signficant injuries, and organ-damaging illnesses."

Mikaela sniffed it again. It smelled vaguely metallic, though not offensively so. Then cautiously, and rather gingerly, she rubbed it into her burns.

Her hands started to _glow_. The cream did not soak in, as she expected. Rather, it flowed smoothly across her skin, seeking out her injuries, and collecting in gently glowing pools of light wherever there was a break in her skin. Her hands felt warm, then uncomfortably hot, and she winced and made a move towards the sink.

"Easy," he said, catching both her wrists. "It's a little uncomfortable, but the results are very quick."

She hissed a bit, as her burns reacted to the flare of heat with sharp stinging pain. And then ... the pain quit.

"Now you may wash them," he said, when she relaxed.

She did so hastily, guessing as she did, "Nanotech?"

He nodded.

She peered at her fingers. "Can't argue with the results."

There wasn't even a scar left. The nanobots had left her skin smooth and a little pink, but whole and unblemished. And without pain. He said, "They are also self-replicating, if fed a proper diet of minerals and organic matter, so we expect that they'll be easily marketable by human companies. They will be able to multiply them in simple biochemical reactors."

"You ... you could make a _fortune_ on this."

"A fortune? Perhaps. Or a bargaining chip, to guarantee a home for our people." Doc's smile was blinding. "That is why Optimus summoned me here, of course."

* * * * *


	19. Chapter 19

On a rainy morning a few days later, the C-130 Hercules touched down on the newly cleared south runway. The base had been running large street sweepers up and down it for most of the last three days, vaccuuming up any stray rubble from the explosions. The north runway still had a tremendous hole in it, of course, and a chunk of alien spacecraft that was too big to drag away and was therefore being cut to pieces by a mix of Autobot and human work crews. However, the south runway was now cleared and usable. Anyway, C-130's had a lot bigger of a margin for error than F-22s -- they were reliable workhorses designed to land on any flat enough surface, including dirt, unlike fighter jets, with their much more fragile jet engines. A bit of stray gravel might put a ding in a C-130's propeller. It could destroy a high powered jet engine.

All the Autobots who could leave the repair bay were here, as well as a sizable army of human media and dignitaries. They'd set up bleachers facing the repair bay, and a battery of microphones at Autobot-height on a support that had been tacked to the wall. The power strip beside the vending machine had a veritabla medusa's head of wires power cords attached to it, to feed the media equipment.

Optimus and the others were being welcomed back, media frenzy style, because the world had found out about the ballistic missiles. That, perhaps, had been inevitable. The American government might have hushed it up, but those missiles had lit up the radar of dozens of other countries. Word had first come out of Japan -- which had reacted with something akin to furious horror -- then confirmed by the Russians. The world had learned that they'd come so close to nuclear war that Decepticon missiles had been airborn, and the Russians and Americans had been impulsive, confused, furious moments away from adding their own firepower to the mix.

The American government had promptly spun things in a hurry, with the following points emphasized: (1) heroic Autobots lost numerous crew members, (2) evil Decepticons attacked unprovoked when Autobots tried to check out a satellite that may have been compromised, (3) Russians _really _should have dealt with that base earlier (the Russians were not pleased by that spin, Sam had heard), and (4) Optimus and crew had won with no loss of human life and (5) the Autobots, working with humans, had disabled the missiles in midflight. The latter wasn't precisely true, but Sam figured the US government had to save face somehow.

Define _win_, Sam thought. Was winning the death of the three most senior Decepticon officers on Earth? Or was winning a crushing victory? They'd accomplished the first, but definitely not the last.

But at least there had been no nuclear strikes on US soil.

And now they greeted their returning heros.

Even Hound, battered to the point where he looked like an automobile wreck on two legs, had come to welcome them back. He had a human camcorder strapped to the side of his head, providing both limited auditory and visual input, and he creaked alarmingly as he moved, and he smelled like a burning rubber, but he was mobile. Right now, he was leaning against a wall behind the bleachers, with his head just visible over the top -- either effected nonchalance or a real need for support to stay upright. Sam wasn't sure. Hound had said very little, a silent but not necessarily unfriendly 'bot who was a striking counterpoint to the _other _mobile newcomer, Bluestreak.

"... and then Ratchet got so mad at Jazz and Bumblebee he welded their arms together and made them clean up the mess themselves and made them stay that way. Not even Optimus would make Ratchet cut them apart, and they couldn't get anyone to do it for them. _Nobody _crosses Ratchet when he's really mad. He made them stay that way for a _week _and by the end of it, they were pretty good friends, actually." Bluestreak tilted his head sideways, leaned on a _very _large pair of crutches -- he only had one leg attached at the moment -- then added to anyone among the gathered humans and mechs and media who were listening, "Though they were very angry at Ratchet."

Since he was the only one talking, and the Hercules was a few minutes away yet and taxiing slowly up the runway, most of the gathered media were, in fact, listening to Bluestreak. Sam, who'd heard this story four times in the last three days, only paid half attention to him -- mostly making sure that Bluestreak didn't spill anything classified and that he got his story straight, when the story verged onto topics Sam was familiar with.

He was apparently known for being accurate with his chatter, though, and -- when he'd asked Bee about the possibility of Bluestreak divulging sensitive information -- Bee had said, over the phone, "Don't worry about Blue, Sam. We don't."

The Autobots seemed to be so familiar with Bluestreak's chatter that they were completely tuning him out. They ignored it wholly, though they otherwise seemed to treat Bluestreak as part of the team. He was a good-natured 'bot, Sam had discovered, every bit as friendly as Bee, and incredibly enthusiastic. Epps described him as a puppy with tires.

He glanced over, watching the media watch Bluestreak. All the cameras were on the talking Autobot -- who, also, was small enough to be _slightly _less threatening than most of the others. He seemed to be eating the attention up. People were paying attention to his chatter! He loved it!

And the media was probably loving him. Aside from being, well, talkative and good for sound bytes, he had clearly been injured. And he was _appealing, _in a way that most of the other 'bots weren't. His optics were a tad larger than usual, and a vivid green, and they had removed his weapons to treat his injuries. (And to fix the weapons.) His face had far more expression on it than Sam was used to seeing from any Autobot save Doc (who claimed his features were an adaptation to millenia living among the Nebulans) and that exuberant talkativeness was coupled with hand gestures and bouncy body language that just made everyone who saw him _smile_.

The third 'bot, Elita, had a female identity -- she still wasn't able to walk, but when Sam glanced over at the hangar entrance he saw Wheeljack approaching with the smaller 'bot in his arms. She was perhaps twelve feet tall, and had been notably curious about humans, peppering them with questions even as Wheeljack and Doc (and Wheelie, now that he'd 'fessed up about having some medical training) had worked on her.

Wheeljack saw Sam and Mikaela, who were seated close the edge of the bleachers, and walked across the taxi-way to join them. He set Elita down on her feet, even as the cameras spun in their direction. Elita steadied herself with one hand on the bleachers -- she still had no power to her lower body, and her legs were locked straight. She was just balancing on them, somewhat wobbly. Wheeljack stood close, clearly ready to grab her if she started to topple.

"Should you be out here?" Mikaela asked her, with some concern.

Elita smiled, the expression looking somewhat artificial even though the intent behind it probably wasn't. With two days of experience around humans, Elita was struggling a bit with expressing herself in human terms. However, her spoken reaction was spot on correct to express what she seemed to be feeling. She said, "I wouldn't miss this for anything."

"Optimus will be glad to see her," Wheeljack said, causing both humans to exchange a bemused look. Sam wondered what that comment meant.

"It's been close to thirty thousand years," Elita said, mildly. "I'm looking forward to seeing him, as well."

"You're friends with Optimus?" Sam asked, curiously.

Wheeljack snorted. "Magnus says she was pretty much always underfoot, in the old days, before the war ..."

"I was his advisor. I was not 'under foot'!" She slapped him on the chest, metal palm clanging against metal armor. More cameras turned their way. One or two reporters actually smiled at an exchange that wasn't contrived, and seemed strikingly human. Indignantly, she continued, "I'm not _that _short. Short jokes _not _appreciated, you walking glitch."

Wheeljack chuckled, proving he _had _been teasing her. Then he explained, "She was his -- owe!" Elita had swatted him on the arm with a loud, hollow, metal bang, apparently in retaliation for his amusement, "Elita! -- One of his closer advisers before the war. Elita, if you don't stop hitting me, I'll tell Optimus that _you _were the one who played lookout when the twins welded his gavel to the table ..."

"You fight dirty, Wheeljack." But she was laughing.

"Twins?" Mikaela blinked, looking at Skids and Mudflap. Who were, pointedly, in alt mode and parked out of the way. Per Inferno's orders, Inferno apparently being the ranking 'bot on base with every other leader gone.

"The other twins," Wheeljack corrected, mildly, pointing at Sideswipe.

"_Sideswipe_?" Sam said, so sharply it actually drew Side's attention. Sideswipe gave him an inscrutable look before determining he wasn't actually being summoned, and turned his gaze back to watching the planes approach.

Elita said, wryly, "Well, it was Sunny's idea, of course."

"It's _always _Sunstreaker's idea," Wheeljack grumped.

"I am not sure if I'm looking forward to him being back on his feet or not," Elita giggled. "Having _you _around for explosions is enough excitement. His are _deliberate_."

Wheeljack glared at her. "I haven't blown up anything accidentally in at least a thousand years."

"That's because Magnus is _way _less tolerant of your brand of mischief than Optimus would ever be." She reached up and flicked him in the forehead with a finger, making him duck back.

Down the runway, drawing their attention, a second Hercules landed after the first C-130, then a third behind it. Propellers whirling, the first was close to reaching the bleachers that had been set up for the media -- though most of the cameras were still not aimed at the oncoming planes yet. However, Bluestreak, who was now chattering about weather on Cyberton versus weather on Earth, glanced backwards over his shoulder at the oncoming craft.

"Whoops! There's Silverbolt. Bet he's got Optimus riding in him. Optimus likes him. Silver's my buddy too. He's such a nice guy. Not much of a fighter, but everybody likes him, and he'll try if you ask. He's just not _good _at fighting. Magnus mostly uses him for moving cargo around. He's too big, with too little armor, for orbital flight, though ... and hey, that's a cool camera! Bet you can really take cool pictures with that. The Nebulans had some really cool cameras too. Maybe someday your worlds can trade. You guys are a lot alike."

"Can you tell us about Fangface?" One of the reporters was bold enough to ask, though Sam, given the line of Bluestreak's chatter, was surprised they didn't ask about the other organic alien race. Maybe the reporters hadn't yet realized that Nebulans were other aliens, and apparently fairly human-like ones.

"Fang's a right bastard," Bluestreak offered, "Bee found him after he'd been badly injured. He's a fancy prototype and the Decepticons discarded him because they didn't think it was worth their while to fix him. We did, though. We fixed him. Took lots of effort, too, to get the parts he needed. We even had to raid a Decepticon warehouse for a couple tings. He seemed like a nice guy -- one of us. Swore allegiance to us. Fought on our side for several years. Then he betrayed us ..."

Bluestreak was off on a cheerful recital of _that _history, and Sam quit listening entirely and turned his attention to the approaching aircraft. He'd heard the same thing an hour earlier, when Sam had helped the soldiers set up the bleachers and Blue had alternated between asking endless questions about what they were doing, and chattering endlessly about a wide and varied number of topics. Instead of listening to Bluestreak, he turned his attention to The C-130 in the lead had the Autobot logo painted on the side; the ones behind it had American flags. It taxi'd up to the bleachers and stopped. For a moment, there was silence, as the rotors quit turning and cooling metal ticked quietly. Then the ramp at the back dropped open, and hit the pavement with a bang, and Optimus Prime rolled out.

A few hundred reporters started snapping shots -- the clatter of camera shutters was surprisingly loud.

'Bee followed, and Magnus, and Hot Rod, then Arcee in her protoform, and Ironhide on foot, ducking somewhat stiffly through the opening. Then Grimlock stepped out. Sam was wholly unsurprised to see that Grimlock was still in alt mode, and did not transform. Bee had sent a somewhat bemused e-mail earlier noting that Grimlock was spending so much time as a dinosaur that Ratchet had finally made him transform just to verify that he _could_ and had not taken battle damage.

The camera shutter noises picked up a notch when Grimlock appeared ... then practically exploded when the C-130 abruptly seemed to fold in on itself. Most of that plane was empty space; Silverbolt was taller than Optimus, but only by several feet, which was not nearly as much as you'd expect. That transformation was wildly complex, too, and took a nearly a minute to complete, as many, many moving parts rearranged themselves.

Sam kinda thought that Silverbolt might be doing the folding-space-time trick, too, to make himself manageably smaller in protoform.

"Wow ..." A dignitary breathed, next to Sam, in the stands, as the rest of the 'bots completed their transformation. "They're amazing."

Sam glanced over. He wasn't sure who the woman was: nice dress, middle aged, looked official. He said, quietly, to Mikaela on his other side, "They look tired."

"How can you tell?" The woman overheard, and asked, just as Elita murmured agreement.

He shrugged. "Body language."

Or, more precisely, the fact that Bee had very little bounce in his stride, Arcee little zip in the way she moved, and Optimus was practically lumbering around. Optimus looked like the walking dead, really; by the way he was slow to react, Sam thought he was struggling to avoid a forced recharge by sheer power of his will.

His eyes were drawn to Bee, who had a scarily dark scar across one arm, too, and fresh scrape marks and dents in his armor. He'd taken some damage that he had not mentioned when Sam had called him every night to check on them. His battle mask also had some char marks on it. Beneath the sooth and scratches and plasma burns, however, flashes of his paint gleamed a brilliant gold in the sun. Sam had seen them all change, subtly, with the acceptance of their Matrixes -- the only external difference he could see with Bee was his color, however. Internally, he wasn't sure ... he had spoken to Bee on the phone, when the planes had touched down because the real C-130s needed to refuel, and Bee had seemed 'off' in ways he couldn't completely define.

Ironhide was in the worst shape of the leaders -- by the fact that he'd walked out, rather than drove, Sam was guessing he was not able to transform. His arm was visibly mangled, and Major Lennox, behind them, commented, "Sheee-it. Somebody sure hit 'Hide with something nasty. He's got wicked heavy armor."

"Bee said it was Megatron's gun," Sam replied. Watching the way Ironhide was moving -- he had that arm clamped tightly to his chest -- Sam added, thoughtfully, "He's probably in a good bit of pain."

"They feel pain?" The woman asked.

"Yeah. Or something pretty damn close to it." Sam glanced over at her. She had funny looking glasses -- thick, with rhinestones at the hinge. Little-old-lady glasses. "It's a programming feature, Ratchet says. Damage is unpleasant. It 'hurts.' It should, to stop them from worsening damage that's already there, you know?"

"You're the kid that bad guy -- what was his name, The Fallen? -- wanted, right?" She flashed him a brief smile. He realized belatedly that she was a politician -- a state governor, he thought, or a senator. He couldn't match a name to the face but he'd seen her on TV. He recognized the glasses. Politics? Not his thing. She continued, as if she expected he'd recognize her, "I got the briefing a few weeks ago. You're a brave kid."

He shrugged, feeling unaccountably embarrassed by the praise. "Didn't have much choice. It was be brave, or have Earth destroyed, and everyone dies. 'Brave' was sort've the only option, at that point. Ma'am. Besides, they killed Optimus and I had to bring him back. I couldn't ..." he swallowed hard. "He's _Optimus_."

Elita said, quietly, "I will tell you that seeing Six Primes ... it is truly an amazing thing, to us. They are _hope _for our people, embodied."

Wheeljack said, "Shoulda been you and not Grimlock."

Elita shook her head. "I was never in the running."

"Why the fuck not?" Wheeljack growled at her. "Optimus _trusts _you."

Elita merely smiled and said nothing.

The sound system was repaired -- Sam assumed the microphones set up were for the benefit of the video recordings, since Optimus was perfectly capable of speaking loud enough all on his own to reach the back of the stands. Optimus made a throat-clearing noise; contrived, but effective at instantly getting the attention of everyone in the audience. He scanned the small crowd for a moment, then said quietly, "Thank you for coming."

A stir, in the crowd, at his voice. Optimus was going to be in fine form, Sam could tell. And he _looked _the part of the returning hero -- armor battle scarred, with dents and scratches, but regal, whole, tall.

"Today, peoples of Earth ... kssshhhhhht!" The sound system went dead.

Optimus blinked and stopped talking. Tapped a couple microphones at random. They appeared to all be dead.

Sam slapped himself in the forehead.

Two technicians, bearing a ladder, scurried out from behind the bleachers. One scrambled up to look at the cluster of microphones.

Time ticked by. Optimus gave everyone an apologetic shrug, then watched with interest as the man fiddled with something. Apparently, the problem proved to be the pwoer source, however. The men headed over in the direction of the outlet by the soda machine. Extension cords ran, glowing orange against the pavement, to it, fifty feet away. The men apparently deduced that either the problem was behind the machine, or perhaps there was a second outlet there. They peered behind it.

One took his hat off, and scratched his head, as the other tried to reach something on the wall. The machine was blocking his way, and there were only a few inches of space -- his arm wouldn't fit. Optimus watched, still looking merely curious, as the men worked. They tried to move the machine. It was too heavy, however, or anchored to the ground. When minutes ticked by, Optimus finally left his spot by the microphones, walked up to the bleachers, and asked one of the camera men for a media outlet a question, in that deep voice his that carried well, "Would your cameras pick me up okay if I simply raised my voice?"

The man shook his head, and said something that Sam didn't catch. He looked nervous, and apologetic. It wasn't every day they got to show the world a speech by an alien robot ... and their _equipment _broke!

Meanwhile, the head scratching tech's eyes fell on Wheelie, who was sitting on the bottom row of the bleachers with Doc. He said, hesitantly, and loud enough for everyone to hear, "You, little guy ... can you help us reach?"

Sam got up to see if _he _could help, a bit embarrassed by the delay. They were probably on live TV, at this point, if they hadn't been all along. Wheelie trotted over, with Sam trailing behind hi. Wheelie was cheerfully willing to help, and thrust a slim arm behind the machine, with Sam right behind him.

Wheelie rocked back on his heels, and said in puzzlement, "It doesn't have a power cord."

"Huh?" He peered behind it, but couldn't really see anything. Couldn't fit his hand past the wrist, either. He could see the edge of a metal box with a conduit leading to it, but nothing else. "It has to. There's an outlet back there."

"But nothing is plugged into it."

"Would you require some assistance with moving the device?" Optimus's presence made Sam startle -- the leader of the Autobots had walked right up to them, surprisingly quietly. The two techs jumped a _lot _higher and backed hastily up. Sam just glanced absently at Optimus's feet. Optimus was very unlike to step on him, on the other hand, he only came up to just above Optimus's knees.

"Umm, yeah, I guess," the man scratched his head again.

Optimus bent over, put a hand on either side of the soda machine, and attempted to move it. Sam backed up reflexively, not even sure why he was doing so.

The motion was blinding fast. The soda dispensor sprouted legs, arms, and one _hell _of a big rocket launcher for a vending machine. It screamed, "DIE, AUTOBOT!" and swung the rocket launcher up at Optimus's chest.

Wheelie screamed, "NO!" And he leaped wildly off the ground and hit the Decepticon's arm as hard as he could. It was enough -- just enough -- to throw the Decepticon's aim off. Even as Optimus was ducking, the Decepticon fired a rocket. The missile hissed into Optimus's shoulder rather than slamming straight into the core of his chest, where his spark lay. Optimus flipped backwards, and the concussion knocked all three humans off their feet and the Decepticon backwards into the wall. Sam's head smacked into the ground, and his ears rang. He couldn't _see _for a moment. He'd been twenty feet away.

The mech howled, a note of pure rage, and tried to aim again at Optimus, despite the fact that Wheelie was still clinging to the rocket launcher with his back legs wrapped around the 'bot's arm. He leveled the rocket launcher at Optimus, who had gone down hard, clearly aiming for his spark. Wheelie had a double handful of cabling, and he gave a vicious yank, got enough slack, and _bit _through a power conduit. Electricity arced. Wheelie flew backwards into the wall.

Six feet of sword slammed home through the Decepticon's spark chamber as Sideswipe reacted with lightning reflexes. Nearly simultaneously, several other 'bots discharged their weapons in a tremendous display of well-coordinated deadly fireworks. The Decepticon hit the ground, twitching, spark chamber nearly disintegrated. It had not had much in the way of armor to begin with.

"Prime!" More than one Cybertronian voice screamed, including some belonging to the other newly minted Primes. Perhaps Optimus would always be 'Prime' even to them.

Optimus didn't respond. Sam lunged to his feet and beat everyone else there, by virture of being the closest being who wasn't running in the other direction from the giant robot battle. Optimus's optics stared up at him. He'd seen the light go out of those eyes way to recently. Had seen it come back, too. The blue this time, however, was reassuringly steady. Optimus blinked a couple of times, clearly disoriented, then something reset and he rolled to his feet. One arm dangled limp, smoking faintly, and he had a large hole in his chest. He leveled his gun arm at the mech formerly known as the base's soda machine for a long moment. It didn't move. It was, almost definitely, dead.

Skids said, incredulously, "What's 'is name, _Deposit?"_

"Wheelie," Optimus's voice was low, strained, as he turned his attention to the littlest autobot. "He shouldn't have."

"Optimus." Bee sounded awed. He dropped down to one knee next to the tiny, charred form that was lying crumpled against the wall. "I think he just saved your life."


	20. Chapter 20

"Geeze, they've been in there forever," Sam said, rolling his neck from side to side. It was a warm evening -- close to midnight, now -- and the Autobot's main hangar was still buttoned up tight. What discussion he could hear was in Cybertronian, and that was muted except for the occasional bit of hiss-spit-garble that rose up in pitch. At one point, he was pretty sure he heard several obscenities in Bee's voice, and, after a year with the 'bots, _yes _he could tell Bee's voice from anyone else's, as well as pick rude impolite phrases out of bursts of Cybertronian.

Bee had tried to explain the syntax of their language to him a few times. It was actually surprisingly logical, as far as he could tell. It resembled nothing so much as a programming language, however, right down to the use of variables. Unfortunately, actually understanding the spoken language in real depth (beyond picking out "beep-whoop-blip" meant "Primus!") was somewhat like hearing someone read the code of a web page aloud. There was meaning there, but grasping it worked a _lot _better if you had more processing power and RAM than the average human brain used.

Bee claimed that Wheeljack was working on a universal translator that would automatically turn Cybertronian into English for humans. He claimed _that _would be easy. Translating English into Cybertronian, he said, was much harder. Bee had explained, with total seriousness, that it was like the difference between math and English. You could express math problems easily enough using English, but expressing English using math was much harder.

"You guys," Sam had said in response to that explanation, "have no problems speaking English."

Bee had snorted. "Yeah. But you should see the size of the code I had to write to make it work. I finally had to give up thinking in Cybertronian and translating to English. I just gave over a chunk of my processors to your slagging language. It was easier. It took me a week of crunching code during every recharge to sort it out."

Autobots didn't dream during recharge. They did, however, use that time to compile code, perform detailed problem analysis, and execute routine tasks such as memory backup, processor defragging, and virus checking. Sam had heard several bots claim this was actually not that different than organic dreaming. Sam remained unconvinced on that point.

"Maybe we should go home," Mikaela said, but she sounded doubtful. "Arcee could give us a ride and not miss anything."

"I'd like to talk to Bee," Sam said. They'd seen Bee briefly, in the chaos following the attempted assassination of Optimus. Aside from being filthy dirty, he'd looked completely exhausted. And now they'd gone straight from the attack to a huge meeting, and they had stayed in the meeting for several hours. He was worried about him; Bee's facial expressions were always nearly impossible to read, but his body langauge wasn't. He'd move like he _hurt_, and not necessarily in a physical way.

"Me too," she said. Confirming Sam's assessment, she added, "Though he looked so tired."

At that moment, finally, the hangar door rolled upwards as the meeting, apparently, concluded. Optimus emerged first, with the new mech Elita in his arms. She couldn't walk; still, Sam was a bit surprised to see _Optimus _carrying her, given that Optimus had a chunk of his shoulder armor missing. Nothing major had been damaged, but, still. Why was Optimus carrying her, he wondered?

Optimus walked off a hundred feet from anyone else, and set Elita down. She leaned on his arm for balance, and said something to him that must have been very low, because he bent over a bit to hear her.

"They're ..." Sam trailed off, watching that. If they were human, he would easily know what to make of that sort of body language. Did the same thing apply to giant alien robots? They were in each other's space, and she looked very comfortable holding onto him.

"They're friends," Bee's voice made them whirl about. The noise of the other 'bots leaving the hangar had masked his approach. "From before the war."

"Really?" Mikaela said, "Like, friend-friends?"

Bee's faceplate lifted up in something that might have been a smile, had he a mouth. It disappeared quickly, though, and he explained, "She was his advisor, and part of his closest inner circle along with Magnus and Jazz and Prowl. However, she also spent most of her recreational time with him. They simply enjoyed each other's company. It is fair to say they loved each other, as the very dearest of friends. This is all according to Jazz, of course. I didn't know them then."

"How's Wheelie doing?" Mikaela asked the more immediate question that had been on their minds.

Bee's shoulders slumped. "He's not dead, but he's in stasis lock. His processor core, memory modules, and spark chamber are intact. However, he's probably destined to stay in stasis until we can get parts. If you haven't noticed, we don't exactly stock anything in his size."

"Oh. Damn." Sam sighed. "I saw what he did. It was really brave."

"Really _stupid_, but Optimus made us watch the vids of it. Twice. I think he had a point to make, or a maybe even a few points. He didn't say a thing, he just made us watch." Bee transformed abruptly. "Let's go home, you two. I'll give you a lift."

Sam hesitated. "Bee, are we even threatened by the Decepticons right now? I'm not sure we need a bodyguard tonight.

"Quite possibly not," Bee sounded grimly satisfied by that. "One of the things we discussed was lightening your security details, and we all agreed this was probably safe. Fang's certainly willing to exact revenge, but he's not Megatron and he doesn't generally involve innocent bystanders. If anything, we believe he'll be as careful as we are about civilian casualties -- though probably for more pragmatic reasons than idealistic ones. He'd rather not get kicked off the planet, thanks muchly, by sufficiently pissed off humans. Our expectation is that he will try to forge an alliance with a foreign government -- Russia, likely, or China. You understand we are not thrilled with the political ramifications of that ... At any rate, no, we are no longer worried about your safety."

"Then Bee," Mikaela crossed her arms, "Go back inside and get a recharge. You sound _exhausted_. When was the last time you slept?"

"I woke nine hours ago. I recharged during the flight. I'm not physically sleepy. Just -- emotionally tired." Bee's words were candid, and he remained parked in front of them.

"You should see Ratchet, then." She was insistant, sounding very worried.

"The medics are quite busy, and we have already verified my injuries are minor." Bee was as stubborn as Mikaela was concerned.

"Are you _sure _you're up to a long drive?" She was still dubious. Sam, too, was concerned. Bee's scorched arm had translated to a scorched right front quarter panel. He had a huge dent in his front bumper, too.

"Mikaela," Bee said, sounding a bit exasperated, "you said I was the one sane thing in your life, right? I feel the same way about you two. Get in the car. I _really _need to get away from this place for a bit. _Please_."

"... Oh." She blinked at him.

He popped both doors open, and they climbed in. Sam wondered, _I'm not a sane thing in her life too_? Then decided he would take the mature route and not go there. Maybe later, he'd bring it up. Not right now. Bee would probably not appreciate him picking a fight with Mikaela when Bumblebee was practically begging for their company.

"Bee?" Sam said, after a moment of riding in silence. "Are you okay?"

Bumblebee just didn't sound okay. He sounded tired, and cranky, and perhaps even depressed.

"I just want this war to be over," he said, and Sam could picture him hunching his shoulders and ducking his head as he said it. He sounded miserable. After a moment, he added, "I was created before the war started, but I was very young when it began. As an adult, this is all I've really known. I have a database now with the memories of Primes spanning twenty million years of our history. _They _knew what peace was like. Millions upon millions of years of peace. You could say I'm just a little bit bitterly envious."

"Oh."

"I want that again. I want a world where I don't have to worry my friends are going to get slagged. Where people I actually like aren't my mortal enemies, because Fang? In another place and time? We probably _would _still be friends." He added, in Cybetronian, a quick burst of static with tonalities, "_Frag him!_" And then fell silent.

"Now I guess I understand why Optimus broods," Sam said, tentatively.

"I want this war over so bad I can fucking _taste _it." Bee accelerated hard on the base's main road, exceeding the forty mile speed limit by thirty miles an hour. Fortunately, the MP's were not inclined to question Autobot driving habits, and everyone knew the little yellow Camaro was a 'bot. He then turned on the radio, very loud, blasting screaming death metal at a near deafening volume, and effectively ending any more conversation.

* * *

Elita was a very light burden in Optimus's arms, made lighter by the fact that she was missing a number of vital parts. Even with his injuries, Optimus carried her easily. She was conscious and completely alert; her processor core -- that brilliant mind -- had not been damaged. That, to Optimus, was the most critical part, though he suspected Elita might have argued. It was her mind that set her apart from others. It was that mind that made him want to spend time with her.

Optimus carried her as far as the river bank, away from the others. His feet crunched on dry earth, then sank a bit into softer, damper soil as he approached the water. He had not taken time for himself in many years. He was indulging himself now, however.

"How's it feel not to be alone?" She asked. She couldn't actually read his mind, but she, like Magnus, had known him long enough to know his original name. She knew him to the core of his being -- as well as his brother did, and in some ways, perhaps better.

He examined the question for a moment, then said darkly, a confession he would have made to no other, "To use a human analogy, it sometimes feels as if I have a few more pallbearers for the funeral of our race."

She snorted, appreciating that bit of gallows humor as soon as she searched and understood the term 'pallbearer' -- and likely hearing the worried truth behind it. If they could not make an Allspark again, it didn't matter if he managed to end the war. They were doomed as a race. "How are _they _doing?"

"About as well as can be expected." He set her down where she would have a boulder to lean against, then lowered himself to sit by her feet. This put them on eye level with one another. "It is certainly an adjustment that one must make. The responsibility will weigh very heavily on their shoulders, as it does on mine."

"I'll say." She poked him with a finger, teasingly, as she would have once hassled a young Orion Pax, metal clinking against metal. He gave her a disgruntled look, which she returned with an innocent chirrup that made her sound like a youngling, and not a mech who equaled his own years. "So which of the baby Primes are you going to assign me to?"

He couldn't keep her under his command. This was something they both understood. He was not impartial when it came to Elita. This meant she would need to work under someone else. And it went without saying that he would assign her to someone he trusted, in the upper echelons of his command.

"Who would you prefer?" He was curious to hear her opinion, and would give it some serious weight.

"Bee or Hot Rod," she said, candidly. "I like Ratchet, but I suspect my personality will mesh better with one of those two."

"Hot Rod it is," he told her, gravely. He had a suspicion Bee and Elita, together, could be real trouble -- and not necessarily of the good type. Elita had a devilish sense of humor, and Bee, while remarkably patient, had his limits. He did have a temper, and his feelings were also far too easily hurt. Hot Rod was far more likely to accept the occasional prank with equanamity than Bee. "Magnus has been calling him Roddy Prime."

"Make it Rodimus, on this world," she suggested, after a moment's thought, "it'll scan better to human ears, I believe, if I understand their language well. -- Are the others going to change their names?"

"It would be traditional, but I am not certain that they will. Nothing of _this _situation bears much resemblance to past traditions." He leaned back against her rock and watched the water for a moment, then observed, "I suggested 'Gold Prime' to Bumblebee and he said it sounded like a name for a financial product, not an Autobot."

She made a noise that was the the Cybertronian equivalent of a snicker, though he wasn't laughing. "Why not assign me to 'Bee?"

Optimus watched the water for a long time before answering. She was content to wait. Finally, he said, "I believe Bumblebee may chose to stay on this world."

"He can't. He's a Prime, now. His duty is to our entire race."

Optimus knew this was so. "Yes, it is," he agreed.

"Could he give it up? The Matrix?" She asked, curiously, regarding Optimus with her head tilted to one side.

"No. As Grimlock has since discovered." Optimus had been privately amused by that, verging on openly so. Grimlock, for the first time in his living memory, and he'd known Grimlock for quite a long time, had been embarrassed. Grimlock had fully intended to give the Matrix up, of course, and now he couldn't. The embarrassment had turned to anger, then resignation, as Grimlock had realized he was going to have to deal with all the leadership issues that came with being a Prime. Optimus wasn't exactly laughing at him, but he certainly saw the humor in Grimlock's predicament.

_Well, the Matrix found him suitable. He may surprise us all. He's not nearly as stupid as he pretends to be. _

Grimlock's discomfiture aside, Optimus was operating under the assumption that he would divvy up the surviving Autobots between himself and the other five Primes, and that they would then set forth to start raising armies. The reality of new Primes would likely inspire many neutrals or disenchanted 'bots to rejoin the fight. It would be their job to lead forth a force to take back Cybertron.

However, who to assign to Grimlock's team left him stumped. Magnus had suggested giving Grimlock Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, adding, 'I'm not sure those three would _need _an army to conquer Cybertron ...' but Optimus had suspected that the suggestion was only joking despite the fact that Magnus had delivered it with a completely straight tone. Grimlock would probably kill Sunny, possibly literally. Grimlock was blunt, aggressive, and viciously hot-headed, but Sunstreaker was all of that with a side of crazy. It would be like gasoline and a match, with Grimlock being both the match and the better fighter.

Better, he supposed, to put Sideswipe under Ironhide's command and Sunstreaker with ... whoever he could talk into it. Preferably Magnus, who it had already been established would continue to work with Hot Rod. Magnus had taken the role reversal, of changing from Hot Rod's commander to his second-in-command, with his usual aplomb. Hot Rod, point of fact, had _asked _Magnus to stay with him, citing their friendship and trust.

Hot Rod and Magnus, presenting a united front, could almost certainly keep Sunstreaker in line. Magnus had done so in the past, albeit with a crew of twenty-six mechs to back him up. Though he would need to pull Roddy aside and have a word with him about Sunny's ... quirks. Even if Magnus did the same. Best to be thorough. Because Hot Rod was _not _a better fighter than Sunstreaker, Prime or no.

Which still left him with the question of 'who does Grimlock get?'

Elita tilted her head sideways, then said, "You ought to assign Wheelie to Grimlock, once we have Wheelie operational."

"Fang asked me to keep an eye on him myself." Optimus didn't mention how terribly guilty he felt that that Wheelie had been hurt. If he did, he'd earn himself a lecture from Elita, and he much preferred to just enjoy her company. Besides, it was undignified to be yelled at by her.

Elita said, in a somewhat barbed tone, "Since when do you take orders from Decepticons?"

"Elita, I will not compromise my honor to solve a staffing problem." He gave her a disgruntled look. He found he truly did not want to talk about what amounted to business. He hadn't seen her in thirty thousand years, at least partially deliberately, and he simply wanted to sit by her side and enjoy a few hours of downtime. He was tired, he was hurting with a whole raft of error messages that kept pinging his processors whenever he moved his arm on his injured side, and he couldn't even think about repairs until the far more badly injured 'bots were seen to. One rocket to the chest was nothing compared to the damage Sunstreaker had taken.

"Grimlock and Wheelie will get along nicely," she continued, blithely, "Grimlock's too blasted dense to care what anyone else thinks, and he'll take Wheelie on his own merits. Which are plenty -- with some training on systems other than Fang's, he'll make a nice medic, though I bet he'll make Ratchet look pleasant once he has a few years to build some confidence. That little 'bot has a temper -- _wow_. Wheeljack showed me the video of him and Grimlock meeting for the first time! However, I believe if you pair him with First Aid for training purposes, and add Hound and Bluestreak, and you'll have a team that won't kill each other. Oh, and Hound gets along with everyone, and would make a good second for Grimlock. He's got the diplomacy Grim lacks."

Optimus was silent, considering. He actually wanted Hound for his own team, but Elita had a point in that Grimlock would need a second in command with a wealth of diplomacy. Hound's leadership experience was practically nil, but he _would _outrank the rest of that proposed team, and he had a reassuringly level head. However, he wasn't about to send Wheelie with him. "Grimlock will almost certainly be on the front lines, Elita. I have promised Fangface that I will keep Wheelie safe. Additionally, Fang has essentially implied that he will not attack me directly as long as Wheelie is at my side. That is a powerful tool that I intend to use openly; it means I will be able to pass unmolested into Decepticon territory, and be confident that none will betray me. I will know, as long as Wheelie is at my side, that they are not laying a trap. I suspect that is what Fang has in mind, truthfully."

She lifted an eye ridge at him. "You think he's laying the groundwork for -- what, peace? Really?"

Optimus inclined his head in acknowledgement of that. "That is my belief, yes."

"He's a Decepticon, Optimus!"

"Yes," he murmured, "but probably less evil than some Autobots that have served in my command, if you could quantity evil -- which I am not sure that you can. Remember, Elita, and never forget, that we are the _same _people. We were born of the same world, and our sparks come from the same source."

She inclined her head, and said, "I suppose I could trust him a lot easier than I could your brother." She didn't have to specify which brother she was referring to; Magnus sometimes teasingly called her 'sister' though not when there were other 'bots in his command around to hear. She meant Megatron, and Optimus closed his eyes, knowing that, once, he had asked her to. And she had been right, and he had been wrong, and she wasn't above reminding him of the fact.

"We need to get Wheelie operational again as soon as possible." He changed the subject.

"And we lack the parts." She propped her chin on her fist for a moment and regarded him thoughtfully. "It was a Decepticon who injured him, one sent to assassinate you, correct? Fangface likely did not have the time, or perhaps the knowledge of his location, to recall the operative, if he is truly trying for peace. However, he bears some responsibility for his friend's damage. If I were you, I would turn to Fangface to ask for the repair parts. Given the number of the annoying little glitches ..."

He gave her a _look_. Thirty thousand years was a long time by even Cybetronian standards, but surely, she remembered his personal rule about not using derogatory terms to describe anyone. Ever. 'Glitch' as an insult was up there with a few human racial epithets for offensiveness and he was not happy to hear it come from her voice processor. It implied that a sentient mech was an 'programming error.' Calling someone an error, to a race of robots, wasn't an insult to be taken lightly.

She snapped, "... look, I've spent the last few tens of thousands of years playing exterminator on the slagging things. -- Given the number of small mechs that the Decepticons use, they're likely to have plenty of repair parts, even if some of them come from salvage. It looked like you guys killed forty-seven of them, by my count, when we saw the battle vids. Plenty of parts."

"Elita."

She shuttered her optics a couple of times at his tone of voice, surprised.

"No matter the size, all mechs are worthy of respect. Have you forgotten why we fight? We fight until all are one, Elita. We do not call the smallest among us _mistakes _because they are not. Or have you forgotten that one of those 'glitches' as you put it saved my life yesterday?" His words were sharp even to his own ears, and he stopped, certainly not wanting to fight with her.

Once, very recently, he would have been less adamant -- no less convinced, but less likely to chastize. But now he had at least a glimmer of hope. They had the information to rebuild the Allspark, if not the means -- but he'd known that all along. More importantly was what they didn't have: Megatron. And given that he'd seen to it that, this time, Megatron's memory core was _slag_, he didn't think Megatron would be returning. Even if they managed to put his Spark back in is body (and how Soundwave had managed that, he didn't want to know) he wouldn't remember anything of his old life. He would be a blank slate, and he seriously doubted that the Decepticons would follow a Megatron who would be the equivalent of a sparkling.

Abashed, she looked away from him. "No. I'm sorry. It's just, it's been so long, and this war, and ..." She slammed a fist into the rock beside her with an enormous bang. "I'm tired."

"We all are very weary." He caught her chin in his fingers and made her look back at him. "Elita, someday this war will be over, and then we must forge a peace. It will be easier to do if we never lose sight of that which we fight for."

She nodded, human style. She'd been processing human body language, internalizing it, and making it her own, as he had directed all the mechs to do. "I wish I had your vision, Optimus. I truly do."

"Mmm. It does help to be a Prime," he said.

She flicked him in the auditory sensor with a finger. "Helps to be _you_. You were spouting off deep philosophical thoughts when we were both younglings. Don't think I haven't forgotten, Orion Pax."

He ducked reflexively in reaction to the assault on his sensor, eyes going wide in alarm at the sudden loud _noise _that made, and once he would have laughed too, but now he only have her a smile. He was too damned tired to laugh, in either language.

"Oh, Optimus," she said, finally, "this war has been as hard on you as it has been on the rest of us, hasn't it? You've almost forgotten how to stop being a commander, haven't you?"

He blinked, and finally chuckled -- at himself, in Cybertronian -- and the laugh felt strange to him. He was so used to giving orders and preaching at his troops that he'd been doing the same to her.

"Just sit here, with me. We've both been soldiers for too long, Optimus." She leaned against her rock, and he sat beside her. "Let's not lose sight of the fact that someday we won't be soldiers, anymore, either. Someday, we'll just be friends again."

"I hope that day comes," he agreed.

And then they sat in silence, needing to say no more, and watched the river flow.

* * *

Scrubbing at his eyes, and with a bagel and a glass of milk clutched in his hands, Sam stumbled out of the house and towards the garage. A strange sight greeted him when he slipped through the side door. Bee was sitting up, transformed, crouched in the confined space of the garage. He had an old towel in one hand, and a piece of his armor -- detached -- in the other. The piece looked like it had come from his thigh.

"Wow." He blinked, staring. "I didn't know those came off."

Mikaela, unseen until now, spoke up from his far side. "They're not exactly vital system parts, and they do come off, Sam."

"I figured they'd be attached by, I dunno, welds?" He blinked. He'd thought Mikaela was still crashed in the spare bedroom. Apparently, she'd beaten him downstairs.

"They come off because sometimes the parts underneath need servicing," she said, in a tone that indicated he was being silly.

"We can repair damaged armor with nanotech, eventually," Bee explained, "but most of the gunk on my armor is just _dirt_. Using our nanos to remove dirt would be a tremendous waste of resources better spent on repairs when manual labor works just as well. The closest analogy I can think of would be cutting your hair because it was dirty -- though that's not quite right. I have discovered that carnuba wax works nicely to get the carbon deposits off."

"Shiny, too." Mikaela held up what appeared to be part of his foot.

"Okay, that's just weird." He glanced down at Bee's foot. Without the armor, the foot was a complicated affair of struts, levers, gears, joints, cables, springs, and one rather impressively large piston where a human's achilles tendon would attach. The biggest strut had a visible weld, must to his surprise -- at some point in his life, Bee had broken his 'ankle'. He'd seen them survive slamming into the planet from orbit. What could break a bot's _ankle_? He decided didn't want to know, but it was a sobering reminder of the life his friends led.

_He might have done it in Mission City_, Sam realized, suddenly. Were there other welds, higher up? He wasn't sure he wanted to see visible reminders -- scars -- of those horrific injuries. Seeing Bee drag himself out out of the rubble a shattered ruin was bad enough.

"No different than you taking your clothing off," Bee said, with a chuckle. Then he sobered, and said quietly, "Normally, this is something you do with your closest friends -- or in the case of a military squad, the soldiers you trust the most."

"Don't want strangers seeing you naked?" He teased,

Bee followed his gaze to his bared foot, then said quietly, "We're vulnerable without our armor. It's a gesture of trust to let someone help you get the dirt off."

Bumblebee reached up, and the soot-covered piece of plate on his upper arm popped off with a clatter of releasing connections. Bee calmly handed it to him, then turned back to scrubbing the section he had held in his other hand.

"Oh, great, give me the dirtiest piece, will you?" He grabbed a soapy bucket full of water -- yes, Mikaela _was _using car wash stuff, the bottle was on the floor -- and walked outside with the armor piece and the bucket. it was heavy enough to be a bit of a strain to carry, but not impossible. Judging the bucket of soapy water to not be enough, he hosed it off with the faucet beside the garage after a good scrubbing. He was aware of Bee watching him through the window, but Bee didn't look particularly concerned.

It took, as Bee had observed, quite a bit of wax and some elbow grease to get soot off. After rinsing off the worst of the pure _filth _off -- what had Bee been doing, rolling in mud? -- he carried it back in, and looked for a place to sit. Mikaela had claimed a seat on Bee's leg and there was ample room for a second person. "You mind?" he asked Bee. He sat on Bee's hood plenty of times, and this wasn't really different -- though it was, somehow.

He got a chirp in response, not really a word, but a verbal shrug. He sat down on the somewhat lumpy surface next to Mikaela, and grabbed the jar of wax, and started rubbing it in. Beneath the char marks, the paint was blistered. "What were you doing, fighting lightning?"

Bee leaned over to look at the marks. "Shockwave's pulse cannon. It's a good thing he missed; enough heat went right through my forcefield to burn the paint off."

"He didn't miss, he hit you!" Sam protested. The damage seemed obvious.

"No," Bee said, "he missed. I would have lost my cannon arm if he'd hit me dead on there. That was from a near miss."

Mikaela shuddered. "I'm not sure I want to hear this."

"That big meeting," Bumblebee said quietly, "is because we think the Decepticons may have a seriously upgraded pulse cannon. This," he gestured at the armor in Sam's hands, "shouldn't really have happened. And you saw the damage to the casualties. Sam, Sunstreaker is one of the heaviest hitters we have -- I've seen him take _Ironhide _down in sparring matches. He was a big, solid, very heavily armed mech who spent his own funds to upgrade himself past what we could provide, and most of that was in armor and a very hefty forcefield. And he's... well, you saw him. Ratchet's doing a bit of forensic investigation to try to determine if there was a flaw in his shielding or if what hit him punched through it, but the feeling is, it punched through."

"That doesn't sound good," Sam said.

"No. It isn't." Bee was very quiet, for a very long time. Then he took the now cleaned armor plate back from Mikaela, reattached it to his other knee, and clicked one off the back of his hand. Rather than the piece of armor, however, he held his palm out towards both of them, inner workings exposed. "I believe I have some sand in the joints. Could one of you ...?"

"Sure," Mikaela said, easily. "Let me see."

"Sam? Same thing here." Bee offered Sam his other hand.

For a moment, they were absorbed in the task. Sam felt a little weird, at first -- but Bee sat calmly, watching them, utterly motionless. When they were done with his hands, he gingerly sprawled on his stomach in the garage, legs bent back at the knee and feet waving over his back, and directed them to grit in his shoulder and neck joints -- then he said, quietly, "My helm, too, and _be careful_. There's dirt under it, but the sensors and processors under it are _really _delicate. We do a lot of our visual and motion processing in the systems right behind our main optics. You could very badly hurt me if you damage them."

"Maybe you should have Ratchet ..." Mikaela said, hesitantly.

"Ratchet is going to be busy for weeks. This is really minor, but it's driving me absolutely nuts. The helm comes off ..." There was a click, and it popped up slightly. "... I'd actually rather you humans do it than one of the other 'bots, anyway. Ratchet's okay, but this is delicate work. You guys are _good _at that. Your tactile senses are phenomenal compared to ours. A much more sensitive system."

Sam gently pulled his helmet away from the systems beneath it. The helmet was very heavy; he grunted at the effort. That armor was definitely thicker than the pieces he'd picked up before. The parts beneath _looked _delicate -- fine wires and tiny pieces, and the occasional moving bit. Cables ran from Bee's faceplate to a small motors and gears, and the glow of his optics shone through small cracks.

"That's so cool," Mikaela said. "So your positional sensors and processors are here?"

Bee, face down while they very gently brushed away sand and dirt, said, "Yeah. It's all connected to the optical sensors -- the two systems are interrelated."

When they were done, he pushed his helm back into place and sat up, head ducked to prevent a collision with the ceiling. Quietly, he said, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it, big guy." Mikaela patted him on the arm. "You're right that our tactile senses are better than yours -- that, I think, is the one sense we have an advantage over you on. I was talking to Ratchet about it."

"Mmm." Bee agreed.

Sam tilted his head sideways, then said, curious, "Can you actually even tell when we touch you?"

Bee nodded. "_That _I can sense. We pick up vibration and pressure. We can even tell _where _we're being touched by the vibrations, the same way you can tell which way a sound is coming from -- by triangulating the location based on the time the sensation arrives. So if you tap me on my armor," he demonstrated on his forearm, "I can tell within an inch or two where the impact happened. Also, some areas -- like my fingers -- are sensitive to minute changes in electrical fields. And we can certainly sense resistance when we pick something up, and weight, and pressure. But except for a few mechs with specialized dermal sensors, humans are simply _better _at tactile sensory input."

Mikaela said blandly, "Ratchet showed me something else ..." she reached her hand out and rapped a rapid stattacco rhythym on his upper arm with her fingers.

Bee _yelped_. The explosion of sound was purely in Cybertronian, and at a startling high pitch. He lunged away from her, somehow managing to do so without actually taking the garage down or clipping either of them -- his movement was lightning fast and incredibly agile. "Mikaela!" He protested, sounding stunned.

"What the hell did you ..." Sam started to object, thinking she'd somehow hurt him. In nearly the same tone of voice as Bee, he said, "Mikaela!"

She waggled her fingers at Bumblebee threateningly. Bee shot backwards, the garage door sliding noisily open as he did so. He lunged under it, not moving nearly as smoothly as he usually did.

"What the fuck?" Sam demanded.

Mikaela, grinning, turned her attention to him -- and _tickled _him. With a rather unmanly shriek, he wrenched free and darted out the garage door after Bee ... and got hit with a bucket full of soapy water as he did. "Bee!" He protested, in shock.

"Oops. Wrong human," Bee said, innocently, despite the fact that he was vanishingly unlikely to mistake Sam's footsteps for Mikaela's. Then he turned and ran out into the early morning street, as Mikaela pursued him with her fingers waggling threatingly before her. Waving his hand in a certainly futile attempt to discourage her, he said, "Oh, no. No! No! I'm going to _kill _the Hatchet for this! This should have been super-classified information ..."

Both humans chased him down the street ... once, they would have been worried about discovery, but the aliens and their own faces had been on the news for weeks. In a sort've 'what the hell' moment Sam decided he just didn't _give _a damn if the neighbors saw Bee anymore. They knew, anyway.

They chased Bee -- who was making both Cybertronian noises of amusement and human-sounding laughter -- for nearly twenty minutes. The sound of metal feet on the street was rather loud; they were yelling almost as loudly. It was probably a miracle that nobody actually called the police, particularly when Bee hid in an alley and then stepped out and grabbed Sam and hoisted him aloft and informed Mikaela, "Now I have a _hostage_. Back! Back I tell you!"

Sam, laughing so hard his sides hurt, mimicked Mikaela's finger-tapping gesture on Bee's wrist. Bee jumped, snapped a curse that was half in English and half not, then dropped him a couple of feet to the ground. Sam tried to tag him on the thigh and Bee agilely stepped away. They pursued Bee up the alley, across a nearly empty street, and ended up in a park half a mile from Sam's house. There, Bee threw his hands up, dropped to the ground, and declared, in a computerized voice, "All your base are belong to us! All your base are belong to us!"

"Uh-oh!" Sam braced his hands on his knees and struggled to catch his breath. "I think we broke Bee."

"Wave the white flag!" Bee mimicked the gesture, swinging an imaginary flag around over his head. "Surrender! No conditions! Just stop! Please!"

Mikaela wiggled her fingers at him anyway. He ducked and held both hands up, "Stop! Please!"

Laughing, she turned the threatened attack of tickling into a hug, leaning against Bee's shoulder. Bee, realizing that she'd stopped chasing him, relaxed a bit. Mikaela dug in her pocket, and produced a cell phone. "Sam, take our picture, will you?"

He obliged, then swapped places with her. Then Sam flopped on his back next to Bee and said, "Damn, I haven't laughed that hard since I can remember."

Mikaela gave an expressive sigh and slumped against Bee's knee. "I _needed _that."

"Primus!" Bee shook his head, staring down at them. He seemed stunned, albeit happily so. "You two ... nobody's done that to me since I was a youngling!"

"Might have something to do with the big damn _gun _on your arm," Mikaela teased, flicking it with her finger.

He leaned back, hands propped behind him, looking completely relaxed, and said, "I owe you both thanks."

"Eh?" Sam glanced back at Bee. "What for? If you're going to thank us for being your friends and not being afraid of you and shit, you _know _I got over that somewhere around the first time you saved us from a Decepticon."

"I think it took a few hours longer than that. Maybe the first time you saved _me_, perhaps? I seem to remember I had my pulse cannon primed to fire, my battle mask down, and was frankly scared to death and ready to kill everyone in the room and you ran to me and assured everyone else that I wouldn't hurt anyone." Bee's eyes seemed particularly bright as he said that. "However, I was more thinking along the lines of a 'thank you' because I was in an exceedingly foul mood last night and neither of you took it personally. I'm sorry if I was a bit gloomy."

"Oh. That." Sam shrugged. "Geeze, Bee. You were a bit intense, but I think you earned a 'get out of jail free' card allowing you to brood occasionally."

"I wasn't brooding!" Bee snapped. "Okay, _much._"

"Nah." Mikaela poked him with a finger, which made him twitch away from her and give her a suspicious look. "He was just feeling sorry for himself."

Bee huffed a huge, dramatic, theatrical sigh. "This, too."

"And ... here come the fans," Sam noted, seeing several people, including a mother with a couple children, walking in their direction with 'I want an autograph' style focused intent. "Should we run away, or stay?"

"Stay," Bee said, sounding a bit resigned. "Since they've already seen us and it will disappoint them if we leave. I suspect this will happen every time I go out in public, but it beats them running and screaming in the other direction. I do not believe I will ever simply be part of this world's society."

"You know," Mikaela said, idly, "The three of us ought to take a vacation together. Labor Day's next weekend."

"Shit, is it?" Sam blinked. He'd completely lost track of time. His college started a few weeks before it.

"Bee, do you think you could get leave?" Mikaela turned to face him. "I know things are probably tight right now, but ..."

"I already _have _leave," Bee said, "Ratchet's orders. I, err, said some things in that big meeting yesterday that I probably shouldn't have. Nothing serious, but Ratchet and Prime basically ordered me to take some downtime with you two, assuming you do not consider me an, err, 'third wheel' to your plans. They are well aware that it is a human holiday coming up. I was going to bring it up this morning but I wasn't sure if you had already made plans together."

Sam blinked. "What did you say?"

Bee said, "-- that I was tired of fighting. Rather emphatically. I think that they're worried I _won't. _I will, I'm just so sick of it." Then he raised his voice a bit and greeted the first of the arriving 'fans' as they reached hearing distance of the conversation. "Hello, Earthlings!"

Mikaela thumped him with her fist on the armor on his leg, making a nicely hollow metal bang with good reverb. "Bee, be nice."

"Well, they _are _Earthlings," Bee grumbled, loud enough for the people to hear. Sam recognized Bee playing the part of a clown, to put the people at ease. Bee added, shrugging in an exaggerated fashion, "I was only being accurate."

Sam recalled that the first time they'd really 'met' Bee as a giant alien robot rather than as Satan's Camaro, Bee had struck a dramatic pose with his hands on his hips, on a hill above them. Hours later he'd danced for them, too, and played 'Second to None' on his radio, when Optimus had formally introduced them. Yes, Bee definitely knew how to make an impression.

"You were being a wiseass." Mikaela rolled her eyes at him. She'd long ago grown smart to his sense of humor. "Hey, everyone. This's Bumblebee. You've probably seen his picture on TV, I bet ..."

Sam sat quietly, letting Mikaela and Bumblebee do the talking. Bee produced the fat marker that Sam had seen earlier from a compartment on his arm, and signed several autographs plus a kid's cast and answered a multitude of questions.

A vacation with Bee and Mikaela sounded completely, totally, and utterly normal; the only abnormal thing about it was that one of them would need to sleep in the parking lot if they got a hotel room. Though he wondered where they should go -- activities would be dictated by the need to include Bumblebee, of course, but even if that meant a tour of every drive-in movie theater and scenic country drive in the nation, and not much else, he was game for it. It was the company that would make the trip fun.

Yeah. He found he was already looking forward to it.

* * *

"Silverbolt."

Optimus Prime's voice woke Silverbolt from a light recharge. It was late afternoon, but Silver had flown for nearly two days straight, and he hadn't yet caught up on his sleep. Since Optimus was transformed, Silver changed too, and then said politely, "Yes, chief?"

"I require your services," Optimus said, not particularly to Silver's surprise. As the only flier on the team, he was generally in high demand. He did not expect that to change on Earth, even if they'd insisted he take the form of an ugly, slow, and technologically backwards aircraft. He would allow that the C-130s were aerodynamically quite stable and sturdy, and could land on any long-enough and reasonably flat surface, but that was the nicest thing he could think to say about them.

"A mission?"

"Not a formal one." Optimus had something in one of his hands. Silverbolt glanced down, and saw it was Wheelie, cradled in Optimus's palm. "And yet, a very important one, I think."

"A raid for parts?" Silverbolt guessed, a bit surprised that Optimus himself would consider the job.

"No, Silver. Not this time. I have spoken to Fang. He's agreed upon a truce, and invited me to visit the base."

"Alone, I imagine." Silver's voice was flat. He disapproved.

"As I am unable to fly myself, there will, by necessity, be two of us," Optimus's smile held some small was unsuprised to see that look and, really, he ought to just resign himself to playing chauffer to the boss. Thoughtfully, Optimus added, "Three, with Wheelie."

Silver snorted his opinion of that. "With all due respects, sir, that means you are one slightly damaged warrior and one very, very, ugly airplane and one stasis locked Decepticon."

"I am not worried, Silverbolt. If Fang wanted me dead he has many opportunities to try." A pause, then in a tone without censor, Optimus added, "And Wheelie is an Autobot. Please do not forget this."

"Need I remind you," Silverbolt said, quite distressed and simply unwilling to give up, because he could see all the ways this plan could go very wrong, starting with Decepticons being evil bastards, "Sir, that the Decepticons tried to _kill _you, yesterday?"

"Silver," Optimus said, sounding tired, but also ironically amused, "The Decepticons have either been actively attempting to kill me, or eagerly plotting my demise, since before the war began. This is not new. What _is _new is that they have a leader who _loves _another. And in that capacity to love I see a future for both our races. I fully intend to nurture that spark in Fangface. We are out of all other options."

"Couldn't you send another in your stead? Magnus, perhaps?" Silverbolt hesitated, realizing belatedly that he'd just suggested to Optimus that he put his brother in danger in his stead. Optimus, to his credit, said nothing -- but he did fix Silverbolt with a steady gaze that had a bit of steel lurking in it. "Err, or not, I suppose. Sir, you put me in an unpleasant position. You are the _Prime_. It is one thing to go into battle with multiple soldiers to back you up. You propose, however, to go alone, if I am understanding you correctly, and I suspect you intend to go directly into Decepticon territory, perhaps to the base itself."

Optimus said gravely, "Yes, this is my plan. I have already secured permission of the Russian government to attempt to open negotiations with Fang. The Russians were, ah, less eager to take on the Decepticons themselves now that they have realized the level to which that base is armed."

Silverbolt stared at him for a moment. Several possible responses crossed his mind, none of which would be appropriate things to say to the leader of the Autobots. He finally settled on the least offensive one, "Respectfully, sir, does your brother know about this? Because if I come home, and you don't, he'll have my bolts. And then the rest of the team will have the rest of me. By the time they're done with me, you could use me for tinsel."

Optimus gave a rare chuckle. "My brother knows me well enough to realize that no blame would be placed on you, Silver. Can you fly out now, or do you require more time in recharge?"

Disgruntled, Silver said, "I'm ready enough."

"Then transform, and let's go, my friend." Optimus stepped back to allow him room to unfold himself into a much larger plane.

Silver had a sneaking suspicion he was going to regret this. And, also, it did not escape his notice that Optimus had never said the other _Autobots _knew what he was up to. He briefly considered sending Magnus a quick transmission, and consequences be damned, but Optimus was apparently anticipating this. He said, as Silverbolt completed his transformation, "And Silver, we are operating under radio silence except for necessary communcations with flight control. This is a sensitive mission and I do not wish it to be jeopardized by anyone who feels I may need rescuing. You may break radio silence only if we are actively under attack, or if I have been incapacitated. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Yes. The suspicion was already coming true. He was already regretting this mission, and he hadn't even left the base yet.


	21. Chapter 21

Sam returned to classes the next day, where he learned he was on academic probation in almost all of them. He'd missed so much school -- not even three weeks in -- that he was alread in danger of being flunked out.

It was very tempting to quit.

"Sam," Bee said, when he called him to vent, "we don't anticipate any Decepticon attacks that we can't handle without you -- there's no _reason _for it. Focus on your school. You only have to survive until winter break, right?"

His mom threatened to disown him _and _make him pay back his first semester's tuition if he quit.

Grudgingly, he stayed in school.

* * *

Mikaela reopened the shop one full week after the funeral, after hiring someone the police recommended to scrub her father's ... well, whatever that was, that was stuck to the wall. Scrub it off. And paint. She now had nothing left in savings. And thank God she had a lease, because the landlord had not only refused to help he had threatened to kick her out if there was any more trouble. He was not a fan of giant alien robots, it turned out, and couple that with a murder on the premises, and she was definitely not his favoriteclient.

She wanted to quit, but she had to eat, and it was pretty damn hard to quit when you owned the business. Anyway, there were two customers who had cars that needed repairs and she felt bad they'd waited a week.

That day brought in four more cars -- including a little yellow Camaro that she nearly addressed with a, "Hi, Bee!" when the owner pulled into the parking lot. The Camaro just needed an oil change. It felt weird to put him -- it -- up on a rack, and she kept expecting it to talk to her, and she _did _pat it on the fender when she was done and say, "There you go."

Work was a good thing, it turned out. She made it through the whole day without thinking too much. The only rough spot was when she started to call out, "Dad?" meaning to ask him if he'd run out for lunch, and then realized he wasn't there anymore.

* * *

  
The funny part of arranging permission to leave the immediate area of the base was figuring out who to _ask _for it. To say that the chain of command had been shaken up was an understatement. However, while he certainly had leave, the general expectation on 'leave' was that they wouldn't get more than an hour or two from base. If they got recalled in an emergency, they needed to be able to get back.

The easy answer would be to simply ask Optimus, but Optimus had gone missing. He'd left a note that he had some business to attend to, and had made _very _firm orders that nobody was to follow him. This pretty much meant that he was going to go talk to Fangface -- and Bee and rest of the circle had unhappily concluded that either they _would _be rescuing him, conducting a funeral, or celebrating a truce.

Sunstreaker was taking bets. The odds currently favored 'rescue' by a heavy margin, with 'truce' second and 'funeral' a very distant third. (Grimlock had bet 'funeral' and Bee figured Grimlock was being a smartass.) Optimus was canny, and Magnus had pointed out that a truce with the Autobots would likely also mean a truce with the human governments for the Decepticons. Fang was certainly smart enoug to figure that out. Bee, himself, expected Optimus to return with a truce in hand. He assumed the reason that Optimus had slipped out and left them behind without discussing the matter was that the entire population of Autobots would have mutinied and _sat _on him, if necessary, to prevent him from such a foolish idea.

Bee, after rolling his optics a bit, had bet five human dollars on 'truce.' Personally, he knew Fangface well enough to realize Fang hated fighting a battle on multiple fronts. Fang might well agree to a temporary truce (and keep it) simply to avoid fighting both the Autobots _and _trying to maintain command of the Decepticons. Soundwave, at least, was not going to be happy about Fangface's coup, and he could name any dozen other Decepticons who'd love to usurp Fang. Not one of them (including Soundwave) had a prayer of leading for long, however.

Personally, Bee was hoping that the Decepticon's command structure simply imploded. He was not particularly worried about Optimus. Optimus knew what he was doing, and had been negotiating treaties for longer than Bee had been alive. He'd be fine.

Sunstreaker was taking bets on _that_, as well. The odds were ten to one against it. Too many mechs at the base had known Fang, either as an enemy on the battlefield or during the brief few years he'd called himself an Autobot.

But hey, hope was good, right?

Their _own _command structure was a bit ... shaky ... at the moment. However, there was no real chance of implosion on the Autobot side. They were simply confused about who ranked whom now.

A few days ago, Magnus would have been the commanding officer, followed by -- in order off their military rank -- Ironhide, Elita, Ratchet, and on down the line. Bee was somewhere in the middle, and Hot Rod had been dead last.

Magnus now cheerfully called Hot Rod 'boss' -- and had left Bee blinking in confusion and looking around for Optimus when he'd bestowed the same title on Bee. (Magnus had then said, "No, you. The short boss." -- And Bee had laughed. He wasn't sensitive about his height.)

However, that meant that he couldn't turn to Magnus for permission.

Bee had finally settled on asking Ratchet (because Ironhide was likely to say no on general principles) and approached him in the repair bay. Ratchet appeared to be machining a strut in Elita's size -- one of her legs had actually been _bent._

"Is that steel?" Bee said, curiously.

"Elita's light enough that it will work until we can get proper parts," Ratchet said, mildly. "She's not likely to do anything that would exceed the design tolerances. I don't know what we're going to do for Sunshine Boy, though stasis is sounding more and more like a wonderful possibility."

Bee snorted. "You know that Optimus would never let you offline him without his permission."

"Optimus isn't here."

He sounded ominously annoyed, and Bee decided he didn't want to know what Sunstreaker had been doing, or complaining about, that had Ratchet quite that peeved. There was a difference between 'aggravated Ratchet' and 'really angry Ratchet' and that sounded suspiciously like the latter. Bee was a bit relieved to be able to easily change the subject to, "Listen, Ratchet -- would there be any problem if I take a bit of a road trip with the kids? I won't be more than a day away."

Ratchet lifted one optic ridge up. "You know, you don't actually _need _to ask anyone's permission, Bumblebee."

"Errm ... well, I _am _asking." The idea of just _going _sat wrong with him.

"You're a Prime. We're not fighting anything, and unless Soundwave decides to come back and leak energon all over us in the next hour, we're not likely to do so any time in the next few weeks. Just _go_."

"You still outrank me. And so does Ironhide."

"So ask Ironhide."

"He'll say no."

"So just _go_." Ratchet turned his back on Bee, and ran a grinder noisily over a rough patch on the strut for a moment. Bee waited, knowing that wasn't a dismissal -- that was just Ratchet being, well, Ratchet. Finally, Ratchet shut the piece of equipment off and said, "Wish I could go with you, Bee, honestly."

Bee suddenly felt terribly, terribly guilty. "Maybe I should stay ..."

"You're on leave _anyway_, and judging by the display you put on yesterday night, it's well past time for it. I have Wheeljack, First Aid, Elita, _and _Inferno helping -- Elita's machining joints for her own legs right now. Any more mechs in the repair bay and there won't be room for me! And we don't need you to patrol the base -- we have two 'bots scheduled every six hours, plus they just assigned us two hundred more humans. Ironhide and Sideswipe are training the humans, inasmuch as they need it -- they're pretty well trained anyway. Special forces, I understand. Mostly they're just familiarizing them with our weapons, and our procedures. And that's all we're really doing right now: patrols and fixing people that need fixing and training. And _you _had a huge outburst in a meeting and so clearly need the time off, you might as well have it printed on your forehead."

_Now _he felt like a bit of a failure. "I am sorry, Ratchet."

Ratchet had snapped, "You need someone's permission? Fine, you have my _orders _as your chief medical officer: Go. And I don't want to see your aft back on this base until Monday at nine hundred for the morning briefing."

Bee winced at Ratchet's tone. It was deserved, but still, it stung. During the meeting last night, Grimlock had expressed the rather typically Grimlockian sentiment of, "Go back. Smash Decepticons. Decepticons in chaos. Good time. Not expecting attack. Take lots of humans, too. Coordinate human help."

Tactically it was a reasonably sound idea, and for a bit it had appeared like the Autobots might be considering it, even though most of their fighters were walking wounded. Ironhide had concurred with Grimlock's suggestion, as had Elita, particularly the "take lots of humans to back us up" idea. Elita had pointed out that the Russians were now chafing at the bit to get the Decepticons out of their territory, and were practically begging for help to do it.

And Bee had seen, in a rather vivid burst of imagination, tens of thousands of young human soldiers, each of them looking like Sam, dead on a battlefield. Blood soaking the ground. Dead mechs ... a thousand Wheelies, a hundred Optimuses. He had seen fire and death and destruction, grief and loss and sorrow, without end.

Because yes, they might win that battle, but did it _matter_? The Decepticons might defeat them at the next one. Probably, they would. For each victory that the Autobots achieved, they lost twice as much. He could prove that statistically. And yes, there was always hope that they would turn the tide, but even _he _had trouble believing in that these days. Even with Starscream and Megatron gone, they were outnumbered and outgunned.

And Grimlock wanted to go kill some Decepticons, and lose a few more Autobot lives (and probably a lot of human lives) in the process. And Bee just didn't want to _lose _anyone else.

In desperation, Bee had truly turned to his Matrix for the first time since receiving it. He had sent a query to it, asking for a solution -- any solution -- what he saw as a horrible losing situation. He was so _tired _of fighting. He was so tired of losing.

He found an answer in the memories of the earliest Primes -- along with the cold and chilling realization that Cybertronians had been _designed _for war. Whoever had created their race and deliberately made them machines of death and destructions. This was anathema to everything he had been taught, and believed. And yet there was a way to peace ... it _could _be done.

He didn't like the answer he found.

Then Grimlock had said, again, in the midst of the war meeting, "_Smash _Decepticons!"

The thing was, Grim had a Matrix too. Couldn't he see it? Hadn't he yet set up some queries and asked for answers? Didn't he _know_?

Bee had lunged to his feet, knocking over the metal work table he had been using as a seat. "I'm so slagging _tired _of fighting! By the pit, Grim! Primus! If I never see another battle in my life it will be too soon! I just want this war over, and at this point, I don't even care how we do it!"

It would have been more accurate to say that he _did _care -- he hated the answer he had seen, hated it with a vicious passion. But 'I don't care!' had been what had come from his processor, and as soon as it was uttered, he had wished he were mute again. He did care. He cared very much. But the anger, and the denial, and the grief of what had already been lost, and what would yet come to pass, it was utterly overwhelming.

And so he had said he didn't care.

Because he didn't _want _to care.

"Slag!" He had continued, despite all sorts of internal warnings telling him that now would be a good time to shut up and sit down like a good little soldier. "Are you _trying _to get some more of us dead? The Decepticons aren't doing anything at the moment but sitting there. Is it too much to ask to have a week or two of peace? Our ancestors used to have _lifetimes _of peace! I didn't ask to be created at the beginning of a war, and I'm sick to death of it, and I just want it to be over! I want to know what it would be like to not be either planning a battle, or recovering from one! Primus, I've had enough!"

And, yeah, Optimus and Ratchet were right to tell him to take some time off. In retrospect, he still felt the same sentiment, but throwing a screaming fit in front of the people he was supposed to be leading was just not the way to gain their respect -- particularly when most of them were a hell of a lot older than he was, and most of them were willing and ready to fight this war until they died.

Bee realized, abruptly, that Ratchet was staring at him. He'd been standing motionless for a couple of minutes, locked in a memory of that outburst, and analysis of it. He looked up and met Ratchet's gaze. Ratchet said, softly, in a tone that was queerly gentle for the normally sharp-tongued medic, "You see it too, don't you?"

Bee folded his arms and said, "There has to be another way. There has to be something we're missing."

"Hnnh. Well, when you figure out what data, precisely, we are missing, let me know."

* * *

  
Silverbolt touched down on a somewhat rough runway, a day after departing the base. One of the advantages to Autobot aircraft was that they did not need to stop for fuel and servicing. Silver was also faster than any C-130 ever made.

"Stay transformed," Optimus said, "and stay alert. Keep your doors shut tight and tell me if anyone comes within a hundred yards of you. Fang's issued an order that you are not to be touched, but even if he is being honest with us this does not mean that all the Decepticons on this base will obey him."

Silverbolt said, sounding clearly nervous, "I won't leave you behind."

"If I order you to take off, you _will_," Optimus said, firmly. "You are every bit as important as I am, Silverbolt. We have one flier and six Primes."

"I would beg to differ," Silverbolt objected. "The humans have ample aircraft that you may borrow, and you have in the past. I suspect that some of the smaller mechs could even pilot them. I do not see that you were ever stranded. At worst, you were inconvenienced by the need to repeatedly refuel. There is, however, only one Optimus Prime. Losing you would be a disaster, not an inconvenience."

Optimus sighed, not wanting to argue the point.

Fangface clearly was unlike any Decepticon leader he'd ever dealt with before. One hour after they'd departed the Decepticon base, Fang had sent him a brief e-mail: "Optimus. Thought you might need my address, and my cell phone number. So, here it is."

And Fang had then given him the phone number. Optimus presumed that the reply-to address of the e-mail was Fang's address. Arranging permission for Silverbolt to transport Wheelie to Fang had been as simple as picking up the phone, back in America.

Fang had answered that first call with a cheery, "Hey, Optimus. Ready to surrender yet?"

He'd very nearly hung up. Instead, he had said, "I was not planning on it, no, but I do require your assistance."

"Oooh, now that's going to cost you big."

"Hopefully you will not charge too high of a price, as it is for Wheelie," Optimus had said, a little annoyed by Fang's attitude -- but then, when was he not annoyed by Decepticons? "He was badly injured, and we do not have the motherboard in stock required to bring him back online."

"Oh, _fuck_." Fang has said, in English. "Yeah, no charge for things that concern my buddy. Send someone over with him and I'll see he's fixed. I have enough spare parts, thanks to your raid, to last Wheelie a lifetime."

Now, as Silverbolt taxi'd towards the runway, he called Fang's cell phone again. "Yo, Optimus!" Fang had said, cheerfully. "I see you sent Silver-boy. I'll be out in a minute with the parts you need and he can head straight home."

"Fangface," Optimus replied, "I'm with Silverbolt."

"Wait -- what -- you're here? You better not be here with a raiding party again, or I am going to wipe you off the face of this backwards planet."

Fang appeared, in protoform, from between two buildings. There were plenty of Decepticons in evidence now, as well, but most appeared to be going about routine business: if anyone found the appearance of a C-130 with an Autobot emblem on the runway unusual, they were not showing it. Optimus assumed that Fang had issued a few choice orders to them to ignore the Autobot plane. He headed for the plane at an easy jog, and Optimus assured him, "I came alone."

"You are _insane_," Fang had said. "I could kill you right now."

"Will you?" Optimus already suspected the answer to that.

"Well, no, because I've had my fill this week of pissed off Autobots." Fang had sounded like he was laughing. "Mind, I could clean the planet of the whole lot of you, but I fail to see the point. Twenty Autobots, half of them _broken_, are just not worth my time."

He refused to rise to the bait, and it was purely an attempt to goad, so he said instead, "I came because I wished to speak to you, in private, Fang."

"Well, I'm not coming aboard Silverbolt with _you _there." Silver stopped twenty feet from the plane, arms folded. "You pin me down, Silverbolt takes off, I'm screwed."

Optimus said, "Meeting in another secure location is fine."

"I could _kill _you."

"Will you give me your word of honor that you won't?" Optimus said this aloud, as he ducked down the C-130's ramp at a crouch, then unfolded himself to stand upright.

Fang regarded him with a very human scowl on his face. "I'm trying to get control over the Decepticons who _don't _support me. Seeing me talking to you won't help matters. They think I'm soft anyway."

_:So,: _Optimus said, via Autobot com channels, using a very old and long-retired encryption key that Fangface would have, _:Tell them you're negotiating a surrender. Tell them you have Prowl in a secured location somewhere and you're trying to use him as a bargaining chip for something. Be creative. I do not care how you justify it to your mechs, personally, Fang. But you must acknowledge we need to talk.:_

Fang snorted and said aloud, eyes widening in mock surprise, "The great Optimus Prime would suggest that I _lie_? To my _own troops_? Oh, I'm shocked. Shocked, I tell you. And we do have Prowl, I just haven't figured out where, and I will be bargaining like hell when I resolve that mystery."

"Lying is a skill you seem quite talented at," Optimus snapped, needled at last into responding with less than complete dignity and grace. He didn't respond to the 'Prowl' comment. He honestly was not sure what had happened to his second in command; the mech had disappeared while on leave on a distant planet several millenia ago. That was an old pain, still felt keenly, but not something he could do anything about. They'd tried, then, to trace Prowl's tracks and had failed. He wasn't even sure if Fang's comment now was the truth or if it was just more verbal jousting. However, he personally doubted that the Decepticons had Prowl simply because they would have done something more creative with him than hide him away for seven thousand years.

And, yes, if Fang did turn Prowl up he trusted he'd hear about it, likely with a demand for concessions of some sort to get him back. He'd be obliged to either bargain or attack to rescue his second. But that was a fight for another day, if it actually came to that.

Fang chuckled. "And yet you would trust my word of honor not to blast you into oblivion? Really?"

"I don't trust your word," Optimus advised Fang, "given that you've broken an oath to not one, but two, commanding officers. However, speaking to me in private would suit your purposes. Killng me won't."

Fang regarded Optimus over folded arms for a moment. "Fine. Get the runt, and we can talk. We can use Starscream's lab. It has a privacy shield on it, and I _know _it's not bugged, because I never managed to do so. I'll fix Wheelie while we talk. The faster I get you out of here, the less likely someone is to take a shot at you. You are correct that I prefer to keep you alive -- there's nothing like a martyr to inspire the losing side to victory, and your ranks are pretty deep with good leadership. Too bad you don't have the troops to back those leaders up."

Optimus snorted. "I don't think they need any more inspiration to rise up and fight, Silver. My death would be redundant. I was thinking more along the lines that if you would like to arrange a temporary truce to allow you to deal with solidifying your coup, you probably do not wish to kill me."

"Hnnh. That, too."

"And it's to _my _benefit to see you in power. I'd much prefer to have you as the leader of my enemies than Soundwave."

"Yeah?" Fang said suspiciously, "Why's that?"

Optimus ducked back into Silverbolt's hold and retrieved Wheelie's small body. He held him carefully cradled in one hand and advised Fang, with one lifted eyebrow, "The insults are better."

Fang chortled in Cybertronian, and shook his head, and said, "And here I thought you were going to say I was prettier."

Using a rather more securely encrypted Autobot channel, Silverbolt said, behind him _:Be careful, Optimus. I hope you know what you're doing.:_

:So do I, Silver. So do I.: He didn't deign to respond to the 'prettier' comment.


	22. Chapter 22

The Decepticon base was swarming with soldiers now -- Optimus counted at least thirty large mechs, some of them bearing recent battle scars. He suspected that they reason the base had seemed so deserted when they'd attacked it earlier was that Megatron had not counted on them being able to so swiftly counter-attack, with such force. The soldiers had been elsewhere, and since Hot Shot claimed that they'd only been ambushed by a small force, Optimus had no clue where that was. Nor did he hold any hope of Fangface telling him.

Aside from a number of dirty looks, nobody challenged him as he followed Fang down an alley between two rows of buildings, then into a large, heavily fortified building with a solid steel door. Fang shut the door and activated the privacy shield, then said, "You can put Wheelie on the table."

The room was full of equipment -- Optimus, somewhat sourly, realized that if Ratchet had half this much machinery they'd be able to manufacture parts rather than make do, or do without, with human-made bits and scant salvage.

"I remember when Starscream was simply a researcher," Optimus said, softly. "And good at it. I would frequently see reports of his work, and send him commendations. He was my brother's, but I had such hopes for him ... I see he never lost his love for research."

"Hnnh. He wasn't stupid, I'll give him that." Fang seemed less inclined to melancholy. He simply padded to a pile of dead mechs, and mech parts, against one wall, and began to rummage through it. He finally located two mechs, both a good bit bigger than Wheelie, that seemed to be what he was looking for. One had most of its upper torso blasted away. The other was a hollow shell missing a spark chamber and a few other parts, but showing no battle damage.

Fang waved a hand at the one minus the spark chamber. "You met Deathwheels. He's far better suited to be a giant killing machine than a janitor, I tell you. Appreciates the upgrade, too. Which is something I would like to do with Wheelie ..."

Optimus had an instant vision of Wheelie, attitude and all, in a thirty foot tall body. "If you wish to upgrade Wheelie to that point, Fang, I am assigning him to Grimlock's team."

Fangface laughed aloud. "And Megatron claimed you had no sense of humor. However, while Wheelie would probably disagree, I do not believe I would do him any favors by installing him in a killing machine. Wheelie is too impulsive and too hot headed to be an effective warrior. He would never be able to follow orders or keep his cool on a battlefield and would meet his demise very quickly from reckless actions. Megatron may have appreciated a beserker rage, but really, a cool and calculated approach is far more effective."

Unfortunately, Optimus knew, Fangface was right. That gave him, as humans would say, a cold chill. Fang was not going to be an easy opponent to defeat.

"Also," Fangface continued thoughtfully, "As much as I like the little mech, he's yours now, not mine. I'm not planning on giving you any advantages in battle, Optimus."

Optimus sighed, and did not laugh, though Fang was probably trying to be funny.

Fang set the two mech bodies he'd selected from the pile of scrap down on the table next to Wheelie's still, tiny form. "I don't know if the kid said anything to you -- he tends to keep his skills a secret, for whatever reason -- but I've managed to give him some medical training. I've picked up a fair amount myself just because I don't trust anyone else to do my own repairs. He's got an aptitude for it, as far as I can tell, but he's a little small for anything but microsurgery. Unfortunately, I was not willing to kiss the right afts to get him an upgrade when he was with me last, and I didn't have the power then to _kick _those afts. So we had to make due. However ..." he gestured at the larger frames he'd pulled from the scrap heap, "Any objection to me rebuilding him using these?"

Optimus blinked, then said, "None."

"Good. Because the microbots like Wheelie are a bitch to work on," Fang grinned, bearing lots of teeth. "Damn near need a microscope and I definitely need tweezers to make half the connections."

The mechs he'd selected were both shoulder height to the average human male, or about as tall as a fairly short human female. The one without a spark chamber was clearly a maintenance bot by design; it had very flexible limbs, small hands, and an agile body. The other one was a small fighter, with a shoulder-mounted laser rifle, tiny pulse cannon, and twin wrist-mounted serrated blades. Rather efficiently, Fang began to create a Frankenstein-like combination of the two, giving the maintenance bot's frame the weapons and soldering in the motherboard for them.

"Kinda scary, giving Wheelie weapons," Fang observed, with a grin. "Glad you get to deal with him, and not me."

"He's still outgunned by everyone on the base." Optimus wasn't particularly worried about this. Wheelie wasn't completely stupid. He quietly watched, impressed by Fang's skill; Fang had clearly been learning new skills since they'd known each other last. The only time Optimus had ever seen Fang come near a medical bay when he'd been with the Autobots was when he'd needed repairs.

"Well, he won't be outgunned by the humans," Fang pointed out, mildly. "It's not right for a mech to be small enough to be easily harmed by the fleshies."

"Sam killed Megatron and Mikaela cut Frenzy's head off with an electric saw and took out a Pretender. And N.E.S.T. soldiers carry rifles with armor-piercing rounds as a matter of course. I do not underestimate the humans." Though Fang had a point. He'd have a word with Wheelie about the appropriate use of weapons, and explain his personal policy on them -- which was that any 'bot who misused a weapon on another member of the team would spend cooling off time in a prison cell, followed by the most onerous chores he could think of, for a very extended period. Any 'bot who repeated the offense would be offlined until the end of the war. That was not an idle threat; he'd put two 'bots into stasis lock, and Sunstreaker was not going to get another warning from Optimus. Or Magnus, who had the same policy.

Any 'bot who harmed a human might find that he skipped the brig and went straight to deactivation.

"Duly noted. Which reminds me, I have a data cube for you." Fang paused from his work to reach into a drawer, retrieve a Cybertronian data cube, and toss it overhand to Optimus, who had remained fairly close to the door.

Optimus said, "What is this?"

"Decepticon numbers, troop placements, and stats on our weapons," Fang said, mildly. "I had Barricade prepare that last night."

Optimus looked at the cube in his hand, then back up at Fang. "I have a blunt question for you: _Are _you a double agent?"

Fang laughed out loud, human style, at that query. "Hardly. View the cube and you'll understand why I'm giving it to you."

Twenty minutes later, Fang finished the last connection in assembling the new frame. Twenty minutes after that, he had Wheelie's spark and processors plugged into the larger body. He shut the mech's chest and then made the last power connection.

Optimus would have held his breath, had he been human, because this didn't always work. Occasionally, a 'bot just refused to reboot after being taken offline by damage. However, Wheelie's eyes flickered smoothly to life. He shuttered his optics a couple of times, the said muzzily, "Fang ..."

"Hey, buddy."

Wheelie was quiet for a moment, likely focusing on his processors as his systems reset themselves and integrated the new parts, then said, "You fixed me with an upgrade?"

"You were due for one, but you always have to do things the hard way." Fang slid his hands under Wheelie's back and scooped him up, then lowered him gently to the ground. "There. How does the new frame feel?"

Wheelie shuttered his optics several times, then glanced up first at Fang, then at Optimus. "I'm taller."

"You have weapons." Most mechs, Fang included, would find this a lot more important than height.

Another blink, this one longer. "_Cool_."

Fang gave Wheelie a smile that was positively indulgent. "It's about time, I think."

Then he reached down and picked Wheelie back up, and said to Optimus, "There was something you wanted to discuss?"

"A tempory truce of a month of this planet's time."

"Until September 30th?" Fang suggested, easily. "We'll be gone, by then."

Optimus asked, "Gone?"

"We're leaving. I would note that your closest transport vessel that isn't in pieces is six months away. You have no way off this dirtball. I'd just as soon have a six month head start on taking out the rest of your forces while six Primes and that blasted white-knight brother of yours are stuck here on the ground." Fang's expression could only be described as an 'evil grin' when he added, "I have around fifty Decepticons on this world that will be _much _more effectively used kicking your force of about a fifteen Autobots, plus the damned neutrals, off Nieryl Six and I would note that you do not even have a way of warning them we are coming."

Optimus never swore outside the heat of battle. He was never even tempted. But his expression apparently looked like a curse, because Fang chuckled and said, "Language, Optimus. Language, language. You're thinking _such _evil thoughts at me."

Optimus seriously considered attempting to take Fang out. He probably could, if he caught Fang by surprise, though things would go downhill from there. Still, it might be worth it ...

Oblivious to, or perhaps ignoring, Optimus's growing rage, Fang continued, "Why would we want to stay here? Earth's a backwards mudball with hostile and dangerous natives, no energon to speak of, and no strategic importance." Fang turned his attention to Wheelie, who was nestled in the crook of his arm. He pointed a finger at him, "And you. You swore an oath to the Autobots, so you get to go back to them. Don't be like me -- don't do anything that will haunt your dreams and make you hate yourself someday. Keep that oath. It's important to your honor, and I will never hold it against you."

Optimus belatedly realized why Fang had picked Wheelie up -- he couldn't attack Fang without endangering Wheelie. Wheelie, for his part, didn't seem to mind being held, though he'd suddenly gone very quiet and still. Wheelie wasn't looking at either of them. Optimus's anger picked up a notch, but he could do _nothing _with the little one in the way.

Fang continued, firmly, to Wheelie, "Your loyalty lies with them. Do you understand me? If I find that you have not upheld your oaths, I will be displeased with you."

"They're in the in the right, you ass!" Wheelie snapped, suddenly. "Fang, why?"

Wordlessly, Fang set him down, and did not answer that question. Optimus saw Wheelie's eyes flash with that nearly legendary temper, and Wheelie folded his arms and glared at Fang. Over Wheelie's head, Fangface met Optimus's eyes. He said, "Nobody's innocent in war, are they?"

"Some have fewer regrets than others," Optimus seriously considered attacking Fangface. He could knock Wheelie out of the way and lunge at Fang, get him down in a hurry and disabled before he could transform. Optimus had a serious respect for Fang's abilities in his alt mode. Those back claws could shred plate steel, and what Fang couldn't claw through, he could tear off if he could get his toes into it. However, while his rage had not lessened, the momentary impulse had passed. If he died here, nobody would remain alive to _warn _the outpost. And he did have an idea about how to get a warning to them, at least.

_Fifty Decepticons. Primus. _Fang was right about the number of troops Magnus had left behind to guard the mining outpost, and most of the neutrals would be no use in a fight at all.

"You can't do this!" Wheelie took a step back towards Fang.

Fang crouched, as if he wanted to be on eye level with Wheelie to reassure him, and Wheelie balled his fists up as if he wanted to strike him. Ominously, Optimus also heard the subtle whine of charging weapons. It hadn't taken Wheelie long at all to find the new subroutines for his guns. Fang ignored both the threatening posture and the hum of the pulse cannon and laser rifles coming online, and said quietly, "When this war is over, Wheelie, maybe you'll come to realize why I have made certain decisions. I don't expect you to understand now, and I do not hold this against you."

Wheelie swung his fist at Fang's nose. Fang jerked his head back, and Wheelie raised an arm, laser rifle sighting on his face.

"Stand DOWN!" Optimus, who had been anticipating this, leaned over and grabbed Wheelie's arm and pulled it up towards the ceiling, faster than Wheelie could react. Wheelie's wrist was about the same size as a human's, and Optimus found it rather difficult not to _hurt _him, though he managed. Wheelie's squawl was a sound of outrage, not pain. There wasn't a chance in the world that little laser cannon would do more than wash out Fang's optic sensors, but he wasn't sure how Fang would react. "Wheelie, this is not the time nor place."

He closed his other hand around the little one, picked him up, and said coldly to Fangface, "If Wheelie's regard _means _anything to you, you will reconsider your plans."

Fang simply shrugged, and said, "He'll be a good medic for you, Optimus. Your people are going to need medics."

"Bite my aft, you slag-sucking son of a sparkless pit-born ....!"

"Wheelie," Optimus interrupted what promised to be a spectacularly profane rant from the small 'bot. Wheelie was so angry he was practically vibrating. "Enough. It is time for us to go."

"Frag him!" Wheelie snarled, thrashing in Optimus's hand. "Aft-brained son of the Dark God!"

Optimus met Fang's gaze. Fang's amber optics were utterly unreadable for a moment. Then he turned to the table, showing them his back, and said, "You may take yourselves back to Silverbolt. My soldiers will not bar your way."

Optimus watched Fang's back for a long moment, eyes narrowed suspiciously. There was something about Fang that truly irritated him, but which also left him feeling uneasy. He couldn't figure out what it was, though, and eventually he turned to leave. "May the next time we meet be your defeat," Fang said, genially, as Optimus left.

"I suppose that is an improvement over the psychopathic refrain of, 'Die, Autobot!'" Optimus mused, then coolly walked out the door.


	23. Chapter 23

"Hey, Bee!" Mikaela emerged from the shop's side door that Friday evening, as he pulled into the parking lot. He slowed, and she excitedly stuck her head though his window so they could talk without making it obvious that one of the people speaking was a car. "I'm all packed. I'll run upstairs and get my stuff."

"I'm very ready myself," he said, with honest enthusiasm. Optimus had phoned Magnus to report that he'd survived his sojourn into Decepticon territory, and that they had an official truce until September 30th.

_We'll have to see if they actually keep it, but Optimus seems to think Fang has no intention of breaking his word. Of course, he's fooled Optimus once before, along with all the rest of us._

Still, the time had never been better for a bit of leave. He felt horribly guilty, but at the same time, he also felt irrationally and irresponsibly _free_.

_Once upon a time, _he thought, grimly, _my ancestors would have been free to simply ... go. They would not have needed to worry about attacking Decepticons, or responsibilities to the entire Cybertronian race. If I had been born millenia before this time, I would have been a civilian -- and nobody would have thought anything unusual or irresponsible about a civilian taking a vacation. I would have simply gone, and enjoyed the trip, and led an innocent and inoffensive life._

"Be right back. Five minutes!" She ran back inside, and he parked himself in a likely-looking spot.

It had been closer to seven minutes when the man appeared. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a dark coat: nothing unusual. He also carried a camera in one hand, which _was _unusual. And what was very unusual was that he walked right up to the yellow Camaro and snapped a photograph.

_Paparazzi_, Bee identified.

The man hesitated, staring at Bee.

Bee stared right back with his sensors, though the man couldn't tell. Bee remained in car form. He _did _call Mikaela, however, to warn her that there as a photographer in the parking lot. She said something mildly annoyed. They were not a secret, anymore, and Bee now routinely posed for photographs, but he was off duty, slag it all.

"Umm. You're one of those robot cars, right? Bumblebee, I think?" The man asked. "You think you could, err, stand up?"

Bee remained silent. The photographer retreated to the sidewalk, where he continued to snap photographs.

"You're trespassing, buddy," Mikaela said, her voice cold, as she emerged. She had an old army duffle slung over her shoulder. Bee, in absolutely no mood to talk to the press at the moment, popped the car trunk and made a chirping noise like a car door being unlocked as she approached. Mikaela tossed the duffle into his trunk, opened the door, and slid into the driver's seat. After she'd shut the door she asked him, "So, not feeling chatty?"

"I'm off duty, Mikaela," he couldn't quite keep a growl out of his voice. "And just ... not in the mood."

"Hey!" The photographer shouted, as they pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic, "Is he one of the Autobots?"

Irritated, particularly since he thought the answer to that was fairly obvious as he'd pulled into the parking lot sans driver, Bee snapped on his external speakers to the loudest possible setting and blasted, "_They might be giants (Boy!), they might be giants!"_

Mikaela jumped in surprise in her seat, then snickered when the choice of song registered. "Hey, I like that tune."

It was a catchy tune, really, and she started singing along as they pulled away from the frustrated photographer. Without much thought on the matter, Bee joined in, adding _his _voice to hers.

She stopped in surprise, and he stopped because _she _stopped, and he cut the music as well.

"You've _heard _me sing before," he said, somewhat defensively.

"In Cybertronian! You sound like a singing modem!"

"I was on key. And keeping the correct time." Why had she stopped? He wondered if he'd comitted a faux pax he wasn't aware of. Singing in English was _easy _compared to the multitudes of tonalities in Cybertronian. Singing modem? He was reasonably sure she was teasing, but it still stung.

"I really wasn't expecting you to have such a good voice in English," she finally explained. "Wow, Bee! You've sure come a long way from the robot who couldn't talk!"

"Oh." He chuckled, human style, but with a rush of Cybertronian chirping laughter beneath those burbling human lsounds. She approved, and the relief was warm and fuzzy in his circuits. "I thought you didn't like it."

"I was just surprised, is all." Her hands, resting on the wheel, briefly tightened -- a reassuring touch. Humans were so _tactile_, but he understood what she was saying with that squeeze. Tentatively, she started again, "They might be giants ..."

He switched his radio back on, then joined in. By the end of the song (which had purely ridiculous lyrics) both of them were laughing and he was in a _much _better mood. Her approval, as much as the joy of singing, served to cheer him up.

* * *

Sam, suitcase in hand, knapsack over one shoulder, met them on the curb at the college. He greeted them with a cheery, "Hi guys!"

After stowing his suitcase in Bee's trunk he flung himself into the passenger seat. "I am _so _glad it's Friday!"

"As am I," Bee assured him. Then he and Mikaela treated him to a karaoke version of 'We're on the road again ...'

Sam joined in after a surprised moment of staring at the dash. Both humans dissolved into laughter at the end of the song, though why they found the thought of Bee singing in English funny, he did not know. _Sam _was off key, though enthusiastic. Why were they laughing about _Bee's _singing? And he was 100% sure they found _him _singing to be funny.

Still, they seemed to like it, and that fairly made him glow with good humor. It had been a very long time since he'd sung for an audience.

* * *

  
A few hours later, Sam was laughing so hard that he was doubled over, arms around his chest. He'd been laughing all afternoon, laughing until his ribs hurt. "Look at him _go_!"

It had been Mikaela's idea to take Bee to the Bonneville Salt Flats. Bee had undoubtedly researched the location on the way and had gotten rather vocally bouncy with excitement. Then he had not _quite _thrown them out of the car when they arrived but had certainly communicated his urgency when he'd suggested they remove themselves from his seats for safety reasons. Now, Sam and Mikaela stood off to the side as Bee, for the first time since arriving on Earth, had a chance to push himself and go flat out. He visibly modified his body panels and tires, then floored it.

He successfully broke the sound barrier.

* * *

They saw the inevitable drive in movie that night. The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Bee loved it, and added more than a few dialog clips to his repertoire. Mikaela giggled her way through. Sam mocked it. And fun was had by all.

* * *

They camped very, very late that evening, beside a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, because they were having too much fun to separate themselves from Bee in a hotel room. Bee, who could see very well in the dark, gathered firewood while they set up a tent.

"Do Autobots do anything like camping?" Mikaela asked, as she started the fire with her grandfather's lighter.

Bumblebee settled down on the ground, drew one leg up to his chest, and considered the question. "I've spent many nights living rough, on worlds far more primitive than this one. I enjoy it, as long as it is not protracted. There is something to be said for a night sky so clear I can see home in it."

"You can see Cybertron's star?"

"It is so far away that the light from that star left it during what we term our golden age. I like to think I'm seeing Cybertron as it was, not the dead world it is now." Bee tucked his other knee to his chest and rested his chin on it. "I'd point it out to you, but I do not believe that human eyes have the acuity to see it. It is located in what you call the Milky Way -- in another arm of this galaxy."

They looked up, where the Milky Way arched across a flawless, shimmering sky.

Mikaela sat down next to Bee, leaning easily against his foot. "What was Cybertron like?"

"I can show you." There was a click and a hum behind her, as he activated his holo-emitters. Sam sat down next to them, and Bee surrounded them in images of his homeworld.

Soaring buildings, on a scale nothing like Earth's. Crowds of mechs, watching a sporting event that looked suspiciously like 'capture the flag.' A Cybertronian artist, spinning glass into fragile, ethereal spires with his bare hands. A music festival -- Bee, and a gaggle of unfamiliar 'bots she assumed were his friends, stomping their feet in time with the music and creating a near-deafening rumble. The Cybertronian senate building, ancient even by the standards of his very long lived race. A view of Optimus Prime, speaking to a crowd, as recorded by Bee -- who had been towards the back of the mob. A market, recognizable despite the alien wares. The launch of a spacecraft in a tower of fire, screaming into the sky. An eclipse of a reddish sun by a large satellite.

When Bee finally shut the holo-emitter off, he was very quiet, and somber. He said softly, "That's all gone, now. There's not much left on Cybertron except for opposing army camps, and vast wastelands between them. And -- not many soldiers left, either."

"Bee," Mikaela said, "How many mechs are there?"

She had seen vast crowds in the images. Living, vibrant _people_.

He was silent, and did not answer, for so long that she thought he wasn't going to. Was this classified info? Then his hands reached out, one resting on each of their shoulders, as they leaned back against his legs. Touch was a human thing, and mechs didn't generally indulge in it, but perhaps he was trying to make a connection when he said, "We do not know how many of us are left, Mikaela, but I suspect the number could be measured in the low tens of thousands, including all the factions."

His thumb rubbed a gentle circle on her arm, and she put a hand up on his wrist. Beside her, Sam glanced up at him, and said softly, "My college has that many students."

"I know." Bee removed his hands and folded his arms across his knees and bowed his head. "If we lose many more people, we will be past the point of no return. Somebody has to run the factories for spare parts, and somebody has to mine and refine fuel, and somebody has to defend us against other threats. We cannot reproduce, and soon, we will run out of 'somebodies' to do those things. And then we will die slow, lingering, deaths as stasis lock overtakes us due to lack of fuel or maintenance ... and there will be nobody left to bring us online. Even with a new Allspark, we will not be able to renew our people."

* * *

By morning, Bee's melancholy mood was replaced by good humor again, however -- at least, at the outset. He sang a cheerful-sounding a capella Cybertronian song as they packed up the campsite, and since nobody was in view in miles, Bee stayed in protoform even after the sun rose. Then, while they ate a quick breakfast of granola bars and apples, Bee watched a lizard for a good twenty minutes, clearly fascinated.

After eating -- and after Sam and Bee together tried and failed to catch the lizard, and Mikaela shook her head at both of them and claimed _neither _of them had hit puberty yet -- they headed for the Grand Canyon. It wasn't until they were almost to the Colorado River, however, that Sam consciously realized that they would need to cross at Hoover Dam.

Bee grew very quiet as they approached. Once they were past, he pulled over onto an overlook, tires crunching on the gravel. He turned back, and parked with his bumper feet from a sheer cliff, separated from the drop only by a thin metal cable. He was silent, even shutting off the radio, and both his friends said nothing. Sam knew, from over a year as Bumblebee's friend and, lately, his confidante, that the Autobot was steeling himself up to say something he found difficult.

When he finally spoke, he said, "I owe you both a great deal. I ... never told anyone this, not even Ratchet, but they had succesfully hacked into at least some of my autonomic processes. They _did not _know what they were doing, but they were ... experimenting. They offlined me twice, and while I was offline they accessed my processor core the second time. That's a bit ... well, it's a violation. The Decepticons do something similar to captured Autobots, seeking information, and most of the 'bots they do it to are not the same after. I count myself fortunate that they did not get beyond my reflexive firewalls. They would have, however, done so. Given time. And even what they did hurts, on a very basic emotional level."

He was quiet, for a moment, then added, "You've both met Bluestreak. And Sunstreaker. We rescued the two of them from a Decepticon prison camp. I think Bluestreak's mostly okay, though sometimes he tries so hard for approval even though he already _has _it -- that's what all the chatter's about. We know it, which is why you'll never see us discourage it. To silence him would be to make his pain that much worse. _He _knows it. He's had enough counseling for ten 'bots. And yet he still keeps trying to say something to make himself look smart, or funny, or cool. He just can't accept he's all of those things anyway, and doesn't need to prove it to anyone, and it was largely because of the fact that they jacked into his memories against his will, seeking information."

"Did you know him before?" Mikaela asked.

Sam thought about Bluestreak, and the gentle way the other 'bots treated him, and it took on a whole new dimension. The Autobots truly loved each other, with an emotion that was indistinguishable from human platonic love, and what Bee said implied he had been very badly damaged on an emotional level. He'd just assumed he was the Autobot equivalent of someone with ADHD -- Miles in metallic form.

"Yeah, I did. Both of them. And Sunstreaker ... Sunstreaker's _not _okay. I'm not sure he ever will be." Bee fell gloomily silent.

"And they did that to you?" Mikaela said, horrified.

"They had access. They didn't know what to do with it when they got it. They didn't manage to scan my thoughts, though they were trying." He was silent again. Then he said, "When I got loose, I was only concerned with defending myself. Humans would have died that day, any human I saw, and that includes you two. I was ... not exactly in my right mind."

"I saw your mask come down," Mikaela said, her voice so soft that Sam had to strain to hear it.

Sam, personally, had never seen any mech bother with the protection of a battle mask when dealing with humans, before or since, even in the heat of battle. Bee kept his up even during some fights with Decepticons. Lowering it was an openly hostile gesture, unless the 'bot was clowning around -- he had not known enough, then, to realize that a lowered battle mask in actual battle was almost synonymous with charged weapons and activated offensive subroutines and intent to kill. But then, he'd only known the Autobots for a few hours.

Bumblebee's safeties had been off and he had been locked, loaded, and ready to kill. That was a _serious _threat. He had not even realized it. He'd just assumed Bee was frightened.

And he had run to Bee and assured everyone Bee was friendly.

Bumblebee said, quietly, "I had you targeted, Sam, as you were the closest. I was not in my right mind. And then you said I was friendly and I wouldn't hurt anyone. You were so trusting ... both of you ... it brought me back to myself."

Sam shrugged. "You wouldn't have fired."

Bee made a soft shush-shusshing sound through his speakers that Sam had never heard an Autobot make before. Then, softly, "I'm glad I didn't, Sam. The two of you bring joy to my life, and remind me what a reality without war would be like."

Sam said, "I know enough to know you were serious that day, now, Bee. And I would _still _run to you."

"Me too," Mikaela said, "you would _never _hurt us."

"And that trust," Bee said, "is one of many reasons why I adore the both of you."

He started his engine back up and turned around to face the road. After a moment of waiting without success for a space to turn, he growled in a much more normal voice, "Traffic on this world is hideous."

"It's Labor Day. Half the country is going somewhere else." Mikaela pointedly held her hands high off the steering wheel, though they'd been resting casually on it a moment earlier. "I'm just glad you're driving and not me."

* * *

They saw the Canyon a few hours later, and even Bee was impressed by its immense depth. On a remote overlook out of sight of any humans close enough to bother them, he transformed and stood right on the lip of a cliff. The wind whistled around his armor, and he gazed for a long, long, long time across the vast chasm. Mikaela and Sam threw rocks over the edge, and yodeled, and Mikaela took a series of pictures, most of them of Bee and Sam and the gap beyond.

But Bumblebee didn't move. He just watched.

"Cybertron has canyons like this," he said, finally, as his only explanation for what had captivated him for almost an hour. "But no organic life. The sparse desert growth .... makes it feel almost like home."  


* * *

"Do you have any suggestions for a really scenic drive?" Sam asked the park ranger, while Mikaela picked through free brochures at the Grand Canyon visitor's center.

The man pursed his lips together for a moment. "Short, or long?"

"All day, maybe. We've never been here before. We've seen the Canyon. What else is there?" Mikaela spoke up. "Just a nice long drive. All day would be good. We don't care where we end up."

The man grabbed a map off the rack and a highlighter from a jar. "Here. Once you get into Flagstaff, turn onto 89-A ..."

The ranger's suggestion took them down onto a two-lane country road. Bee grumbled momentarily about both the lack of land-based cell phone access (he had a satellite phone, but it was slow for data transfers) and the traffic, which was bumper-to-bumper. Then the road crested a ridge, and dropped down dramatically into a deep canyon with big green trees and rushing water and dramatic red rocks. He stopped complaining.

The ranger had noted a nice place to picnic, and it proved to be a parking lot beside an old apple orchard, with picnic tables and a metal bridge across a rushing stream called Oak Creek. Mikaela and Sam went for a brief hike; Bee declined their suggestion that he transform and join them. "I'd probably scare a few people, and I don't want to do that today. I think I'll just take a short recharge in the sun ..."

Bee suited action to words. Sam suspected that he wasn't napping very deeply, but it was a measure of his relaxed state that he could do so at all. They were not expecting an attack, and he was comfortable around humans, who were very unlikely to harm him in vehicle form.

They took a short hike, letting him sleep in peace. Not wanting to leave him completely out, however, Mikaela took a bunch of photographs and Bee scanned them off her camera's memory card when they returned. After viewing the pictures Bee claimed it was almost like being there, and made appreciative noises about the beauty of the creek.

The road continued on, down the canyon, and towards a stunningly beautiful town. Vast vistas of red rocks, deep green trees, and just ... beauty. It was almost an otherworldly place.

They were almost into the town, Bee suddenly pulled over with a crisp, alert move at odds with his previous rather casual manner.

"Something up?" Sam said, a bit of adrenalin flooding his own veins. After more than a year as his regular passenger, could certainly tell the difference in Bee's driving, and Bee had just gone from 'enjoying himself' to 'way too alert and possibly about to fight other giant robots.' His acceleration and braking had just become a hell of a lot crisper.

"Hnnh." Bee popped both doors open. He didn't sound panicky, just a little on edge. "Hop out, you two."

"Do _not _squash my luggage," Mikaela ordered, as she climbed out. The only reason Bee would tell them to get out was if he intended to tansform. He promptly did so beside the road, causing at least one near wreck and an instant traffic jam. However, his attention was entirely on a distantly visible hill. Sam watched as his doors -- which doubled as sensors -- lifted up. He was scanning something intently in the mountains to the west of the road.

Finally, he transformed back. Traffic started moving again, and they reclaimed their seats.

"Care if we take a detour?" Bee said.

"What's up?" Sam asked.

"I'm actually picking up a beacon from those hills." Bee sounded nonplussed.

"Cybertronian?"

"Yes, and it is very weak."

"Beacon?" Sam repeated.

"An SOS." Bee paused, then said, "No identity attached to it. It's very nonspecific. The codes it's using is truly ancient. It's a distress signal, and it's so weak the power source must be nearly exhausted."

"Well, let's check it out," Sam sounded enthusiastic.

Bee hesitated, however, not pulling out into traffic. "I'd like to drop you off in town somewhere. It could be a trap."

And despite Sam's arguments, Bee point-blank refused to take them with him, with a stubborn adamance that Sam had not experienced from Bee in several months. Firmly, and repeatedly, he said, "I am _not _going to needlessly endanger the two of you."

Eventually, Bumblebee wore him down. Sam, somewhat pissed, allowed Bee to drop drop them off at a row of gift shops facing a busy stretch of highway, and headed on alone down the road towards that faint signal.

"He'd better come _back_," Sam said, arms folded, and glaring after the disappearing taillights.

"You're just jealous you're missing the fun," Mikaela poked him in the ribs, making Sam squirm and dance away.

"Don't tell me you're not worried," he cast a glare in her direction.

It was her turn to look in the direction Bee had gone. They could still see him in the distance, sitting at a stoplight. Then he accelerated when the light changed, and was gone from view. Softly, Mikaela said, "I always worry about Bee, Sam. You're not the only one who's seen him blown to pieces."

* * *

Author's notes: The place they stopped for lunch at in Oak Creek Canyon is real; West Fork is one of my favorite hiking/picnic spots in Arizona.

Also ... local _ahem _legend, of the somewhat flaky variety, has an ancient spaceship hiding under Bell Rock in the Sedona area. There's a truth in every legend, though in the next chapter, Bee hikes into the wilderness between Oak Creek and Sycamore Creeks, which is unbelievably rugged and remote. (Bell Rock's just off the highway.)


	24. Chapter 24

Author's note: Warning for adult content at the end of this chapter.

Also, Silverbolt'd backstory (for my personal universe) is touched on in Outtakes, here: .net/s/5268143/3/Masks_The_Outtakes (Hopefully, FFnet won't munch that link since it's an internal link. If it does, it's chapter three.)

* * *

Bee was more concerned about the growing lateness of the day than of any Decepticon attack. If Decepticons wanted to set up a trap, he thought they'd be a lot less subtle about it. This was very likely to be exactly what it seemed to be, which was simply an ancient distress call, so muted by power loss and time that it could not have been detected beyond a fairly close range. He had simply been the first mech to pass this way since their arrival on the world.

As the sun cast long, setting shadows across the ground he pulled into a parking lot at a trailhead, effectively the end of the road. From this point on, he would need to walk.

He waited impatiently until there were no humans in site, then transformed and quickly ran into the trees to conceal himself. He was not, to the best of his knowledge, breaking any major laws. However, he just didn't want to deal with complications, even the kind that would simply require a quick conference between himself, the local authorities, higher levels of government authorities, and probably Optimus, to sort it out.

Additionally, he did not want to make any sort of call home, much less draw attention to this location, until he knew what he was dealing with. They did not know where Soundwave was, and he did not want to raise an alert if this discovery proved to truly be lost Cybertronian technology -- or a lost Cybertronian. The alert was so nonspecific -- essentially, an SOS that did not specify Autobot, Decepticon, or Neutral -- that he had no idea what he was dealing with.

Feet crunching on the dry earth, he left the human trail behind and contoured around the side of a mountain. On foot, he was faster than any human alive, and he had made his way twenty miles into the wilderness by full dark, at roughly ten miles per hour. He was hurrying. However, as the sun was setting, he sent a quick call to Sam -- who, without revealing anything other than that they'd briefly parted company, confirmed they were fine, and had found a hotel.

"I am sorry I had to leave you two," Bee said, then, in as suggestive of a tone as an alien robot could manage, "... and do have fun in my absence."

Sam started laughing, and Bee could practically hear the blush. This pleased him; he was definitely mastering the art of human humor, including _teasing_. He didn't feel too bad about leaving them behind, despite the apology. He thought it was time that Sam and Mikaela had some time alone_, _to do what human couples generally did on vacation by themselves. He knew they had very little time together normally -- Sam had school, Mikaela had her business, and they both spent as much time at the base with the 'bots as they possibly could. That didn't leave much personal time for them to be alone together.

It was something that worried him, purely on a personal level. If they separated, torn apart by simple lack of time for one another, where would that leave him? He did not want to lose either of them as friends, nor did he want to be stuck in the middle. Well, that was a problem he would deal with if and when it arose, and meanwhile, worry about privately during his darker moods.

A much more immediate concern was the identity of what he was tracking down. The signal he had detected was so weak he never would have sensed it if he had not been looking for it, and even then, most of the mechs he knew would not have detected it. The _reason _he had even been looking was that, while driving, he'd been googling the history of the area. Apparently, some of the local humans had religious beliefs that included 'vortexes' and space aliens sleeping under rocks. He had no idea how to explain a 'vortex' but the local myths about aliens had caught his interest. There was often truth behind legends, and so he had dialed his sensors up to their absolute maximum ... and somewhat to his surprise he had detected a very faint, distant, signal, though not in the direction local lore would indicate.

He triangulated the location of the beacon as he followed it, crossreferenced it with Google Earth, and determined that it was twenty miles from the nearest human footpath, and a fair bit longer than that from any human road. He had ten more miles to go, and, as the sun was now below the horizon, he was glad he could see in the dark.

The mountains it was coming from were terribly remote. It was amazing to think that much true wilderness existed only a few dozen miles from the bustling tourist destination that was Sedona. As far as Sedona went, he had been somewhat bemused by the shops they had passed ... he'd fantasized briefly about being a human, and browsing through them without either (or both) sending other shoppers running, or attracting a crowd of curious people. The location was beautiful, the items for sale interesting, and he could only watch from a distance.

It took another hour and a half to get within one ridgeline of the location of the beacon. Bee, moving far more quietly than most 'bots could manage -- he was, after all, a scout -- crept up to the ridge. He then crawled the last hundred feet on his belly and peered over the edge.

Disappointingly, the valley seemed perfectly normal. However, the signal was definitely coming from the immediate vicinity. It was still not very strong, but it was clear. It was the equivalent of, _:SOS. SOS. SOS:_ Repeated over and over.

Hesitantly, fearful of drawing Decepticon attention to the location, he responded with an even weaker, _:I hear you. Where are you?:_

Gratifyingly, the signal immediately quit. Whatever was sending out that call for distress had heard him, and had enough awareness to respond. It wasn't just a recording. He activated his weapons, however, and tensed for possible battle. This could be a trap.

_:Who?: _The query was clipped, likely because the sender was conserving power.

He gave his Cybertronian designation, then asked, _:And you?:_

:Designation -- Organic Life Research and Retrieval Vessel, Teletraan speaking: 

Woah. He sat up, stunned, as the ship continued with an identification code so old he had to resort to his Matrix to verify it. A research vessel? A _ship_? He was talking to a _ship_? And the codes the ship included verified it was a ship with a spark -- the Teletraan who had responded. Not one able to transform itself, but the ship was very definitely alive, and Teletraan was the name of the ship's spark. On a ship that big, it was custom to differentiate between the _ship _and the _mind_ that ran it, because Teletraan's support systems would be designed for easy removal and transplant to a new vessel.

Cybertron had not sent out research vessels such as this in millenia, though he knew for a fact that they _had _come to this world. Grimlock had been on one of them. Earth's vast and vibrant ecosystem was fascinating, despite this being a backwater and out-of-the-way world.

_:Where are you?:_

The ship replied, _:Buried. Can you help?:_

:Not a problem. Do you have a crew?:

:Affirmative.:

:How long have you been here?:

:Four million planetary years.:

He very nearly laughed aloud in disbelief as he climbed down into the valley. _:You have got to be kidding me. Is your crew actually alive?:_

:Stasis. Physical condition unknown, but no reason to expect trouble bringing them online.:

He slid the last twenty feet down a talus slope. This put the signal of the ship behind him -- so it was buried somewhere under a landslide. A very, very, very large landslide. It appeared half the hillside had come down, and then the intervening years had put more sand and dirt over the ship from wind and rain eroding the slope.

_:How is your structural integrity? -- and if you can dial down your power on your response, do. There are hostile forces in the area.: _

A _ship_. He'd found a starship! He was so excited he nearly jumped up and down in joy like a youngling. Bumblebee had been expecting a single lost soul, not a _ship_. Heavens forbid the Decepticons learn of this find. If they couldn't steal the craft for themselves, they would destroy it, certainly.

The ship responded with significantly less signal strength, _:Structure sound. Self-repair routines all functional.: _The ship then volunteered, _:Cannot achieve orbit.:_

:Repairable?:

:Not enough fuel.:

That was a solvable problem. They didn't currently have energon refining abilities on Earth, but Optimus was working on that problem. Human technology could be used to make it, eventually, with a lot of tweaking. The Decepticons, with their traditionally grandiose schemes, had wanted to destroy Earth's sun and use the power to create enough energon from entire solar system's carbon compounds to fuel an entire civilization in one go. Carbon compounds would have included 'organic life' eventually, and the end result would have been enough energon to fuel Cybertron for eons. They would have even jumped all the system's _planets _through a space/time bridge to Cybertron's system, once the conversion process was complete,

On the other hand, making enough fuel for a few dozen 'bots wasn't nearly as energy intensive of an endeavor, to put it mildly. One average-sized nuclear power plant should do the trick -- or the solar power gathering capability of the ship's cells. He frowned, wondering if something had broken. Ships this size, and his Matrix was readily informing him that this was a vast ship, had pretty decent sized power plants. Teletraan should have been able to make his own fuel.

How come it was almost out of energon?

_:Do you have enough energon left to achieve flight for around a thousand miles?: _He asked, giving a bit of a buffer. The base was, in a direct line, a lot closer than that.

_:Energon yes, but I do not have sufficient electrical power to operate necessary systems. I have been buried for a very long time.:_

While the ship was speaking, he had moved about, determining the exact location by more triangulation. The signal seemed to be coming from a location halfway up the slope, completely buried under car-sized boulders except -- ah, yes, there. He spotted a dusty fin of metal protruding from the ground, concealed by a scrubby juniper. That uncovered section was likely the only reason the ship was still functioning at all. A quick calcultion told him that the craft would be able to generate just enough power to maintain a stasis field from that exposed surface, with very little left over. The quiet SOS was all the ship had power to spare for.

However, car-sized sandstone boulders were _not _an obstacle for a car-sized Autobot. He began throwing them aside, sending the rocks rolling and crashing down into the valley below. It took an hour of steady work under the moonlit sky, but he finally uncovered the first bit of shiny hull beside the fin. Another hour's worth of work and he had cleared enough dirt (with his bare hands!) and stone to reach an access hatch. He stopped, then, not wanting to make the ship obvious to satellite imagery. Sand and grit crunched in the gears of his fingers. He hoped his humans were in a mood to help him when he returned to them, because he was definitely going to need a thorough cleaning. The red earth seemed almost sticky, clinging to everything, filtering into sensitive parts, and covering him in dust until his yellow armor gained a distinctly orange cast.

Through the metal of the ship's hold he could feel the telltale buzz of a stasis field prickling at his fingertips. The contents of the ship had been kept frozen in time for four millenia, with only a few limited com circuits and the ship's processors outside the field.

_:Okay, Teletraan. Can you let me in?:_

:Welcome aboard, Bumblebee.: Teletraan opened the port, and he slipped through as the ship cut the stasis field. The air was full of static as the energy of the field dissipated.

"Where's your crew, buddy?" He asked the ship, aloud. He was astonished by the craft's lack of suspicion. Teletraan came from another time, truly, in which arriving Cybetronians could be assumed to be a rescue party. Friends. This craft had never known war, had never known the fear of wondering which faction a stranger belonged to: friend or enemy.

"In the medical bay." The ship was still speaking in short, clipped tones.

"You're real low on power, aren't you?" There was no illumination in the interior, and he activated the vehicle headlights on his chest. Everything was dark and still.

"Yes. Can you clear more of my hull?"

"I'll get on that in a bit. Don't worry, we will free you. Just sit tight for a minute. The work will go faster if I can wake up some help ..."

The hatch had led to a small interior room -- an airlock, he realized, when he shone his lights on the inner door. He'd seen entire transport ships smaller than that airlock.

Past the airlock, he stepped out into an enormous bay -- vast and echoingly empty, so large that his headlights barely reached the far wall until he flipped on the high beams. He could, of course, detect a broad spectrum of well into the infrared, but everything was very nearly the same temperature, and that made the image very low contrast. That meant he couldn't see well without light. Additionally, the metal walls were fairly heat reflective, which meant he kept seeing moving shadows of his own warm body as he walked, some of them not always obviously _his _because of distortion. A few defensive subroutines activated purely by reflex. Humans would have reacted with a mild surge of adrenalin and described the effect as "creepy."

Now that he was reasonably certain that there was no threat here, he somewhat regretted leaving Sam and Mikaela behind -- he could not wait to show them the ship, and he would have appreciated the company in this eerie place. He was readily willing to admit the darkness and silence unnerved him. He'd had too many enemies jump out at him from the cover of darkness in his life. There were no signs of life here,

Well, hopefully the humans were performing bonding activities with one another.

This ship seemed enormous, vastly larger than any craft he had ever seen before outside of vids. The darkness and silence, and the echoes of his footsteps on the metal decking, gave an illusion that it was even larger than it really was -- though it was plenty big. It was the size, he thought, of a human football stadium. _Enormous_. And completely hidden under half a mountain.

He asked, "Am I headed the right way?"

"Yes. Medbay is at the end of the hall you are traversing."

Well, there were symbols on the walls -- symbols that he did not recognize, but his Matrix helpfully translated for him. Ancient, ancient Cybertronian glyphs for 'sick bay' and 'engineering' and 'storage' and 'rec room.' _The language of the Primes. This craft was a personally sponsored research project by one of my ancestors, Vermilion. _

The latter knowledge surfaced from the Matrix, along with a schematic of the ship, a roster of the crew, and a log of the ship's storied accomplishments. _This was the ship that discovered the Nebulans!_

He found the repair bay without difficulty, and stepped inside. It was a large space, and obviously well appointed._ Ratchet, _he thought with satisfaction and pleasure at this discovery, _Will be utterly delighted if we can use this. Look at this all!_

The equipment was four million years old and, therefore, a bit antiquated. Some of it was positively prehistoric in design. However, all of it -- the surgical suite, the plasma welders, the circuit microsurgery apparatus, the clean room with waldos for super-sensitive processor repairs -- it was all far more advanced than anything Earth had to offer. And there were parts, in a storage room off the main clinic -- ancient parts, and technology had advanced, but even so, he'd take four million year old tri-alloy over human stainless steel any day, if he needed body work.

"Where's your crew?" He asked the ship again, even as he was accessing information about the ship's crew. _Oye. I hope we can wake this lot. If we can convince them to join us, they will be a huge asset to the cause. And if we can end the war someday, and keep them alive until then, this lot of researchers will be so _very _needed for rebuilding. _

"In the recovery room."

He realized he was in the surgery and treatment area. The recovery room was one door down, it turned out -- the door swished silently open as he approached, though the lights remained dark. His own headlights illuminated the interior, and in living memory he had not seen a clinic with a convalescent area that looked like this. It was luxury beyond anything he had ever experienced. The room was large, with comfortable berths and a large viewscreen next to each. The floor had a soft, sound-absorbing covering, and the walls had actual artwork hung on them.

And each berth held a mech, and each mech was silent, still, and most were covered with dust. They must have been lying here, offline, for a few years before the stasis field was activated. He saw one very small flier, wings tucked up behind her back, and the rest were not large mechs either. They wouldn't be -- the ancient ones had been smaller, mostly, before the needs of war had driven Cybertron to build ever-larger chassis. Humans would describe them as giants, but few of these mechs were taller than Bee himself. Only the Captain and the ship's medic would top his own sixteen feet.

In four millenia, that chevron insignia had not changed. He had no difficulty identifying the medic. Ratchet would have even more help.

They appeared undamaged. He walked closer, reflexively silencing his fans and employing a noise-damping field. Pure superstition, but this place felt like a tomb, and silence was respectful. At first, he feared they were dead, but he surveyed them quickly and found the slight warmth and energy flicker of a spark in each chest. There were twenty total. However, all of them were completely out of fuel. Only the one closest to the door, the captain, appeared to lack the film of dust. They had gone into stasis lock from starvation, but nothing worse than that. He asked Teletraan, "Is this your entire crew?"

"Yes," the ship replied, even as he was comparing the crew's roster to the 'bots on the beds and figuring out who was who.

That vast, echoing, enormous ship was crewed by twenty ... Bumblebee shook his head at the profligate, extravagant use of resources. They had traveled in comfort and style, these ancient ones. The Matrix whispered that the ship would spend years in transit between stars, and the crew remained awake to do research, or explore personal interests. _Music. Literature. The Poetic Maths. _

Now, they packed everyone sardine-like into small transport vessels and all but a skeleton crew slept in stasis for the trip. Sometimes, for very small ships, all shut down. They just simply didn't have the resources to maintain life support -- and 'bots did need at least minimal warmth, a little lighting, plus some sort of atmosphere for comfort.

Four million years.

Even by Autobot standards, that was an impossibly long time.

_Four. Million. Years._

And most of it spent in unchanging, timeless storage in ship's stasis. Teletraan deserves an award for not going insane from the solitude. And for not giving up. Ship's sparks tend to be sturdy souls, but by Primus, that's a long time. He probably spent most of it in recharge, with the beacon set as an autonomic subroutine ...

He asked the ship, "Who's the ship's captain, Teletraan? I will wake him first."

He thought he knew from the roster in the Matrix's memories, but he wanted confirmation before he addressed the man by the wrong name. The Matrix only knew what the ancestral Primes had known. _Kup. Retired military commander. Long, storied career. Earned himself a job as a Captain of Vermillion's flagship research vessel, and in truth, Vermillion would have no other. _

"The brown and white mech is Captain Kup, on the first berth by the door."

Identity confirmed, Bumblebee set to work. The mech's storage cells still held an electrical charge -- because of the stasis, he might as well have gone to sleep just yesterday. He was not damaged. He simply needed fuel. Bee found an empty fuel cube in a storage locker set against one wall, drained about a month's worth of energon from his own supplies (and was unhappy at the reminder that he only had a few tens of years' worth left without a refuel) and opened the captain's tank. There was nothing in that tank but fumes -- he poured the fuel in, sealed the tank, and then -- after asking Teletraan to power some things up -- ran a quick series of diagnostics on the mech using the medbay's equipment.

"I trust you _will _uncover my hull?" Teletraan worried about the power expenditure. His tone was sharp, and very concerned.

"You're not powering a stasis field anymore," Bee pointed out. "You can afford a few amps for the equipment."

"I've spent a very long time conserving energy," the ship had said, tone now apologetic. "I am sorry for the illogical reaction."

"Not a problem. Four million years alone, buddy? You're entitled to be a bit illogical," Bee said, sympathetically. He could not imagine the utter solitude.

"I try not to be. Emotional reactions are not a luxury a ship can afford."

Bee replied, "Well, you're certainly entitled to private emotions even if you can never let them interfere with your duties."

"Yes, and on that note, might I say I was _very _glad to hear your voice?"

"Heh. I'll bet. Well, I can promise you that you'll get lots of attention now, and I'm going to see if I can get your crew up and running tonight. "

Bee was no medic, but Ratchet and Optimus had insisted that everyone on the team learn the basics. Diagnostics were simple; the only issue was that the language was one that he had scanty familiarity with. Bee was hardly illiterate, and point of fact he read around a hundred earth languages in addition to the current Cybertronian alphabet, but the language of the Primes had not been used in many millenia, and he was slowed by a few minutes by the need to create a new data module from the information in the Matrix. Only after he'd done that could he truly understand the information on the screen.

The captain was as undamaged as he appeared. In better shape, truthfully, than most of the Autobots that Bumblebee knew. This mech had been born into a time of plenty, a time of wealth and prosperity for all. They had been able to send a ship larger than an American aircraft carrier into deep space for no purpose other than exploration and scientific research. He was awed by all that represented, and saddened by all they had lost.

And yet, somehow, it had become stranded.

"How'd you get stuck?" He asked Teletraan, now that the craft would have more power available to respond at length.

The ship sounded embarrassed, but explained succinctly, "There was a glitch in my neural pathways, and I made a math error when constructing a space/time bridge. My destination was entirely in the wrong location, and far off course. We lacked the fuel to jump home, and so landed here in hopes of finding more. We failed in that search, and were stranded."

A simple explanation, and a not unheard-of one. Though importantly, it was an explanation that wholly lacked any hint of hostile action. No Decepticons, or enemies whatsoever. Just, simply, mischance. However, it did remind Bee of Grimlock's quantum engine. _Primus. Given Grimlock's neural damage, we're probably lucky he didn't teleport us all into the sun. I know he's still fritzing all over the place._

He shook his head, which earned an additional comment from the ship, "The hardware damage that caused the error has been located and repaired. The problem will not occur again."

"I'm not blaming you," Bee said, quickly. "I'm just unused to hearing of accidents rather than deliberate attacks. We lost a ship five days ago -- an attack by our enemy. It is very fortuitous, and perhaps even the hand of the Primes themselves at work, that I have found you."

He was completely willing to give his ancestors credit for this discovery. They were fully capable of haunting him, and, as Sam had discovered, dead did not mean _gone_. It just meant 'generally existing on a different plane of existence' -- but, oh, they were certainly aware of what went on in the land of the living. And the ancient Primes had helped them before, and would doubtless help them again.

Not that it seemed to make much of a difference. The good guys were still losing the blasted war.

The ship didn't respond to that, and Bee assumed he was either thinking or conserving power. Well, hopefully the ship's brain would be more chatty once he could get him a better supply of power. In the meantime, now that he'd given the captain some fuel, he initiated the mech's reboot sequence with the diagnostic equipment he'd plugged into the 'bot's hardline jack. It took a minute, but finally his optics flickered to life -- they were green -- and he moved.

"Nnnnnh." First a wordless protest as his capacitors powered up. He tried again, "Primus. How long were we out?"

Bumblebee hesitated. He wasn't sure how the old mech would react. He also noted that the captain, even discounting the years in stasis, had that indefinable air of timelessness that the very aged mechs got. Bee was pretty sure he was _ancient_. A check of the matrix confirmed that first impression -- he wasn't quite old enough to have actually _known _Primus, but he certainly predated Jetfire by several million years even with subtraction of four million in stasis. "A long time."

He was fixed with a sharp, unhappy gaze. The mech sat up, with a smooth, fluid motion that spoke of good physical condition, and said, "What's your designation, youngling?"

Well, Bee knew his very young age was evident to any other 'bot who had the right sensors to detect radioactive decay. Bee didn't; that sort of sensor array wasn't necessary for a scout. It was equipment for a scientist, or explorer. Needled, however, by the 'youngling' comment, he gave his long-form Cybertronian designation ... which now ended with his proper short-form name, "... Bumblebee Prime."

And _damned _if he would let anyone call him 'Bumblebee Prime' on a regular basis. It sounded ridiculously silly. Primes should have grand, glorious names like 'Vector' or 'Optimus' ... not cute insect names. Good-slagging-grief. Nor did he want to change 'Bumblebee' to something else. He liked his cute insect name, and he thought it helped disarm new humans' fears when they met him. How could anyone with the name of _Bumblebee _be dangerous? But in this case, he felt using that title was certainly allowed. Because the Captain had just called him a _youngling_. And that stung.

Green optics narrowed suspiciously. In a tone that was still too patronizing for Bee's tastes, he said, "You. A Prime? You're a _child_."

Then, a beat later, as his undoubtedly sluggish processors examined that data he came to a clearly unhappy realization. "Primus. Who died?"

"You knew them?" Bee was stalling for time as he tried to figure out an answer that wouldn't send this old mech back offline. The answer was not one that the Captain would like, any way he phrased it.

"Most." The Captain's eyes narrowed, perhaps at the 'them' comment.

He decided on the full truth in only a slightly roundabout way. The Captain had an assertive air that reminded Bee more than a little bit of Ironhide. He could probably take the shock. He said, "Altus Prime carried this Matrix before me, but you would not have known him. He was born and died while you were in stasis, as was his predecessor, Arial Prime, and about ten others in the intervening eons. I believe that Vermilion Prime may have been the mech that you knew, sir." The _sir _slipped out from pure habit, and Bee could have kicked his own aft for it. His military rank was certainly less than the captain's, but the status of Prime trumped everything but a higher-ranked Prime.

The Captain's eyes narrowed. "How did Vermin die?"

Bee's eyes widened at the casual, and definitely insulting, nickname. A quick check of his Matrix's memory banks provided both an answer, and the knowledge that 'Vermin' was likely an affectionate insult. This captain was in those memory banks, quite prominently, with a strong impression of irascibility, resourcefulness, and vast experience from 'Vermin' -- who had known him for most of their shared lives.

_Hnnh. Vermin collected organic life forms. I can make that pun work in two langauges -- our word for hemoglobin is a slang term for organics who use iron oxides as part of their respiration cycle. And the world for 'hemoglobin' has the same root as the word for 'red'. And Vermilion loved red, hence, his name ..._

"Captain Kup," Bee said, inclining his head in acknowledgment, recognizing the 'bot from memories that were not his own. "I am afraid that Vermilion fell victim to a space port accident."

"How many years?" Kup asked.

"Four million." He managed to avoid saying 'sir' again but it was a near thing. He felt exactly as if he was giving a report to a superior officer.

"_Primus_." Kup stood up and wobbled a bit -- his sensor arrays and motor paths were likely not all back online yet -- and Bee put a hand out to steady him.

Kup glanced down and saw the pulse cannon mounted on Bee's arm, mostly hidden under armor as Bumblebee was about as far from combat ready as he got when not actually recharging. He'd certainly already known about the weapon as soon as he scanned Bee, but this was a reminder. Bee, for his part, had taken a few safeties off but had not even powered them up while waking the Captain. Kup wasn't a threat. The ship had not even _tried _to keep him out, or questioned his purpose. These people were not used to viewing other mechs as enemies, and so Bee had concluded the threat here was close to nonexistant. They would see him as a rescuer, and nothing more.

He had also already scanned Kup and determined Kup had weapons mounts and a distinctively reinforced frame, confirming that his data was correct about Kup's origins, but his only current defense was a hefty blade tucked under the armor on his leg. Given that Autobots were never disarmed unless damage caused actual loss of weapons, this was yet another reminder of the different time this old mech had come from. His Matrix-memories told him that it was typical for a civilian vessel like this one to have a decommissioned military mech as a captain. And that once upon a time, it had been unusual for a mech to go armed, even a military mech, except during actual battle or guard duty.

For his part, Kup's optics narrowed as he did a more extensive survey of Bee for other weapons, obviously finding the rockets and likely all the battle mods -- heavier armor, reinforced joints, and the advanced yet somewhat armored sensor arrays suitable for an army scout.

"You're a battleship on legs," Kup said, flatly, an impression that surprised Bee not at all. _Though, I wonder what he'd make of Ironhide if he thinks I am well armed .._. Then his voice became a bit more animated as he continued, "The last time I saw a youngling with weapons like yours, kid, we were in a middle of a war with the k'Thrass empire. That was quite a war -- I remember the time we kicked the Pit-damned organics off the colony world of Amer!lkt and it was a clever victory, I tell you. We introduced a bacteria targeted to their food stores, and starved them out. Clever, I tell you, fighting organics with organics. But we had to kill quite a few, unfortunately, until we got them gone, and they considered research vessels fair game, so we all went armed until the war was over ... and some of the Lord High Protector's seekers were practically bristling like porcumechs with weapons. I was in the military for a time myself, but war's a sport for the young, and they decommissioned me to this vessel -- And that pulse cannon you're carrying is bigger than anything those soldiers ever carried. What _are _you hunting, kid, rhinocons?"

Bee, who had politely let Kup finish, said, "Pulse cannons this size are generally used on other mechs."

Silence, for a moment, as widened green optics met Bee's blue ones. "Why would a _Prime _shoot other ..."

"That Lord High Protector you mentioned?" Bee folded his arms, a bit defensively. "His name in this time was Megatron, and he betrayed us all. He assassinated the Senate and tried to take control of Cybertron -- he tried to kill Optimus Prime, his own brother, and, at the time, our _only _Prime. The Matrix I carry had been lost -- Optimus was the last of the Primes. The end result was a civil war which has been raging for almost as long as I have been alive."

Kup digested that for a moment. "Reminds me of ... slag, that reminds me of nothing I've ever heard before. Not among our people. Prime," and here, Bee almost glanced around for Optimus before remembering that to this old soldier, he was 'a' Prime and Optimus would not be 'the Prime,' "Cybertron is at war with itself?"

"_Cybertron_," Bee said, reluctantly, because he so very much hated delivering bad news, "is a dead world, sir."

_Blast_. He'd called him 'sir' again.

The old Captain glanced up at his face. Softly, he said, "You haven't been a Prime for long, have you?"

"No." He suspected that Captain Kup would be surprised that it had been less than a week, but did not volunteer this information. It was entirely possible he might have to order this mech around to save his life, if the Decepticons found them, and he didn't want to lose any of the shreds of authority he had left. Old soldiers like this were perfectly capable of defying the orders of even a Prime if they lacked confidence in the Prime's command -- and Bee was pretty sure that he had a better grasp on the situation than Kup would, at least for awhile.

"You are a scout, I'm guessing, by your build and the sensors you carry, am I right? And by battle scars you have under that armor, you've certainly seen some action. I haven't seen a mech with as many welds and mismatched parts in most of my life, and I've been alive for half of Cybertron's history. You're a salvage yard with guns." Kup's wry tone took the sting out of his words. Optics intent on Bee's reactions, Kup asked gently, "Did you know the Prime who you inherited the Matrix from?"

"No, Captain. He was long dead. We found the Matrixes ... though the Matrix I carry was legitimately bestowed by our only surviving Prime when mine was found."

He was somewhat glad he'd never known Altus. He could only imagine the pain if it he had the disembodied memories of a close friend in his Matrix.

"You can't steal a Matrix," Kup scoffed.

_I'd beg to differ on that, _Bumblebee thought, but didn't say.

"Well, it sounds as if you have a very long report to give. So spill. How the hell did Cybertron's people end up at war with themselves, and why didn't the Primes stop it?" Kup leaned back against the berth, and waited for Bee to tell the story.

"It's a bit of a long ..."

"Give me the condensed version, Prime. We can cover the fine details later."

So Bee gave a report, dry and unemotional, the same as he would have done to Optimus. Just the facts, no opinions, no speculation, and very bare bones. When he'd reached the current day, Kup thoughtfully said, "Decepticons versus Autobots?"

"There are neutrals, of course," Bee reminded him. "We will certainly welcome your help, but if you decline, we will help you to the best of our ability and ..."

Teletraan's voice spoke up, proving that the ship had been listening as well, "I cannot speak for the captain, Prime, but I have sworn an oath of allegiance to the Primes and owe my existance to Vermilion. As the Primes are associated with the Autobots, so shall I be."

It was the longest thing that Bee had heard the ship say. He said, "Thank you, Teletraan. We can _certainly _use you. I do not believe we have any ships with sparks remaining among our forces."

"What he said." Kup straightened up from his position leaning against his bed. "I'm oathsworn to the Primes, and I will not break that oath. If Megatron went against this Optimus, then he is anathema to everything I believe in. Also, I suspect 'neutral' is as good as 'sitting duck' in this war if the supply situation is as bad as you claim."

"Thank you," Bee nodded. "And we will need to be very careful to defend this ship. If they cannot steal it ..."

"... I would never work for evil!" Teletraan objected.

"... they will destroy it. And Teletraan, I want to make it abundantly clear to you that the Decepticons would simply remove your Spark from the ship's core and replace it with one of their own. If you were very lucky they would not kill you in the process." He felt a warning was necessary. "They would probably uplink and strip your memories, however."

Teletraan didn't respond to that, exactly, though perhaps the shocked silence was answer enough.

"It's ..." Kup was staring at his crew. "It's hard to believe the Allspark is gone. And that there will be no more younglings. How can I know the truth of your words?"

"You may verify the date by the stellar drift. It is still night outside, and clear. You can see the stars. As far as the truth of the rest -- we will all be able to transmit to you our videos, and recorded data, and you can then draw your own conclusions." He realized, somewhat belatedly, that he was channeling a proper Optimus Prime answer. Well, slag it. Optimus was usually right. He just compressed several thousand years of relevant recorded imagery and shot it across a comlink to both Kup and Teletraan.

Kup made an absent, waving gesture with one hand, long before he could have unpacked that transmission, much less begun to process it. "Anyone who would tell me to draw my own conclusions isn't likely to be hiding anything. I will certainly look at the vids, though. And ... the Allspark is well and truely _gone_? I ... there will be no more _younglings_?"

"I know," Bee said, agreed with horrified sentiment in Kup's words. "We have one youngling at the base, who was kept in stasis by the Decepticons. We suspect that they have a fairly large number of young mechs in stasis, in truth, but once those are gone ..."

"You get to my age, you appreciate the young all the more," Kup glanced at Bee. Then, with a ghost of amusement, and a great deal of sadness, he said, "They liked my stories. Yes. I will miss younglings."

"I imagine you have some good stories, Captain Kup," Bee said, "but unfortunately, it is getting very late, and I have a long walk back to civilization after we wake the rest of your crew."

"Leave them," Kup said. "You only gave me a month's worth of fuel, so I assume you are short. There is nothing wrong with letting them sleep until such a time as they are needed. Waste of energon to wake them now."

"We believe we will be able to refine energon." He shrugged. "And before we run out."

"I could refine energon right now, but where would we get the raw materials?" Kup growled at Bee. "If you haven't noticed, most liquid carbon deposits on this world are utterly out of reach. We do _not _have a drilling rig ..."

Bee sent him an imagine of an oil derrick and a data burst explaining the context. And lifted an optic ridge. And fairly giggled with excitement, in a very un-Prime-like way. He was back to feeling the giddy enthusiasm he'd experienced when he'd first seen that fin sticking up through the rocks. "Raw materials? Not a problem."

Kup snorted. "Okay. Fine. I'll wake the crew."

"Teletraan," Bee said, cheerfully, even as he was siphoning off enough of his own energon for a few week's worth for each of the ancient mechs, "if we clear some of your solar panels, can you charge enough power to ignite your engines to achieve atmospheric flight?"

"Certainly."

"Clear his panels ...?" Kup asked.

"You're buried under a large volume of rock. It appears that a hillside came down on the ship after you landed." Bee explained this absently, thinking hard. He didn't want to transmit any news of this ship whatsoever to anyone, for fear that the transmission might be interrupted. On the other hand, he needed to tell someone ...

"If you'll excuse me, I need to make a phone call," he handed Kup the cube of energon, and headed for the doorway. Suddenly, the dark and cold interior of the ship seemed confining, spacious though it was.

"Phone call?" Kup called after him. He shot a quick explanation back, along with schematics for air cards. The crew would need them.

Outside, he dialed Optimus's number over the satellite uplink -- Optimus had left strict orders not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency. He half expected his call to roll over to voicemail, but Optimus answered, with his usual formality, "This is Prime, hello, Bumblebee."

"Boss? How are you doing?" He couldn't resist asking, in a totally teasing tone of voice, though he had already seen the news from Magnus, "The meeting with the Decepticons went well?"

"Wheelie is repaired, and we have a truce until September 30th, planetary time." Optimus's response was calm, but voice tone told him that he wasn't entirely thrilled with how the meeting had went. Likely, there had been complications, and equally likely, he'd be recalled early to the base to find out about those complications. Or not. He wouldn't worry about it until the order came. Anyway, he was planning on returning early now.

"A truce? Do you think Fang will keep it?" He wasn't surprised that Optimus had managed this.

"Only if it's to his advantage, and I do not anticipate that Soundwave will feel bound to it." Optimus's voice was cautious, and a bit brooding. Then, in a clear attempt to change the subject, he asked, "Ratchet said you were on a road trip with the children? How is that going?"

"Very well, and I've made a bit of a discovery." He'd mulled over the best way to warn the others of what he had found. He didn't want to outright say, 'I found an eons-old starship' but he was having a hard time coming up with a roundabout way of clueing them in. He finally decided on what would be partial truth, but would be unremarkable enough that the Decepticons would be unlikely to respond with violence, or even curiosity, particularly since the truce was to their advantage as much as the Autobots. "I've found a couple old mechs buried under rock -- picked up a very low powered transmission when we got close enough."

Optimus said, in a surprised and altogether different tone of voice, one full of far better good cheer, "That is very good news, Bumblebee. Good job."

Bee could have preened under that warm praise. He continued in perfect truth, and with a perfect lack of concern for any listening Decepticons that he hoped would lead them to conclude this discovery was of little overall importance, "One's a flier, and one is an old soldier."

"You are certain they are friendly?"

"They predate the war, Boss, so I am considering them neutrals until we have their oaths. However, both have assured me that they were previously oathsworn to the Primes, and they served Vermilion Prime directly. They both indicated they will readily transfer their loyalty to us. They are researchers, Optimus -- just a pair of scientists." He added a bit of misdirection, then, "Though I'm not certain what they could do without a proper lab."

_Except they _have _a proper lab! _Well, he could certainly clarify this to Optimus when he saw him face to face. _And an on-board refinery and a proper medbay and machine shop, and twenty trained scientists, including Teletraan -- who, if the Matrix isn't lying to me, has one of the most powerful processers ever created in Cybertronian history. He was a legend in his own time. Then and now, it's traditional for starships to be drones, but Vermilion thought a spark with more processing power than anyone could ever haul around on two legs would be useful for a research ship. _He was definitely counting Teletraan as one of the researchers!  
_  
Oh, holy Allspark, _thank you _Primes -- this is exactly what we needed!_

"Ah. I should probably warn them to expect incoming newcomers, then?" Optimus sounded completely unsuspecting of what was actually going to land at the base as soon as they could get him dug out and charged up. Bee discovered he was gleefully anticipating that shock, too. It was totally and mischeviously juvenile of him, but he could not _wait _to see their faces.

"Yes. Please tell them that the flier's a big boy, but he's less armed than Silverbolt." Which was entirely true -- on both counts.

"Understood, Bee. I look forward to meeting them. Should I have Ratchet prepare space in the medbay?"

"I do not believe there is any need for urgent care. The elder one is in better repair than I am, at the moment. The flier will likely need quite a bit of maintenance, but he assures me he can get airborn once his systems are sufficiently charged. We will probably launch with the sunset, tomorrow, assuming all his systems check out." He fully intended to take Teletraan under his own power to the base rather than bring reinforcements here, first. If the entire population of Autobots were to roll out at once, it would certainly attract attention. He would not be comfortable until the giant ship was at the base and seriously cloaked and guarded.

"It sounds as if he's big enough to carry mech passengers?"

"He's a big transport craft." Perfectly true, in all regards.

"I look forward to meeting him." Optimus sounded genuinely happy about the idea of another flier, and Bumblebee couldn't disabuse him of his assumptions without triggering Decepticon interest. He said thoughtfully, "I'm not sure how he'll feel about that, but it may be good for Silverbolt to have someone to fly with again."

_Silverbolt could almost do laps in the ship's hold, _Bee thought, wryly. Optimus's concern was genuine. Three members of Silver's gestalt had been killed, not in one incident, but in several, over a few millenia. The fourth was offline until after the war, with a trial to determine his fate to be held once they had the resources to do so. Silverbolt _agreed _with those orders -- he'd been on the receiving end of the 'bot's madness, and his partner and brother had cost them Prowl.

Once, they had been a combiner team. Now, only the young Arielbot officer was left, having outlived, or kept his sanity better than, the others.

_And that, _Bee thought absently,_ is why Silver worries so damn much about everyone. We've all lost people we love, but Silverbolt has lost so much more._

* * *

The restaurant was a bit of a hole in the wall, but the clerk at the hotel assured them that it was the best Mexican food place in town. Personally, however, he could have been eating cardboard with hot sauce dumped over it. Sam wasn't paying much attention to the food.

_She's beautiful._

Mikaela was laughing, as she told a funny story about Epps chastizing Skids and Mudflap, "... and then he corrected their _English _on top of that ..."

"God, _somebody _had to say something." Sam shook his head. "So that's why they've been a little more politically correct?"

"Pretty much." Mikaela raked a hand through her hair. "And why they lost the teeth."

"You think Bumblebee's doing okay?" He change the subject abruptly.

Mikaela sobered up as well, and stared out into the night that was visible through a nearby window. "He's been a scout for tens of thousands of years, Sam. He knows his business."

She dipped a chip into salsa, and nibbled it delicately. "Mmm. Good salsa."

_Mmm. Beautiful girlfriend._

He flicked a chip at her playfully, just to see her eyes spark with annoyance. Somewhat genuinely irritated, she said, "Are you _twelve_?"

"I should hope not," he laughed, knowing that pissed expression would fade in a moment and be replaced -- there! -- with a soft smile.

She shook her head in evident disbelief, and leaned back in her chair, smile still on her lips. How someone could make _leaning _look so sexy, he had no idea. "So. What's the plan for tomorrow?"

He had been talking to the the clerk at the hotel, earlier. "Well, the road continues on through Jerome -- it's supposed to be a really tight, twisty section of highway. Bee might enjoy running up and down it a few times. Then there's a scenic drive over the hill into Prescott, and we can catch the last day of an art festival -- I promised my folks I'd bring back some souveniers." Sam shrugged. "And the festival is right beside the road, in a town square, so Bee can even see some of the art. We can cross over to I-93 from Prescott and head back to Nevada from there. Bee said he's not due back until 9 AM Monday, so we can camp again somewhere Sunday, have him drop us off in the morning."

"That's assuming he doesn't find something," Mikaela nodded. "I'm going to keep all my stuff packed up tonight, just in case he comes screaming into the parking lot and we gotta go in a hurry."

"Good point," Sam said. "Though it does occur to me that he may just be giving us some alone time."

She snorted a laugh. "That would be just like that scheming little dork."

"Hey! My car is _not _a dork!"

"Your car," Mikaela laughed, "is a bigger dork than you are.

He narrowed his eyes and said, "And why would you say that? I will have you know that I have worked very hard to perfect my dork-hood. I will not be outdone by a cannon-toting Camaro."

She waved a hand loosely in the air, "He quotes Star Trek and plays Weird Al Yankovic. He's officially dork."

Sam laughed, abandoning the pretense of irritation, and propping his elbows on the table and shaking his head. "I can still beat him at dorkhood, though. His gun has definite anti-dork points, and so does his alt mode."

"True," she conceded, smiling.

* * *

Later, giggling, they walked the half mile to the hotel, and ran up two flights of stairs to the third floor. Sam shoved open the hotel room door, and made a sweeping gesture inside. Laughing, she scooted through the door and then flopped on the bed and said, "I am _beat_."

Thinking back, later, he would realize he should have taken that as a hint. Instead, he flopped beside her, and flung an arm around her middle, and pulled her against his stomach. "God, 'Kaela, life's been hell lately, hasn't it?"

She went still in his arms, stiffening, and he realized he'd had quite a bit less tact than he should of when he'd spoken. "Crap, Mikaela ..."

"It's okay," she murmured, rolling over so she faced him. There was a tension in her limbs, though, and it didn't lessen when he stroked his hands down her arms and kissed her. She was responding in all the right ways, and yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He tried harder, sliding his hands under her shirt, and under her bra, and then down between her legs. _C'mon, Mikaela. Relax for me._

She touched him back, willingly enough, neatly unbuttoning his jeans and then urging him to slide them down. He was so eager it _hurt_, practically -- he wanted to pin her down and make love to her until the shadows in the back of her eyes went away. Until she could think only of him. Until she fell asleep in his arms from pure exhaustion.

He realized what _she _had in mind embarassingly late. One moment she was pushing him over onto his back, and then swiftly kneeling over him. Her mouth closed around him, before he had a chance to even understand what she planned to do. He damn near came in her mouth right then from the surprise and the hot warmth, and he gasped, and then he protested, somewhat dizzily, "'Kaela, you don't have to do that, really ..."

She straightened up, for a second, and flashed him a grin tinged with an emotion he couldn't identify. She kept _stroking _him while she spoke, "Want me to stop, big boy?"

"... No."

He probably should have been embarrassed by how quickly he came, but it had clearly been her intent to get him off lightning fast. She made a self-satisfied sounding chuckle, and rose, and went into the bathroom where he assumed she was rinsing her mouth out ... he wasn't sure, seemed to take longer than he would expect.

"Hey. 'Kaela. C'mon back," he said, when he could actually _think _again.

It took her three or four minutes to return. When she did, rather than crawl into his arms, she simply slid under the covers and reached up for the lamp to turn it off. She was still wearing her jeans, and t-shirt, and alarm bells started ringing in his head.

"Hey." He reached to put his arms around her.

She went _stiff_. Resistant. She didn't want him to touch her; that much was clear.

"'Kaela," he said, seriously, "it's okay. You did me, let me do you now."

She turned to face him, but she was still coiled tight as a spring. He tried to kiss her, tried to sooth away her nervous fear ... and she reached by yanking her head back, then lunging out of the bed. She stood in the dark room, rubbing her arms with her hands, and staring at him.

"... What?" He sat up, and reached for the light. "Mikaela, what's wrong?"

She looked scared and lost and utterly alone when she said, "I don't _want _to."

"Oh."

"Just ... can we sleep?"

"But _why_?" He wasn't going to let it rest, at least partially because now he felt like he'd taken horrible advantage of her -- and yet, somehow, he also felt _used_. She could have said 'no' at any time and he would have stopped. But instead she'd sucked him off, like she expected he'd be satisfied with that. What, did she think he just wanted the quick physical release? He had wanted to _hold _her, had fully intended to make _love_. If he wanted meaningless physical release, there was always his hand and the shower ... Guilt mixed with real annoyance, and annoyance was starting to win. He huffed, "Geeze, 'Kaela!"

She walked to the window, and peered outside. Didn't answer. And concern beat back annoyance. She was _hurting_. Maybe he should have kept his dick, and his hormones, to himself ... but he'd thought she was _interested_. She'd certainly acted that way. And now she was acting like she was all mad at him. But he suspected there was more angst than _mad _in that attitude.

He stood up, yanked his jeans back up over his sticky thighs, and padded after her. "'Kaela, sweetie, it's okay ..."

"Sweetie?" She turned to him, lifted an eyebrow, and said, "You've _never _called me that, before."

He floundered, "'Kaela, I'm umm, why didn't you, err, if you didn't want to you could have said, and you're so beautiful, and I love you so much, and ..."

"Couldn't even say 'love' until two weeks ago," she snapped at him, silencing him. "What, don't have anything to say now?"

"Mikaela!" He said her name like a curse, frustrated beyond belief, and feeling very wounded. "What is _wrong _with you?"

"Just ... just leave me alone." She turned her back to him

"No," he said, sturdily. He put his chin on her shoulder and his arms around her middle, well aware that she might well beat the crap out of him for it, but trying to reassure her physically that he loved her. "'Kaela, you mean the world to me. What is wrong with you?"

"What do you _want _from me?" It was almost a wail.

"Well," he tried for humor, "I had making love to you until either dawn or Decepticons showed up, but I'll settle for an explanation. What's bugging you?"

She twisted around in his arms, suddenly, and wrapped him in a close hug, and buried her face in his shoulder. "I wanted you at the funeral. I mean, I know you couldn't be, but I wanted you there."

"I'm so sorry," he nuzzled her hair. "I should have been."

"No, you shoudn't." She suddenly wrenched free. "You couldn't. You had responsibilities. You had to save the world _again_. God! They shot _nukes _at us and if you and the guys hadn't retrieved the Matrixes our side would have lost ... But ... I wanted you there. I was so alone ..."

He stared at her. She had _encouraged _him to leave on that mission. "I'm sorry."

"So am I." She met his eyes, then, and whispered, "I want you -- not like _that_, but I want ... I want _you_, Sam. I want you so bad it's painful. But I don't know if I can have you. I just don't know."

"You already have me," he said, quietly. Couldn't she see how much he loved her? Body, heart, and soul. He was hers.

But she wouldn't let him touch her. Instead, she whispered, "But maybe I want someone else. Someone who _can _be there. You have greater responsibilities, and you _won't _always be there when I need you."

"Mikaela ..." it came out as a whimper. "'Kaela, I _love _you."

"Leave me alone," she stepped further out of his reach.

He took a long, deep breath. Her words were searing. She wanted someone else. Abruptly, he turned away, and lunged into the bathroom. He stood under the hot spray of the shower for a couple of hours, and when he finally emerged, Mikaela was nowhere to be found. There was a note on the dresser, however. "I thought I'd get a room of my own tonight. See you in the morning, Sam."

He didn't sleep much at all between then and dawn.


	25. Chapter 25

Author's notes: I originally had Manywinds named _Swoop _but the character was just too far OOC compared to the canonical Swoop for it to work. And there's something I want to say with Manywinds that I couldn't if I kept Swoop even remotely in character. Ah, well. Manywinds is, therefore, an OC. I apologize to those of you who were expecting a dinobot pterodactyl.

Also, Mremre was kind enough to point out that Hot Rod referred to Kup earlier in the story. Whooooops. Yeah, that'd be an error. I'll go back and edit it out. I had originally intended to crew the Ark with all OC's but then decided it was a great chance to work Kup into the story as an actual part of the plot, and a chance to cut down on the number of OC's. I am only using OC's in this when there's no original character who I could reinterpret that would work ... (and I seriously couldn't find a canonical character who could fill Manywinds' role, in any of the continuities, and I looked hard -- Transformers has a huge wealth of characters, but none of them would work for this role).

* * *

The ship's crew seemed ... small ... to Bee. Oh, not small in numbers. These days, twenty mechs in one place was a veritable crowd. He was actually a little overwhelmed by all the new faces, though he was trying hard to keep that to himself. He had not met this many mechs he didn't know all in one day since his first day under Optimus, and that had been tens of thousands of years ago.

However, they were literally small. Except for Kup and the medic Grip, they were all shorter than him. Some of them, substantially so -- like the little flier, whose name was Manywinds. At barely six feet tall, Windy was human sized and probably weighed less than one, given his very slender build. Windy was the smallest member of the crew: a finely built flier with metallic purple paint on what passed for his armor.

"'Scuse me, sir," Manywinds said, now, running up to Bumblebee. He'd just bent over to pick a boulder up. Sunrise was several hours away, but they'd already started excavation of the ship. "You don't have to do that, Prime. We'll get it."

He blinked at him -- her? Him? He wasn't sure which gender Manywinds would chose to assume. _Him_, Bee decided, until Manywinds told him otherwise. He'd explained the need to pick a gender to represent to the mechs; being called 'it' was more than a bit demeaning in English. He would suggest 'male' to Manywinds if he asked, simply because males got more respect, but there was also an advantage to being seen as female -- human females were perceived to be less threatening. It had been something of a quandary for Bee himself, a few years ago, when _he _had needed to make that choice.

And, he could have _killed _Ratchet for telling Sam about his difficulty in deciding on a gender, too. Sam had found it hysterically funny, had laughed about it for weeks, and occasionally still teased him about it.

Manywinds made a movement as if _he _planned to pick the boulder up. Curiously, Bee stepped back, to see if he actually could do so, and cocked his head to one side to watch. Manywinds grabbed it, locked his knees, and gave a good hard heave ... and managed to lift it a few inches off the ground. Then it started to slip and he heard Windy's gears scream and clatter and motors whine. Bee slipped a hand underneath it before Manywinds could smash his toes, and said calmly, "You're going to strip something doing that, Windy."

Given the amount of aluminum in Windy's thin frame, that was a real possibility. The flier was built, from his head to his toes, to be as light weight as possible._ At least he'll be cheap and easy to fix. Humans have plenty of aluminum. We can just melt down a few pop cans ... though he's going to be scarily vulnerable to both physical damage and chemical. All the Decepticons would need to do to turn him into slag would be to hit him with a little liquid mercury ..._

The little mech stared up at him, mouth set in a hard line of frustration. The entire crew had been to the Nebulan system recently, and still bore the mods to their faceplates -- which were close enough to human that the expressions could be made the same. Part of the language module Bee had given them included expressions and body language -- humans communicated more than they realized with visual cues. The team had immediately started utilizing the module, because would practice improve their use of it ... "I can _get _it."

"Manywinds," he said, patiently, as he chucked the boulder underhand down the slope. "I'm perfectly capable and willing to help you."

Stubbornly, he said, "Vermillion never did anything like this. You're a _Prime_. We can get it."

He sighed a rush of static at him, making Windy duck his head in suprise at the noise, then said, "Vermillion was raised in the hallowed halls of Iacon. I've been in the trenches of a war nearly since I was created. I think pitching a few rocks will not hurt me. And my commander would have my bolts for a windchime if I didn't help."

"You have a commander?" Manywinds said, in mild disbelief. Primes were absolute leaders in Manywinds's time, he recalled, and answered to no one. That structure made him uneasy, clear down to his core of his military-trained spark. If you didn't know what the chain of command was, you got _chaos _when disaster struck. Somebody had to be able to yell orders, and everybody else needed to follow them. That was just common sense. They had six Primes. It was absolutely logical to him that Optimus remained the indisputable commander in charge and the other Primes reported to him. He was certain the rest of the team agreed, even Grim.

Wars were _not _won by committee!

He tossed another boulder and explained, "Optimus Prime. He's our commanding officer. You'll probably like him -- everyone does." Another boulder went rattling down into the valley. "Windy, I know you're used to treating Primes," _Crash! _went a boulder, "... as princes among our people, but quite realistically, the Matrix gives me some very useful knowledge and access to the experience of many leaders who have come before me, but I'm just another mech. If I give an order I expect it to be followed, but I am _not _some rarified elite with platinum armor and a cannon shoved up my aft."

Manywinds giggled.

_Hnnnh. Maybe he'd be better off being seen as female, with a giggle like that. _Her, _then. _

He winced, as a pebble caught in the gears in his hand, then wiggled and shook his fingers until it fell out. "So just treat me like one of your crew members unless I have to pull a Prime moment on you, okay?"

That earned him a shy smile. "... Okay, sir."

He threw another ruddy sandstone boulder a bit farther than he really needed to -- okay, a lot farther. He was shamelessly showing off, but darn it, these civilians seemed to think he should be sitting in the shade fanning himself while they busted their power cells, and he had ten times the strength of all but Kup and their medic. Her optics widened, as the rock, which was the size of a Geo Metro, went sailing across the valley and thudding into soft ground by the creek. He grinned. "Really. I don't mind helping. Optimus himself would be digging if he were here."

"Really?"

"I can guarantee it." He wiped reddish dust from his optics with a rag he produced from one of the compartments on his arm, then sprayed them with cleanser fluid from the ducts on either side of his lenses. The blasted soil here got into _everything_, and it was so dry he didn't think it had rained in weeks. He mopped at the lenses, frustrated, as his vision remained blurred. Finally, after a bit of work, he got his optics mostly clear. He hoped Sam and Mikaela would be willing to help him get clean, because otherwise, he'd have to impose on one of his teammates to get the grit out. He had sand from head to toe.

Bee excavated around a particularly large rock, one too big to chuck. Kup had provided some spare struts to use as levers, and he kicked a smaller boulder in place to use as a fulcrum. "Here, Windy, I'm going to put my weight on the lever here. You push on the rock and try to get it rolling down the hill, will you?"

Manywinds readily jumped to help -- but Bee immediately stopped when he heard the warning grind of her gears. She was trying too hard. He thought Manywinds was trying to please him, which made him uneasy, because he was afraid she'd harm herself. "Stop, stop, Manywinds."

"I can do it!" She leaned her back against the rock and pushed with her legs, which got her precisely nowhere, since he was no longer leaning on the pry bar.

"Okay, I'm having a Prime Moment: _Stop_." He put some command into that last word, mimicking Optimus.

She froze, flinched, then said, "Sorry."

He crouched so he was on her eye level and explained, "Our supplies on this world are limited, Manywinds. I understand that the Ark has a substantial store of repair parts, but when those are gone they are _gone_. Cybertron is no more, and our ability to make new parts is very limited and the priority is for critical parts for soldiers. Many of the soldiers I work with -- including myself -- have gone millenia with non-critical damage unrepaired. So _do not _injure yourself trying to help me. You'll piss me off if you do."

_Though we can make you new armor and struts easily enough, kiddo, and even some of your gears, you _do _have duralloy parts where wear would be expected. Strip those, damage them, and you'll find we cannot replace them so easily._

"Yes, sir." She hung her head.

He caught her chin in his fingers and forced her to look at him. "I'm almost sorry to wake you lot up into this world. I think it might have been kinder to let you sleep ... but we _need _you. And you, Manywinds, with your wings -- you will find that we need you more than most."

She nodded firmly. "Yes, sir."

He waved the medic over. With the assistance of the larger 'bot, he got the boulder moving. It thundered down the hill, crushing smaller rocks and a few trees in its path, and finally splashed into creek and stopped there. Grip started to head back to work up the slope, but Bee stopped him with a quick, "Grip, I have a question -- do you have weapons on board the ship?"

"Yes," he said, sounding unhappy, and wouldn't meet Bee's gaze, choosing to look anywhere but at the Bumblebee.

Bee nodded. "Good. I'll get the specifics from Kup," he would respect the chain of command, and discuss this matter with the Captain. "However, you should know that I don't know any mechs, even neutrals, who are unarmed in this age."

He was simply trying to give Grip fair warning that he might want to take inventory of his surgical supplies, without treading on Kup's toes as ship's Captain. Ratchet would have appreciated the heads' up, because if the tables were turned, it would give him a chance to have his surgery ready for the necessary mods. Most of the crew were going to need weapons motherboards, and probably a number of extra power cells and capacitors, to support the drain of pulse cannons or even -- for the smaller bots -- laser rifles. He would make it an order to Kup, if he had to (and he was one hundred percent sure Optimus would back him up) to arm the crew, but he wouldn't actually go around Kup to do it. Kup could pass the order on to Grip.

Grip's mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line. Instead of the expected nod of gratitude, however, he said shortly, "I'm not going to weld weapons mounts onto this lot, Prime. They're civilians."

With that short statement, he turned his back on Bumblebee and climbed back towards the top of the talus slope, where they were excavating the ship's reaction engines.

"Don't mind Grip," Manywinds said, airily, "Grip doesn't believe in fighting."

He glanced at her, then asked, "What do _you _believe?"

She shrugged expressively, "I'm not sure it matters what I believe. Kup forwarded the files you provided to us all. I've reviewed them. I may think that this war we woke up to is a stupid and senseless waste of life, but I also place a pretty high premium on my own aft. If you want to give me weapons, I'm all for it. I'd like to be able to shoot back if someone shoots at me, thanks muchly. And I'm sure as hell going to fight on the side of the Primes rather than the slaggers who destroyed our way of life."

"Heh. I'll see you get the weapons, as long as your Captain approves. If Grip won't do the mods for you, Ratchet certainly will." _Ratchet_, Bee thought, _Will eat Grip for lunch if he tries to claim that leaving this lot unarmed is acceptable. If Grip values the lives of his team, he _will _arm them. Unarmed, they will be easy victims even for human enemies. _Windy _has all the defenses of a damned sparkling._

"Thank you, sir." She sounded genuinely grateful, as well as scared.

"Hey," he said, gently, "we look out for each other. I can't promise you the future, but I can tell you that there is a good group of mechs to work with at the base. We'll take care of you. Okay?"

"Okay, sir." She bent down and started throwing rocks again. Smaller ones, he noted. He'd made his point about not damaging herself.

* * *

Kup was exhausted, sorely in need of a recharge, and _hurting _when Grip worked his way over. He was just getting too old for this kind of work -- or, at least, his power cells were. Bee claimed that Kup was in better repair than most of the soldiers he knew (and given the Prime's state of half-healed injuries and jury rigged repairs, Kup believed it) but still, he could feel the strain in his electrical system and joints.

The medic said, without preamble, "Do you trust the kid?"

"Who, Bumblebee?" Kup glanced down the hill, where Bee was tossing rocks with the rest of them. He seemed to have made some sort of partnership with the team's xenoanthropologist, Manywinds -- the little flier was clearing aside small gravel and dirt with a shovel, and Bee was then pitching the _big _rocks down the hill. Kup had, having watched Bee for a moment, concluded that the young Prime had some serious upgrades and modifications under that shiny golden armor. He was moving rocks that weighed tons without much effort.

"Yes, Bumblebee." Grip was scowling.

"He's a Prime."

"Can he prove it?"

Kup snorted. "You're young, Grip. Meet enough Primes in your life, you recognize another one when you see one. It's all in the way they look at you -- like they're seeing you simultaneously with millions of years of history."

"Still doesn't mean he's telling the truth about the situation."

"The videos are unmodified." Kup was a master at making artistic videos and, by extension, detecting fake ones. He scowled at Grip, not liking Grip's attitude.

"Doesn't mean they're the _whole _truth," Grip grunted, "and we have no idea what his intent is."

"Hmph. He's a Prime. If he went dark side, his Matrix would reject him. It's happened before."

"Yeah, well ..." Grip watched Bumblebee for a moment. "What do you make of _that_?"

Bee had just found a lizard among the rocks. Manywinds caught it, and carried it to him, and the two mechs were studying it curiously. Bee crouched down, since Manywinds was only about six feet tall, and the two looked at the lizard in evident fascination.

"A lizard?"

"Bumblebee and Manywinds."

Kup gave Grip a funny look.

"If I don't miss my guess, there's chemistry there. And I swear, if he hurts Manywinds, I'll weld his head to his aft, Prime or no. Manywinds is a good kid."

Kup snorted. "He's a Prime. Charisma's part of the package. Doesn't mean anything except that Manywinds is responding to the charm. Anyway, aside from the Prime thing, he seems like a nice young officer. Manywinds could do a heck of a lot worse."

He doubted anything would come of that relationship, though -- knowing Windy's love of pretty young officers -- he suspected Manywinds was hoping. _Might want to warn the Prime, _he thought absently, though he didn't actually send Bumblebee an encrypted message at that moment. He thought for a moment, first. _Windy is always chasing the unattainable. Windy lost one great love, wants that feeling again, but cannot quite find the courage to start a relationship with someone who can return the same feelings. She mourns, still._

Yeah, best warn the Prime. He opened a com channel and pinged Bee over the encrypted channel they'd established, to get his attention.

At that moment, Windy giggled and pointed out a butterfly. Bumblebee paused in his work, and said something that made Windy glance over her shoulders at her own delicate wings. She laughed, then, and momentarily half transformed, displaying wings that were painted in purple and green: butterfly colors, and deliberately so.

_:Yeah, Kup?: _Bumblebee glanced up the hill towards him. The young Prime's voice held a wealth of good humor and warmth. _:Can I help you with something?:_

_:Is Windy bothering you?: _That was entirely not the warning he'd meant to give. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Windy might actually be getting some interest back -- or not. Kup couldn't tell. Bumblebee was a bit hard to read; the mech could simply be that friendly with everyone.

_:Not at all.:_

_:Windy chatters a lot.: _That was an old grumble shared by much of the crew.

_:Windy isn't a problem. I'll send her back to you if she becomes one, I promise.:_

Kup regarded the back of Bumblebee's head for a moment, then decided to keep his thoughts to himself. With amusement, he thought that a warning might not necessary.

* * *

Bee straightened up, squinting at the Eastern sky. They'd been working steadily since midnight. It was close to dawn now, and the crew had cleared several hundred square feet of hull. He turned his attention, after a moment, to Manywinds, who was looking frankly beat -- the little guy -- girl? -- didn't have the power reserves of the bigger mechs and she'd been busting her tailpipe on the hill without complaint.

"If it's okay with your captain," Bee said, "would you like to accompany me to pick my friends up?"

She blinked at him, freezing in place in surprise. "Accompany you?"

"Your specialty is xenoanthropology, right? No time like the present to get started. And you have the advantage of eyes in the sky -- I'd like you to survey the terrain as we walk out and make sure there's no one, mech or human, in the area, that might stumble upon the ship before Teletraan can launch." His sensors could only detect so much from the ground.

What he _wasn't_ telling her was that he suspected they would do some shuffling of staff around once they got the ship to the base. Assuming Kup didn't have any screaming objections, he would like to place more soldiers under Kup's command to defend Teletraan and the Ark, and assign some of the civilians to ground-based positions. _We'll probably transfer the entire medical staff to the ship as long as it's on the ground, plus Wheeljack and Doc._

By contrast, Windy's resume -- and, frankly, her size and appearance -- made her a very promising candidate for a job as a liason with the humans.

And that meant that she would probably be assigned to his command. Optimus had already indicated he wanted Bumblebee in charge of 'human relations' issues that weren't political. Optimus had a gift for dealing with governments, but he didn't have time to also handle the inquiries from scientists, members of the media, businesses, and Hollywood glitterati who were all clamoring for contact with the Autobots. That was destined to be Bee's job for no other reason than Bee was available and had no other more important specialties ... and an anthropologist sounded just dandy as an assistant. Because, sometimes, he just had no clue how to react to some of the inquiries.

Oblivious to Bee's somewhat shameless scheming, she said, "Oh. Yeah. Sure, I can do that. You mean I'll actually get to _interact _with the humans?"

Bee chuckled, and then sent a low-power and encrypted message to Kup, _:Do you mind if I pull Manywinds off the dig here? I'm worried about her wearing out.:_

_:Are you heading out to get your human friends?:_

_:Yes. I'd like to take Windy with me, if you don't mind.:_

_:Sure. She's not built for digging ditches anyway. Though you called her 'she' -- has Manywinds picked a gender yet?:_

_:Haven't asked. I don't want to call her 'it'. It's not respectful in this langauge. And I didn't want to influence her choice in the matter. My bet is she'd do best as a girl in this culture, but she's right on the borderline and could easily be seen as male, too.:_

He thought the expression was a little amused that Kup sent his way. _:See you later, Bee. Be careful.:_

* * *

_  
_Manywinds soared over his head with all the grace and agility of a raptor. The little mech's alt mode was Nebulan in design, and resembled a small ultralight craft -- but a craft with considerable power when she actually turned her engine on. She was nimble and quick, diving and soaring on the winds and updrafts, and only turning her engine on for brief bursts of power as she transitioned from one thermal to another. Her wings flashed purple and green against the blue sky; easy to see. These mechs had truly lived in a time without major threats.

_:How are you doing up there?: _He noted her flight style was particularly efficient, but she had seemed very tired when they had left.  
_  
:I can see a road, and power transmission lines, but no people closer than twenty miles except for one pair with packs about seven miles away. A man and a woman and they don't appear to be armed. Wow, there's a lot of human habitation in the distance, though!: _Her voice over the radio sounded enthusiastic, and full of curiosity. He suspected she could actually _rest _while flying.  
_  
:That's nothing. There's cities with millions of humans.: _He wasn't worried about the hikers. If they happened to stumble across the ship, he'd just have Kup give them a tour. _:You'll see them soon enough.:_  
_  
:Amazing. I never would have thought that the little primates would have evolved so far, so fast.:_

_:Believe it or not, they only begun to develop the foundations of modern technology in the last several centuries. Growth has been on a bell curve, however. They are beginning to research quantum theory. A little over a century ago, they didn't even know what to do with electricity.:_

_:Hey! There's a bird up here with me!:_

Bee craned his neck back and watched as she soared with a hawk of some kind, riding the same thermal only a few feet apart.

_:He's pretty!: _She sent an up-close video of the bird. _:Look at the patterns of the feathers, Prime! Aren't they beautiful?:_

Bee grinned, deciding in that moment that he liked Manywinds rather a lot. He couldn't wait to introduce her to Mikaela and Sam.

The parking lot at the trailhead was deserted -- it was still very early -- and he transformed on the asphalt. Manywinds took that as a hint to land; she went into a steep dive, pulled up at the last second, transformed in a flash, and stuck her landing on two feet like a gymnast.

_:Nice,: _he praised, since she was clearly proud of that flourish, _:I see you won't need runways.:_

_:Not many runways on prehistoric Earth,: _She pointed out. _:Should I follow you aloft?:_

He popped his door, and made what he thought was a better suggestion -- though it certainly implied quite a bit of trust. However, Windy was from an entirely different time. He wasn't certain it would even occur to her that riding inside the Camaro frame put her within easy striking distance of his processors, memory core, and his spark itself. When he transformed, his spark ended up just under the seat, separated from the occupants of the vehicle by only a few thin sheets of armor. On the other hand, she had no weapons at all -- what was she going to do, chew through the floor with her dental plates? He said, without letting any of that instinctive nervous fear touch his voice, "Climb in. You won't be able to keep up in the air, and it's several miles to the hotel."

Her wings folded nearly across her back, taking up very little space and giving her the impression of having faery wings. They were not metal, but rather some sort of polymer, with aluminum struts that had visible joints. She fit easily into a human sized seat, and did not have to be told to put a seatbelt on.

"So, Prime," she said, conversationally, "How long have you know the humans?"

"About a year. In the data pack I sent you guys, you probably saw them -- Sam Witwicky and Mikaela Banes."

"Ah." She recognized the names now. "Then I'll be pleased to meet them. They sound quite brave."

"Mmm. Yes." Brave didn't begin to describe it. "And do me a favor, Manywinds? Call me Bumblebee."

"Yes, sir. Bumblebee."

"Or Bee."

"Yes, sir, Bee." Her tone took on a teasing lilt. "Do all your friends call you Bee?"

"Pretty much." He pulled out into the light morning traffic -- a blessed improvement from the day before -- and accelerated towards Sedona. "Humans use nicknames to indicate affection. The 'bots on our team have picked the habit up -- even my commander calls me that. We're a close bunch, Windy --" here, he used the nickname he'd already mentally tagged her with deliberately, earning a startled smile, "-- and I think you'll fit in fine. All of you, even that cranky medic of yours. We have a cranky medic of our own."

She giggled, "Ah, Grips is okay, though he thinks you're too young to be a Prime."

He snorted. "Tell Grips that I would totally agree with him."

"He'll come around, at least about you. The no-fighting thing, though? That's not going to change. He refused to serve under Kup until Kup removed his own weapons."

Bee mentally winced. Grips could be a problem. He wondered if the 'no-fighting thing' would survive Grip's first encounter with Decepticons, assuming he survived the experience. Legend had it that _Ratchet _had been adamantly pacifistic until the first time a Decepticon shot at him with intent to kill. Ratchet had responded by decapitating the enemy with a surgical saw and had not even been apologetic about it. "Is he a good medic?"

"Oh, completely. He's known to be the best circuit surgeon in the Empire ... well, was, I guess." She fell silent.

"He's a circuit surgeon?" Bee perked up at that news. Grip's resume said he was a medic, and a graduate of Iacon, but Bee hadn't really paid much attention to his specialty. He was used to military medics, who were too busy and too much in demand to _specialize_. Ratchet could do anything from fix scratched paint to build memory modules from scratch starting with the raw elements. "_Really_?"

"Vermillion wanted him on the staff because Teletraan's processors are so wicked complex, and he's a prototype. And even with that precaution, Teletraan had a glitch ... it wasn't his fault, it was genuinely a hardware fritz, but ..." she trailed off. "Grip took it pretty damned hard when we came out of subspace so very far from home."

"I'm so very sorry about that," Bee said, with real honesty.

She hunched in the seat, wings sliding up a few inches until one bumped into the seatbelt. "Me too. But -- we knew this was a remote world. When I entered stasis lock, when Kup powered me down, I wasn't sure if I'd ever wake up again. Four million years is better than never."

"All your friends are dead, though," he said, quietly. "I am certain that must hurt."

"Yeah. It hurts." She rested her head against the glass of his passenger's side window, metal cheek clicking faintly as it made contact. "But at least I'm alive."

"If you ever need to talk, let me know. I'm good at listening." _Primus _he was worried about her -- he was worried about all of them, but that 'it hurts' had been said in a near whisper, and he had a suspicion this little 'bot was one who would internalize everything. She was so young. Younger, even, than him.

"You're nothing like any Prime I've ever known." She giggled, suddenly. "Vermillion was such a prig. And he barely even acknowledged my existence."

"Well, I've only been Prime for less than a week, if you want the truth." The confession was easy. "And it was a bit of an emergency when Optimus Prime shoved that Matrix in my hands and told me I was joining his club ..."

She laughed again. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. This time last week, I was just another soldier." He paused, then added, "But I promise. Even when I've got more experience as a Prime, I'll _never _be a prig. That'd be far too boring."

* * *

Bee had not asked where Sam and Mikaela were staying, but he was able to find the hotel easily enough by tracking their cell phones. The little devices emitted a signal that was distinctive, and easily tracked. He'd never mentioned this to Sam -- if Sam thought about it, he would realize it, but he didn't want to actually point it out. He might need to follow the children someday when they didn't want to be pursued ...

Habits of a Special Ops soldier died hard, that was for sure.

When he pulled into the parking lot, he called Sam's cell phone -- and when Sam answered it, he played, _"When the moon is in the Seventh House, And Jupiter aligns with Mars, Then peace will guide the planets, And love will steer the stars."_

He thought the song was appropriate for the setting. However, it only earned him a sigh. "Not in the mood, Bee."

Sam was sometimes particularly cranky in the morning. He wasn't, as the humans said, 'a morning person.' Still, Bee had such good news that he couldn't resist saying it with music -- he skipped ahead in the song to, _"Mystic crystal revelation, And the mind's true liberation ..."_

"What, you found something?" Sam said, perking up a bit, and Bee gave happy chirp that was the Cybertronian equivalent of, 'Uh-huh!' "What did you find?"

"Come on down!" He piped the announcer's cry from 'The Price Is Right' over the phone.

"Okay, okay, I'm coming!" Sam said. There was a pause, then he asked, "You didn't fritz out your voice again did you?"

Bee hoped his laugh -- in his own voice -- was answer enough to that.

"Good. Hey, will you call 'Kaela for me?" There was an odd tone in Sam's speech that made Bee suddenly sober up. "She's kinda pissed at me. She got her own room last night, and I don't know the number."

"What did you do?" Bumblebee asked, very concerned. He didn't want his friends fighting. Particularly when he'd practically set them up for the perfect romantic night, as far as he could tell from his understanding of human behavior.

"Nothing!" Sam protested. "She, umm -- well. I'm not even sure what happened."

_That _didn't sound good.

"Just, umm, don't play songs at her. She might get upset. More upset."

"Understood, Sam." He ended the call with Sam, and called Mikaela promptly.

Somewhat to his surprise, she answered on the second ring with a fairly cheerful, "'Morning, sunshine. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I certainly did."

He wondered if he should come right out and ask why Sam thought she was upset, or if he should let it ride for the moment. She didn't give him a chance, however, to decide. She squealed, "Oooh! Coming right down!" and hung up.

Had he been in protoform, he would have shook his head in bemusement. If Mikaela was upset, she was giving no sign of it. She appeared a moment later, duffel in hand, and ran across the parking lot -- and then stopped short, a few feet away, when she realized he had a passenger in the car. Mikaela cocked her head to the side, clearly trying to see what was in the car. He'd tinted his windows very dark precisely to prevent people from seeing Windy.

Mikaela finally made a decision, and approached the driver's side. He popped the door open, and she stuck her head inside, and said, "Hi there!"

In a very slow, very precise tone, Manywings said, "Hello. My. Name. Is. Manywinds. You. Are. A. Human."

Mikaela was silent for a long moment. Bumblebee, had he been in protoform, would have slapped his forehead in disbelief. Manywings sounded like she was talking to a complete idiot -- she'd spoken in the most patronizing tone he honestly thought he'd ever heard come from a transformer's voicebox, on either the Decepticon or Autobot side. What the hell?

Mikaela straightened up, and asked Bumblebee, "Please tell me she's glitched. Please? Because otherwise, we have a problem."

"_Glitched?" _Manywinds said, in a much more normal -- albeit decidedly offended -- tone of voice. "I'll have you know ..." a pause, and he hoped that hesitation meant that Manywinds was replaying exactly how her greeting must have sounded to Mikaela, and why Mikaela had reacted with offense. Windy continued, sounding a bit miffed, "... and I'm male."

_Oh, really? _Bee thought, absently, and made a mental note to use 'male' pronouns in the future.

"Actually," Mikaela stuck her head back into the car, "You're an asexual alien from the planet Cybertron. Male or female pronouns are merely a matter of convenience, and because 'it' is offensive as it implies something is an inanimate object in our language."

Windy said, "Err."

Bee said, "Mikaela, meet Manywinds. Manywinds, meet your very first human. I would note that speaking in a normal tone of voice, as per my language module, to humans is generally the best course of action."

"More to the point," Mikaela slid into the driver's seat, and said in a not entirely unkind tone, "You piss us off if you use that voice tone. Pick another."

"My apologies," Windy's optics shuttered several times in success. Then she said by radio to Bee, _:Not afraid of much, is she?:_

_:She doesn't need to be afraid. I'd smack you flat if you hurt her and she knows it. She also isn't expecting trouble from a 'bot that I introduced on friendly terms.:_

_:Well, I wouldn't hurt her -- _you _know that. I am just used to a lot more illogical behavior from organic life.:_

Sam appeared, a bit slower than Mikaela. He also seemed a bit unfocused, and opened the passenger door before actually seeing that there was a passenger in the seat. This time, Manywinds managed a much more polite, and normal-sounding, "Hello, Mr. Witwicky -- Bee, did I say that right?"

Sam gaped.

"Oh, dear, I think I got something wrong ..." Manywinds stared up at him, "I, umm, apologize?"

"Ermm -- friendly, right Bee?" Sam was too nonplussed by the strange mech unexpectedly sitting in Bumblebee's interior to actually respond to Windy.

"Yes, Manywinds is friendly," Bee said, then added to Windy, "... you didn't do anything wrong that time, Windy. Sam's just easy to fluster. We love him anyway."

"Bee!" Sam rapped the door frame with his knuckles in a teasing swat, making Bumblebee chuckle. Then he said, to the Windy, "I'm Sam." Sam held a hand out, which Manywinds stared at for a second before realizing that Sam was offering to shake hands. "Mr. Witwicky is my father."

"So you found her out in the desert somewhere?" Sam said, as Windy unbuckled his seatbelt. He climbed rather agiley, and with more flexibility than Bumblebee would have expected, into the back seat.

"Him," Bee corrected. "Windy's masculine."

Manywinds leaned on the seat back between both humans, and said, "I don't know, maybe I should be a girl? What do you two think? Since it's your species I'm emulating in that regard ..."

Sam said, after a startled glance over the seat, "Girl. Totally. It's the voice."

"I could speak in a lower register," Windy said, demonstrating in a very deep bass, which sent Mikaela into fits of giggles and made Sam role his eyes.

"Actually, Windy, your normal speaking voice is a contralto. It could be either male or female," Bumblebee clarified Sam's impression for Windy. "And your standing height is within the normal range for both male and female humans. Obviously, your physical appearance is androgynous as you lack the dysmorphic organs of either sex. Your coloring is fairly neutral, but could fairly easily be changed to be more masculine."

"What would you pick, Bee?" Windy just sounded curious.

"I had a similar dilemma," Bumblebee admitted, "humans perceive females to be less threatening and more friendly, but there is also a perception by some people in this part of the world that females are less intelligent or have less authority. In other parts of the world, the percentage that believe that may be significantly higher or lower. It is a cultural thing. Males, by contrast, are seen as more dangerous and more powerful. In the end, because I knew I might need to command respect, I chose a male identity. It seems to suit me, as no humans have ever questioned it." As a matter of fact, the two humans in question had assumed he was male right from the beginning, probably because he was sixteen feet tall and packing lots of weapons. Apparently, one did not require male genitalia to be considered masculine if one owned a pulse cannon with a diameter larger than a human head.

Sam snickered. Mikaela rolled her eyes at Sam.

He hesitated, then added, "However, your role may be somewhat different than mine. I am Sam's guardian, and a warrior. You are a scientist, in a field where you will need to forge close ties with humans in order to study them ... you might achieve better luck in that regard if you are seen as female."

"But Bee hasn't had any trouble making human friends," Sam pointed out to her. "He's Mr. Popularity everywhere."

Mikaela said, "Windy, what do you do?"

"Do?"

"She's a xenoanthropologist," Bumblebee explained. "Her job is studying and analyzing alien cultures. That's something we Autobots could certainly use on this world."

"Heh. Does sound useful." Mikaela nodded with, to Bee's eyes, a bit too much enthusiasm. Mikaela just seemed _off _somehow. "That means lots of field work, right?"

"Yes, in all likelihood," Bee confirmed.

"Windy," Mikaela said, "There are things about being female that really suck. One of them is that you get _no _respect. I'm willing to bet that being a female _robot _would even be worse. You would be seen as a laughingstock by men ..."

"Nobody laughs at Arcee," Bee pointed out, still watching Mikaela. Something was wrong. Mikaela's voice tone held just a little too much snarky irritation, though it didn't seem to be at the discussion at hand.

"Arcee's ten feet tall and there are three of her." Mikaela rolled her eyes at the Camaro's dashboard. "And unless she _tells _you see wants to be seen as female, you would never know it. -- Windy, I suspect you will get far more respect, without needing to resort to a set of laser rifles, if you take on a male identity. This will particularly be true if you are dealing with cultures where women have fewer rights."

Manywinds tilted her head sideways, considering the issue. She finally said, "I suppose I could always change my mind ..."

Sam spluttered. "Errm. Bad idea."

"I'm afraid he's right," Bumblebee said, "There are many humans who, once they perceive someone to be one sex, would never accept them as the opposite sex. It ... upsets their worldview, and they see the person as somehow flawed, I think. I admit I do not fully understand this."

"Oh-hoh," Sam held his hands up, defensively, "I'm not even touching that discussion, Bee."

Mikaela clucked like a hen at him.

Sam gave her a disgruntled look, but the sound had drawn Windy's attention. "That noise is not in my language module. Bee, what does it mean?"

"It's the noise a small avian called a 'chicken' makes," Bee explained. "Chickens are seen as cowardly."

Windy considered that explanation for a moment, then asked Mikaela, "Why would a chicken be cowardly, and why are you accusing him of _being _cowardly for not wanting to talk about this topic?"

Bumblebee said, in a stage whisper, ".. children, I think the anthropologist just went into research mode ..."

Windy smacked the back of the seat playfully. "Be nice. I'm just curious."

"Scientists! Always curious about something!" Bee huffed, but privately, he was pleased by the swat. He liked Windy, and he did _not _want her to put him up on a Prime-shaped pedestal ...

"Sooo ..." Mikaela said, "Windy, how did Bee find you?"

"He found our starship under a landslide," Windy said, brightly. "We'd been in stasis four million years."

"... the fuck?" Sam said, in complete and total and absolute disbelief. "Four million YEARS? YEARS? YEARS, not DAYS? You're shitting me. Bee, you found a starship?"

"A _starship_?" Mikaela said, with slightly less spastic enthusiasm.

Bumblebee snorted in reaction to Sam's profanity. "And it's a big ship, with twenty crew ... twenty-one, counting the ship itself."

"Of _course _you count the ship," Mikaela said, with a chuckle that sounded a bit strained to Bee's ears. "Does he transform?"

"He's a bit big for that," Bee said.

"Too big to transform?" Mikaela said, in mock disbelief. "Given that Silverbolt turns into a C-130 Hercules, I'd _love _to see a craft too big to actually transform!"

"You will," Bee said. "We're going to ride home in the ship."

".... wow." Mikaela said. "A real starship."

"That was," Bee was only too happy to say, "Very much how I reacted, Mikaela. 'A real starship!' -- and one that is going to be happy to join the Autobots. We've needed a break like this for a very long time."

Once the initial enthusiasm about meeting a new mech was over, Bumblebee noted that Sam fell silent and stared moodily out the window. Mikaela chattered with Windy, but she was a bit too ... much. She was _trying _too hard, he thought, to present a normal demeanor. Something was very wrong, and with Manywinds in the car he couldn't even start asking questions. He suspected whatever the problem was would be termed 'private' by the humans.

He just hoped they would talk to _him _once he got a chance to get them alone.


	26. Chapter 26

"I think I'll go with male," Windy decided, on the walk back to the ship. She -- he, Bee reminded himself -- was trotting along on the ground beside Bumblebee, with the humans on either side of him. At a scant six feet of height, Windy was around three inches taller than Sam, but much slimmer. He added his rationale when he said, "Because of the fact I may need to work with multiple different cultures."

"Mmm. You might want to change your colors, then. They're a bit bright for males of this species," Bumblebee suggested. "_I _like the green and purple, but -- maybe black with green and purple accents?"

Windy paused, spread his wings in a partial transformation, and focused for a moment. A second later his wings and armor were glossy black, and he had iridescent purple trim and green tiger stripes on his face. "Is that better?"

"Well," Mikaela said, with a chuckle, "I think that'll work, though it's still definitely pretty, umm, stylish."

"A little loud ..." Bee started to say.

"Ignore him," Mikaela waved a hand in Bee's general direction. "He lost the ability to call anyone else 'loud' when he picked a bright yellow Camaro as his alt mode."

Bee laughed, though he still heard that worrisome edge in her voice. Lightly, he said, "I suppose she has a point. I think your colors are fine, Windy."

"What's your t-shirt mean?" Windy asked, noticing words on Sam's clothing. Bumblebee glanced down and noted that Sam was wearing a shirt that said, "... and then Buffy staked Edward."

Mikaela grumbled, "He wears that _just _for the attention it gets from pissed off girls, I swear."

"Can you clarify?" Windy said, "I don't think that reference was included in the language module."

"Can you get internet access out here?" Mikaela asked. "The context is rather enormous. Googling the terms might be more efficient than my attempts to explain it."

"I'm afraid there's no cell service here, and Windy doesn't have an air card yet," Bumblebee said, apologetically. "Windy, Buffy is a character on a television series. Edward is a character in a series of books, and a movie. Edward is much beloved by adolescent female humans; Buffy is more attractive to a slightly different demographic. His t-shirt is poking a little fun at the fans of Edward. It's not, as far as I understand human humor, all that mean-spirited, but it is definitely antagonistic humor."

Windy said, "Interesting. So there's rivalry between two groups of humans over their favorite fictional characters?"

"Not necessarily rivalry. Some people like both. It's something of a fluid group dynamic, really." Bumblebee shrugged. "I would second Mikaela's suggestion that you spend some time on the internet, observing various groups. Human behavior is frankly fascinating when they start obsessing over forms of entertainment."

"I look forward to it." Windy sounded like he genuinely did.

"Hey, look, a horned toad!" Sam exclaimed, taking off after a lizard. Windy ran after him, his long and slender legs and three-toed birdlike feet agile on the rough terrain, as Sam added, "I haven't seen one of those since I was tiny!"

Mikaela continued to walk beside him, hands in her pockets, and did not join the fun. Very quickly, Sam and Windy were out of earshot as they continued to pursue the reptile through some underbrush. Bee headed up over a low hill, not particularly concernedabout any threats. This was remote country, and there was no reason for any Decepticons to be here.

Mikaela looked back for a moment, to watch the two -- boy and robot -- as they turned over a log in pursuit of the animal. Her lips twisted into a smile that didn't hold much amusement. "Okay, that's official: Windy is _so _a guy."

"Or a scientist," Bumblebee chuckled. He bent over and offered her his hand. "Would you like a ride?"

Readily, she accepted, and he lifted her up to his shoulder. He expected to have to probe a bit, to find out what was bothering her, but she said quietly, "I think I really hurt Sam's feelings last night."

"Mm. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not ..." she exhaled. "Not now. Maybe later. If he's a bit upset, though, that's why. I was an idiot and I can't take it back, and I'm not sure if he's going to forgive me any time soon."

"Sam loves you. He will forgive much for you."

"Yeah, well, I think that's what I'm afraid of. Maybe he'll forgive me when he shouldn't." She leaned against his head, fingers gripping the edge of his battle mask for balance. "Bee, I'm so messed up."

He reached a hand up and rested it across her knees for a moment before quietly saying, "I have a staff meeting at nine on Monday, but that should be over by two. Optimus is just going to give us a briefing on his mission to Decepticon Central."

"How did that go?"

"Apparently well. We have a temporary truce, though I don't exactly expect them to keep it."

"Heh." Her laugh was short and sharp, "No, I suppose not. I'll be off work at five -- can you meet me?"

He hesitated, wondering if he should see her alone or with Sam. "Do you want me to pick Sam up first? Perhaps I could mediate ..."

"No!" She said, a bit sharply. "I just want to ... I don't know, I just need to _talk _to someone who's not going to judge me."

"I'll be there, then." He decided he would make a similar date to talk to Sam. Surely, it couldn't be too bad.

* * *

Lennox waited by the hangar as the Autobot aircraft touched down on the runway. There was a notable lack of squealing rubber. Silverbolt did a passable imitation of a Hercules, but certain things set him apart from human craft. Aside from fact that the cockpit was empty, there was his tendency to land silently and come to a halt a lot quicker than human aircraft would. It was something in the tires, Ratchet had explained; Autobot tires were an extruded polymer and not made of fossil oil. They were quieter, and had better grip.

Silver turned in the middle of the runway, bumped across a dirt median between the runway and a taxiway in complete violation of expected aircraft behavior, and rolled at a good rate of speed for the main hangar. Lennox waved, intending the greeting to be for both Optimus and the plane. The plane flashed his running lights back. Lennox had very quickly become fond of Silverbolt, but then, everyone was.

Lennox keyed the mike clipped to his collar and said on Autobot frequencies, "Welcome home, you two."

Silver's voice responded, "Hello, Major Lennox. And yes, it is good to be home. -- Optimus is talking to politicians at the moment. Are you simply here to greet us, or do you need something?"

"I just heard the news about a couple of new 'bots coming in. I was wondering if you needed us to get, err, samples for them to scan ready."

Silverbolt paused before responding, and was probably conferring with Optimus. Then he said, "The newcomers are not yet sworn to our side. We will wait until we know more about them before we suggest alt modes for them."

The plane stopped beside Lennox, and Optimus rolled out when the back hatch opened. Silverbolt then transformed, towering over Lennox's head for a moment before he neatly dropped down to one knee, rested one hand on the pavement, and lowered his head until he was -- almost -- on eye level. Lennox was consistently awed by Silverbolt's scale. He'd gotten used to Optimus, but Silver was a whole order of magnitude bigger.

_Optimus looks like crap_, Lennox thought. Optimus was missing a chunk of his grill and front window, and had dents and scratches all over him. Their med bay was stretched to its limit, and Lennox knew that Optimus was lower priority than others, but it still seemed wrong to see him so badly beat up.

Optimus remained transformed for a moment, though he spoke finally, "My apologies for not immediately returning your greeting, Lennox. I was being chastized by politicians and chose not to split my attention."

"Who was yelling at you?" Lennox said, in disbelief. Optimus's identity had become much more widely known in the last few weeks, but it beggared belief that anyone would scold him, for any reason.

"Several members of your Congress. Apparently, saving the world three times is not sufficient to earn better accommodations for my soldiers." Optimus sounded disgruntled, but also resigned. "They objected strongly to my proposed budget for the continued operation of the Autobot side of N.E.S.T. Apparently, some of the supplies that Ratchet has requested are quite expensive, as is better housing."

"Yeah, sorry about that." The main hangar wasn't big enough for the number of 'bots that had arrived, and several had taken to sleeping in the rec hangar. Silverbolt actually recharged outside and Lennox hated that, because it left him frighteningly exposed to sneaky Decepticon attacks, and because it just felt _wrong_. The medbay hangar, additionally, leaked when it rained, and the recreation hangar's door kept sticking.

"Mmm." Optimus sounded weary. "We have some ideas for raising funds of our own, but there are legal issues therein. We are not actually recognized as _people _by the courts and will need someone to represent us for contractual matters; likely, Sam Witwicky. In the interim, however, I need better housing and supplies for my people, and the military is not providing it. Were it just myself, I would not complain, but we cannot even obtain the raw materials to fix our most badly injured soldiers, and I am growing tired of the politics."

At that moment his door opened, a small mech slid out to the ground, and Optimus stopped venting.

"Oh, hey, you're new," Lennox said in surprise. The mech was a few inches shorter than he was, armed with a pulse cannon, and two laser rifles, and had a couple speakers attached to his chest.

"No, I'm not," Wheelie's voice hadn't changed a bit, and Lennox shot the Peterbilt a look of surprise when he recognized it. Wheelie continued, "Just got an upgrade. Man, I'm glad to be home."

"Yes, that is definitely true," Optimus finally transformed. "It is at least good to have my feet on the ground ..."

"Wow, Wheelie," Lennox regarded the much taller mech with some surprise. "You're looking good there. Last time I saw you, you were a crispy critter."

Wheelie grinned, baring sharp Decepticon teeth. "Totally worth it. Totally. Love the new form."

"So what do you transform into?"

"A damned home entertainment system. A really big one. It's ugly as shit. I want to be a motorcycle." He glanced back at Optimus, as if seeking approval. Optimus nodded slightly, and Wheelie's said firmly, "Optimus said to ask you to find me one. I'll need a little one, but I don't want a kiddy 'cycle. Maybe something really fast, and really light weight."

"I dunno," Lennox said, voice teasing, "I could use an entertainment center. Mine's crap."

"Yeah, well, whatever the hell I turn into, it sure ain't Dolby. It sounds worse than it looks." Wheelie sniffed. "The sooner you find me a motorcycle, the happier I'll be."

Lennox regarded the little mech thoughtfully. Arcee was reluctant to carry passengers; she would do so if Optimus asked, and toted Sam around willingly enough (despite Sam's reservations), but she made her preferences in battle abundantly clear. She found humans on her back a hindrance in a fight. "You think you'd be willing to carry a human?"

Wheelie shrugged. "Maybe. Depends on the human. Somebody I can tolerate, I'd do it. Maybe."

"I'll see what I can find ..."

* * *

"Okay, Teletraan, try starting up your generators," Socket said. The mechanic had spoken aloud for the benefit of the humans; Bee had noted that the ship's crew had a tendency to chatter over radio much of the time. If you weren't scared of being overheard, you were much less cautious about using bandwidths that could potentially carry for miles. Even their encryption was very basic, just enough to ensure relative privacy from other crew members when they were having private conversations. Cracking an encrypted transmission was considered very rude, and a terrible invasion of privacy, on top of being a lot of work that generally resulted in finding out the most banal of gossip. Most mechs, if they weren't actively engaged in espionage, would completely respect even the most basic of encryption.

But a Decepticon could crack their chatter in about two astroseconds.

Socket, who was stout, short, and transformed into a small truck-like vehicle, stood in the middle of the bridge. He had grease up to his elbows and more smeared on one cheek. The mechanic had been working on the generators for close to an hour -- while stasis had frozen them in time for four million years, they'd apparently been shut down for several months before the crew had run out of their own fuel. He had decided to do some routine maintenance before allowing Teletraan to fire them up.

Wisely, in Bee's estimation, they had reserved enough energon for the ship to attain limited flight. The crew had correctly feared that they would be stranded for geological ages and thought that the ship might need to relocate. Unfortunately, Teletraan had not been able to react quickly enough when a small earthquake had shifted the hillside down onto the craft. The landslide had pinned the ship down, and had drastically cut the amount of solar power Teletraan had been able to harvest. He had been stuck, alone and under tens of thousands of tons of rock, for eons.

Twenty mechs working hard all day had managed to clear about a third of that overburden, and expose a good sized chunk of his hull to the sun. His batteries were barely charged, but at least it was enough to provide a jump to the generators.

"Powering up," Teletraan reported.

The vibration of engines coming online made the deck plating hum slightly under Bee's feet. Sam made a startled noise, followed by, "Cool!" as four million year old engines began to turn. Mikaela's smile was faint but real. Both were riding on him, one to a shoulder, as he did not want squishable humans underfoot while mechs raced about getting the ship operational. He could sense the sudden excitement from both humans in reaction as the ship began to come to life.

Light panels flickered on, casting the vast expanse of the bridge into golden light. Viewscreens came up next -- most were completely black, reflecting sensors still buried, but several showed images of the night-dark valley. Then life support huffed and rumbled, as fans fired up and began to circulate the air. Mechs could function for fairly long periods of time without an atmosphere, but it was certainly not comfortable. Likewise, mechs preferred temperatures at, or slightly above, human norms. The air, long chilled to the same temperature as the earth, warmed incrementally. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, Teletraan reported, "Systems are operating within normal parameters. Shall I initiate launch sequence, captain?"

"Teletraan, let's get this bird in the air." Kup slapped a friendly hand down on one of the medium-mech-sized consoles.

"Yes, sir!" Teletraan diverted power to the ship's enormous quantum engines.

An actual quantum jump was out of the question, both because Teletraan lacked the energon and because the ships' engines were just too big to be used on a planet's surface. As their previous accident showed, mistakes could happen -- and a mistake with engines the size of the Ark's could take out a chunk of planetary crust clear down to the mantle. With explosive results. They couldn't afford the risk.

However, the same engines could be used to power a semblance of flight. It was a delicate, tricky balancing act to do, and required a large chunk of Teletraan's processors, but it was certainly possible. And the odds of a disastrous accident when the engines were used that way were nil. Oh, the ship could _crash _but there wasn't enough energy in the system to take a bite out of the crust.

The hum underfoot changed in pitch as the generators began to roar. Now he could hear them, too, a familiar low rumble. And then the vibrations changed, and the ship lurched a few feet sideways. Rocks and soil slid and groaned and rattled over the hull as the craft tried to pull free of its eons-long embrace with the earth.

Bee put a hand out on a bulkhead, steadying himself. The ship could damp inertia, but that took extra power. They did not intend to move so fast that this was necessary.

Again Teletraan tried to get free. The ship's generators whined and rumbled as the engines pulled more power. Bee winced at what was undoubtedly a profligate use of energon. However, on the third attempt there was a loud groan from the ship's internal structures, and a feeling of resistance. Then a sharp jolt, several shorter rumbles, and they were _free_. The ship leaped skyward so fast that both humans exclaimed in frightened surprise.

Bee said, "Teletraan, do not forget to radio human ground control and let them know your flight path. Use the protocols I gave you."

"Already done. Systems reporting. Aft starboard impulsion engine is offline due to a power supply issue. Compensating. Hull integrity compromised; we are leaking atmosphere at a rate of 0.2%/Cybertron standard day. Non-critical electrical problem detected on deck five. Detailed report sent to Socket. All maintenance drones offline due to lack of fuel ..." The ship continued to categorize a litany of problems, none of them serious enough to interrupt the flight home.

Bumblebee interrupted the seemingly endless list of minor problems, "Teletraan? How does it _feel _to be back in the air?"

"Oh, very good sir." Teletraan returned to listing his problems for the benefit of all on the bridge.

Bee decided that was probably a protocol they had established, though he would have thought a detailed datapack would have been more efficient. Maybe Teletraan just liked to talk. Maybe Teletraan had gone four million years without talking to anyone, and felt the need now.

"Bee, want to go up to the observation deck?" Windy said. He sounded wildly excited, optics gleaming. "C'mon!"

"Captain," Bee said, gravely, "Do you mind ...?"

"Oh, go. Half the crew will end up there." Kup waved him off. "I'll be up in a minute."

Windy led them off of the bridge, through an open doorway. A thought seemed to occur to him, however, and he bounced on his toes then took off on a trot. "Oh, hold on a sec. I need to do something in my quarters -- you can tag along if you want."

Bemused, Bee followed at a walk. He had never known a ship to have personal quarters -- in fact, he'd never had personal quarters himself since he was a youngling. However, Windy went down a level and sure enough, there were Autobot-sized private rooms off a long hall. Windy's was at the end, and when he stepped through the doorway he realized just how much space the flier had. The room was designed to accomodate an average sized mech, someone Bee's size. It had several hundred square feet of floor space. The middle of the room was still open, but Windy had used the berth to build a loft for himself, making a second level. He had a Windy-sized berth, couch-like seat, view screen, and chair on the top level. The lower level had a desk, work tables, and an amazing amount of _stuff_.

Bee had never owned more than he could fit in the compartments on his legs and arms: usually a few soft cloths for cleaning his optics, some tools for field repair, and little else. He owned his guns, too, but other than that, he had very little personal property. There was just no point. Where would he keep it?

Windy had ... well, _stuff_. Knick-knacks. Art. Nebulan data cubes, and a cube viewer: likely, those were movies, though Bee didn't have the Nebulan written language among his modules, so he wasn't sure. The cubes had colorful printing on them, however, and pictures of Nebulans doing interesting and action-packed things.

There were also examples of primitive handicrafts, enough for a small museum. His walls had rugs and tapestries and paintings on them, there were ceramics and carvings and figurines scattered about on shelves, plus many photographs of a variety of locations and full of many aliens. Windy was in some and other members of the crew were prominently displayed as well. Bee set Mikaela and Sam down, and they both headed for the shelves -- Sam was clearly fascinated by the handicrafts (many of which were weapons) and Mikaela went right for the photographs.

Windy reappeared from his loft, simply jumping down to the lower level. "Sorry, I had to water my plants. I expect I won't be back for a bit, and they hadn't been watered in four million years."

Plants? Bee glanced up at the loft, noting belatedly that he did have quite a collection of ferns and orchids on a shelf under a light. They seemed to have survived the eons of stasis just fine.

"You could automate that," he suggested. He had no particular objection to keeping potted plants as a hobby, but _he _would certainly not want the responsibility of tending them regularly. This was what timers were for.

"Yeah, but I like doing it. -- Mikaela, that's t'Grethi."

Mikaela had picked up a framed print of a Nebulan man. Green skin, pale hair, but much like a human for all that. Eyes, nose, and mouth in the right place. Bipedal. Bee bent over and took a better look at the photo, and noted that the man had visible augmentation, too -- his hands were metal, and his eyes didn't look precisely organic.

Blithely, Windy continued, "t'Grethi was my ... Bee, help me out here. I'm not sure on the nuances. He was my ..." he provided a Cybertronian word that defined the relationship exactly.

Bee considered for a moment, head tilted to one side. 'Husband' wasn't right; they'd had no religious ceremony. 'Mate' implied a relationship between animals -- not a word he wanted to use. 'Lover' might well be accurate, but lacked the connotations of life-long commitment. Lover was too casual. He finally suggested, "... domestic partner?" somewhat hesitantly. That word was a bit of a euphemism, but it was as close as he could get to the Cybertronian meaning of one-who-you-chose-to-spend-a-lifetime-without-firewalls-with.

Windy frowned, clearly unhappy with that definition. English really lacked a better term, however, unless they wanted to use 'husband' ... "Maybe husband," Bee said, hesitantly. "That would normally imply religious sanction, but the common use is closer to ..." he repeated the Cybertronian word.

"Hm." Windy tilted his head. "Too bad humans can't pronounce our word. Nebulans with voice mods could."

Sam took the photo from Bee's hands, "Was he sort've like Alice?"

"No," Bee said, wondering why Sam thought the Nebulan was a Transformer. Well, he had met Alice, briefly and memorably, before Mikaela had squished her with a car and there was a certain resemblance of body type ... "He was Nebulan, if I'm guessing right. They're -- they were -- a race a bit like humans, though by the mods I can see, I'm willing to bet t'Grethi was heavily augmented for combat. Am I right, Windy?"

"Yeah, he was a soldier." Windy nodded. Then, in tones that were distinctly restrained, he added, "We were partners for almost a thousand years. He died. It was an accident. It wasn't even combat related." He ran a long-fingered hand over his head, and said, "After that, I could not stay on Nebulos any longer."

_Oh, Manywinds, _Bee thought, hearing the real pain in those simple words. _I'm so sorry._

He didn't say anything, however, because he wasn't sure if Manywinds wanted the expression of sympathy from a complete stranger. Sometimes, it was better just to bury that sort of pain. Bee had lost plenty of people -- though never anyone quite that close -- and suspected that Windy might be at the stage where he just wanted to try to be normal. No more dramatic expressions of grief. Loves were lost, life went on, such was the destiny of any race with life spans measured in geological epochs.

"C'mon," Windy said, heading out the room's enormous door -- he had to shove hard to get it to slide open, as the door was large-transformer sized and, apparently, this was deck five with the electrical malfunction. "I'll take you up to the observation deck now."

* * *

Bee stepped through the heavy blast doors and out onto the observation deck that Windy had mentioned. The ship was moving slowly, at about fifty miles an hour. The deck should have been scoured by wind, but the Ark's protective in-flight forcefield blocked even gas molecules from impacting the hull. Bee absently accessed the specs for that forcefield, then shuttered his optics in surprise a few times. The Ark wasn't armed, but it was definitely armored. He didn't think that the Decepticons had anything in their arsenal short of the guns on the Nemesis that would penetrate that shield when it was powered up to full strength.

He padded to the edge of the deck, where a waist high railing provided a convenient place to lean. The humans and Windy followed, and just peered through the railing's mesh grill at the terrain below. They were gliding over a series of peaks at the moment; the tallest point was even with their altitude. They were not that high in altitude compared to the surrounding terrain, but it was a moonless night -- he doubted anyone would be able to make out more than a shadow against the stars.

He did not think his humans could see anything of the land below, but he personally found the view breathtaking. It was rugged, mostly wild country, divided by only a handful of roads and a few small human settlements. It reminded him of Cybertron's remotest regions.

"Terrain's changed a lot. It was much wetter when I was awake last," Windy said, beside him. He partially transformed and propelled himself up to the railing with a whoosh of his engines. He caught the edge of the beam with one hand, transformed back to protoform in midair, and dropped neatly onto the rail with his legs hanging over the edge. Bumblebee was consistently surprised by how natural Windy's flight was. "It's gorgeous -- wow, the humans are really social, aren't they? They cluster in big groups."

Flagstaff was behind them; Windy was peering backwards towards it.

"Mostly. Some like to be solitary. It just depends on the human." He paused, then added, "That is a fairly small settlement, Windy. We will see one very large one, Las Vegas, on our way to the base."

"The primates I was studying clustered in groups of five to ten. Fifteen was a big band." He tucked a leg to his chest, and said to the humans below, "Mikaela, Sam, how big are your social groups?"

"Huh?" Mikaela blinked and squinted up at Windy's location.

"People you regularly, I believe the word is, 'hang out' with. Count the Autobots in that." Windy regarded them with an intent expression that Bumblebee knew the two humans couldn't see in the dark. Windy's faceplate, with warm electrical parts, fairly glowed to Bee's eyes. From the standpoint of his human friends, a strange mech had just asked them out of the dark, and out of the blue, a rather odd question.

Bumblebee reached a hand out and flicked Windy in the head with one finger. "Your science geekery is showing."

Mikaela's giggle said she'd heard that "Tink!" even if she didn't know precisely what Bee had done.

Windy rubbed his temple where Bee had just tagged him, and said, with a huff, "Sorry. Just curious to know if they have similar social structures and are more crowded due to pressure on resources, or if they've evolved to be more gregarious overall. -- What's the reproduction rate on humans, anyway?"

Bee covered his face with his hand, but chuckled. "Depends on the country and the timeframe. Look it up online when you get your air card installed. My humans are unlikely to have those facts memorized."

"Am I being ... culturally insensitive? The primates I knew were far less, umm, developed." Manywinds suddenly sounded unsure of himself. He shuffled his wings nervously, and his optics clicked closed for a moment. "There was some debate if they should truly be classified as 'sentient' or 'animal' species."

"You're being a little forward," Mikaela offered. "Not really insensitive, but you're asking questions that are somewhat, I don't know, odd?"

"But they're questions that help me understand humans better." Windy hopped down off the railing, making Mikaela startle when he landed beside her. "And I'm afraid I'm cursed with far, far too much curiosity. And, if I'm understanding the word correctly, I _am _a geek. The others are always claiming I'm a little, I guess, clueless?"

Bee sat down so he would be closer to their height. "It's okay, Windy. There are far worse things to be. And as far as socially clueless goes, that describes half the Autobot team -- I wouldn't worry about it too much. We tend to make allowances for one another, and accept each other's quirks, as long as someone isn't behaving in an outright sociopathic manner. Rampant curiosity is far from the worst thing we have to deal with the other 'bots ..."

Sam's snicker told him that Sam, at least, understood the truth of that statement.

* * *

An hour later, Bee's comlink crackled to life as he came within the limits of its range; they were still a hundred miles and two hours out from the base. Optimus, sounding only amused, said, _:Bee? How big is the flier you're bringing me?:_

_:Is he on radar now?:_

_:He's on radar, and the Sec Def is screaming at me on the phone.:_

_:Sorry, boss. I didn't want to risk clueing in the Decepticons that I'd found a Cybertronian starship.:_

_:Sure that's not a small moonlet?: _Ratchet's voice, acidic with annoyance at what was probably causing interruption to his work in the med bay, made Bee grin. _:If it were any bigger, you could put satellites in orbit around it.:_

_:It's the size of a small football stadium,: _Bee said, helpfully. _:And it's got a very nicely appointed med bay, Ratchet, so be nice.:_

_:Good grief.: _Optimus sounded disbelieving. _:I won't ask for details over the radio, but -- good job, Bee. Thank you for your caution. As I'll explain in the morning briefing, you may have just saved quite a few lives.:_

* * *

The rumble of the ship's engines, as perceived from below, was a bass so deep it felt like an earthquake. Dust was vibrated from the ground as the ship eased lower, drifting toward the earth a few feet at a time. The watching humans covered their ears in what was probably ineffectual attempt at damping that thunderous noise.

Optimus stood well back with the team, and every Autobot on the base (even Sunstreaker, strapped to the back of a flatbed army truck by his brother) watched, along with all humans who weren't on active duty. The ship had arrived at dawn. It was a veritable a flying citadel, nearly a quarter of a mile long and wide, a hundred and fifty feet high, and shaped like a diamond. Underneath the ship was matte black, and the top gleamed with ebony solar cells. The only markings were silver lettering in a few strategic locations. Three of four engines glowed fiercely red underneath the ship with emitted heat that was visible clear into the spectrum of light that humans could perceive.

Three yards from the ground, the ship sprouted a forest of massive landing feet, and neatly touched down. The engine cut out, and echoing silence fell. All was quiet now save for the ticking of cooling metal,the groan of settling framework, and a much softer thrum of sizable energon generators. Then the generators quit. A moment later, solar wings unfurled from the sides of the ship like flower petals. They were vast black panels, designed to increase the ship's ability to collect energy.

All was not normal, however, with appearance of the ship. He noted with bemusement that was a small tree caught on a sensor array. Additionally, the ship was _filthy_, covered in clumps of red mud and dust. It had very clearly been buried. Optimus smiled, and leaned over to Ratchet next to him, and said, "I think I know what we can punish the twins with, the next time they misbehave."

"Yes, that ship could use a bath," Ratchet, who knew exactly what Optimus was referring to said, "Which set?"

"Either."

Behind them, Epps hummed the opening bars to the 'Close Encounters' music. Optimus smiled, hearing the humor in that reaction, then he turned his attention to the insignia on the side of the ship. Through the sticky, clinging dirt he deciphered Cybertronian glyphs that meant, essentially, _Organic Life Research and Transport Vessel, onboard spark-computer Teletraan, oath-sworn to Vermillion Prime._

_That is a very old and famed ship_, Optimus realized, just as an external hatch whooshed open. A ramp unfolded and Bee stuck his head out, chirped something in Cybertronian that Optimus didn't quite catch, then withdrew. The ship's captain appeared in the doorway: a military-design mech, brown and white, with no visible weapons and an easy smile on his face. He had a Nebulan style faceplate, as Optimus himself did. And his expression of curiosity mixed with caution was very human; Bee had probably already given them the appropriate language modules.

Grimlock, standing behind Optimus, suddenly shifted in place. When Optimus looked back, Grimlock was visibly on alert. Optimus, who _did _trust Grim's instincts, if not always his motives, quietly powered up his weapons. Grimlock was still unarmed himself. Fixing Grim's weapons mounts had been low priority compared to other repairs given that Grimlock basically _was _a weapon on two legs. That quiet action echoed through the ranked soldiers, some of them probably not even realizing why they were activating their battle circuits but knowing the rest of the team was suddenly bristling with weapons as cannons lifted out of armor and capacitors began to charge.

The captain stopped, optics widening, as he undoubtedly picked up the power signatures of twenty-one Autobots who'd just gone into offensive mode, as well as the sudden appearance of normally retracted weaponry. "I'm unarmed," he said, cautiously, displaying empty hands and flaring the armor on his forearms to display empty weapons mounts.

"Stand down," Optimus said, to the team, and _most _of them did. Sideswipe's blades were still humming behind him. Magnus hissed something at Sideswipe, and reluctantly, he put his swords away. Optimus said, calmly, and still wondering why Grimlock was quivering, "I apologize for the caution, Captain. We are rather used to being ambushed and betrayed. My name is Optimus Prime, and I am the leader here. I hope you won't take our wariness as rudeness. It is merely experience speaking."

"Kup!" Grimlock suddenly shouted, taking a step forward. Optimus glanced back at him again. A couple of his mechs bristled again with weaponry: Sideswipe and Ironhide.

"I am Captain Kup," the mech just looked confused now. "We are not a threat to you."

"Me Grimlock _know _you!" Grimlock broke into a ground-shaking run, ducking agilely around Optimus. "Kup! Storyteller Kup! Me know him Kup! No hurt Kup!"

Kup's optics widened as twenty tons of metallic dinosaur charged in his direction. He took one step backwards, and bumped into a maroon mech with the chevron of a medic emblazoned on his forehead. The medic backed up faster, and both of them ran into Bee, who calmly braced himself and stood his ground, pushing the medic forward with both hands on his shoulders. Bee looked distinctly impatient. Kup crouched, clearly defensive, moving with experience and agility, but also very obviously convinced he was about to be smashed flat.

Bee said dryly, and loud enough for his words to carry, "Don't worry, he only bites Decepticons."

Grimlock slid to a halt, then glanced over his shoulder, trying clearly trying to figure out why the two mechs were backing away from him. Optimus could almost see the thought go through Grimlock's head, 'Is there somebody _behind _me that's freaking them out?' Then it seemed to occur to him that he'd just scared the crap out of the newcomers simply by charging at them in alt mode, because he covered his eyes with his hands, shook his head, and said in a somewhat muffled tone, "Grim _badass _but not to Kup! Grim like storyteller Kup!"

"I think," the medic said to the captain, "that he does know you, Kup."

"Grimlock know. Kup know Grimlock ..." Grimlock gave his designation, then, in Cybertronian, ending with, "... Grimlock Prime."

"That thing is a _Prime_?" The medic said, in absolute disbelief, in Cybertronian. "It can barely talk!"

"Not thing!" Grimlock sounded really offended to Optimus's ears, and his optics narrowed. Optimus didn't blame him for that reaction. The word in Cybertronian that the medic had used implied that Grimlock was a drone -- a 'thing' with no spark. Optimus was pretty pissed on Grimlock's behalf.

Kup snapped, "Grip, apologize."

Grimlock recovered first, however, and said with considerable sarcasm, "That thing _medic_? Medic not recognize voice processor glitch? Lousy slagging medic."

"I'll have you know ..." The medic reacted with indignation.

"Grip!" Kup snapped at his medic, "Be _nice_!"

With a mutter, and no apology, the medic fell silent. Bee, behind Grip, rolled his optics in disbelief. _:I promise, Optimus, the rest of the crew is much more tolerable. I think the medic is having a little bit of an adjustment reaction, however.:_

Clearly offended by Grip's words, Grimlock spun about and started to stomp off. Optimus knew he'd probably go sulk down by the river, and he would be unbearable for days. Optimus, resigned to trouble between the two, murmured to Ratchet at his right, "And thus a great friendship is forged ..."

Ratchet snorted.

Kup, however, was regarding Grimlock with a curiously focused expression. Grimlock hadn't stalked more than ten paces away when Kup said, "Wait!"

Grimlock turned back to fix both Kup and Grip with a rather hostile look.

"You were just a sparkling." Kup relaxed a little, and took a step forward. "I apologize for my medic. We are all a bit out of sorts. This is not the world we hoped to wake to."

Grimlock tilted his head to one side, regarding Kup. Clearly, he was weighing Kup's words. Then he huffed a sigh, "Not sparkling now. Warrior. Prime. Grimlock sorry for scary. Used to mechs know Grimlock."

"Aw, c'mon, Grimlock. Cut 'em a break. Half the team would run from you if you charged them." Bee gave Grip another shove from behind, trying to get him to clear the gangway so the rest of the crew could disembark. He explained, to Grip, impatiently, "Grim is a Prime, he does have some significant vocal processor damage, and he's not nearly the badass he pretends to be."

Grimlock snorted, "Says you."

Bee ignored that comment, which was likely in response to the 'not a badass' reference, and got Grip moving finally. At the bottom of the steps he ducked around Grip and headed for Optimus, and in doing so walked past Grimlock. As he did, he played the first few notes of _Bad Moon Rising _and patted Grimlock on the shoulder_. _Grim grunted in reaction to that, but seemed considerably less irritated when he turned back to Kup. Optimus reviewed the first stanza of lyrics to the tune and smiled; Bee's sense of ironic humor was truly one of the better ways to defuse Grimlock. Grimlock huffed again, then said, to Kup, "Yes, sparkling. Very young. Remember you. Storyteller to sparklings. Still tell stories?"

"You _bet _he tells stories!" A tiny mech with black and purple wings, and metallic green stripes on his face, trotted after Bee. He paused to look way up at Grimlock and added, "Don't eat Grip. He's an afthead, but he's our afthead and we need him."

Grimlock regarded the little flier out of one eye, head tilted to the side so he could see down at him. "Okay. No eat afthead. Clog fuel filters."

More mechs were coming out of the ship, and no few of them laughed at the comment. The little flier tossed Grimlock a grin of acknowledgement at the humor of his words, then followed close on Bumblebee's heels as Bee approached Optimus. Kup was also following Bee, and Grimlock brought up the rear, still looking a bit sulky, but at least not like he was ready to kill someone.

Ratchet leaned over to Optimus just before they came in earshot and murmured, "They're all civilians except for the Captain. Holy Primus, Optimus. What are we going to do with nineteen civilians?"

"Train them into soldiers," Optimus replied, "This is their war too."

"Slag," Ratchet sighed. "I imagine you'll assign me that aftwit with the medic's chevrons?"

"Look at it this way, my friend: he comes with a fully appointed medical bay. You can fix Sunstreaker."

Ratchet's response was downright profane even by Ratchet's standards of creative obscenity. Optimus chuckled quietly, and then forced himself to assume a straight face as Kup approached. "Captain, perhaps we should begin our greetings all over again. I am Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, and I do welcome you to our operational base here."

The captain had a small frown on his face as he glanced about the base. However, his words were civil, "I am honored by your welcome, Prime. Bumblebee speaks highly of you."

Optimus made a small gesture in Bee's direction. "Bumblebee has worked with me for many millennia, and I count him as one of my friends as well as one of my most trusted officers. I can match any kind words Bee has for me with praise I would have for him."

Kup glanced at Bumblebee and nodded, as if making a decision. "Bumblebee has provided us with considerable information on the situation. However, before I make any final decisions about the future of the ship and crew, may I speak to you in private about the situation?"

"That would be a wise action on your part," Optimus nodded, pleased that Kup had no inclination towards rash actions. "Certainly, though I would prefer to include Ironhide and Ratchet in any discussion we have. We have a staff meeting planned for nine AM local time, which is three Earth hours away. I believe I can begin to give you a current situation report, plus extensive history files for your later review, before that time."

"Thank you, sir."

Optimus regarded the crew for a moment. They stood mostly clumped together, except for the little flier, who was hanging notably close to Bee's heels. He lifted his voice to address them, "Crew of the Ark, again, I welcome you to our base of operations. If you will follow Rodimus Prime and Magnus, they will show you around and acquaint you with the base Rules and Regulations and give you more information about our operation."


	27. Chapter 27

Kup followed the three Primes across the base, eyes narrowing and a sense of dread growing as he walked. Oh, the Primes were okay, he'd sized them up in a hurry and decided these three were less threatening put together than Vermin had been on a good day (though Grimlock, on the other hand, could give a mech nightmares). But the _base_ left him feeling terribly lost.

It was an incredible letdown.

He had been expecting something akin to Iacon: shimmering towers full of research labs, vast barracks of soldiers in training, and well-appointed professional fighters bursting out of every seam of the place. Instead, their base of operations was located on a windswept and desolate field, apparently on loan from the local organic sentients, and he'd never seen a more rag-tag bunch of mechs. And there were so few of them. It wasn't even a _large _rag-tag army. He had thought at first that he was being greeted by a battered group of officers, but it had turned out that every mech at the base had turned out to meet them, including some carried out of the medical bay. The arrive of the ship was seen as so important that even the wounded were on hand to see the Ark land.

There were only twenty-one soldiers, _including _the Primes.

Not one soldier was a hundred percent operational, either. Optimus himself had a chunk of his chest plate missing, and his armor was battered and dented and slowly healing. Kup had quickly scanned the mech and noted he had his repair speed dialed down severely, and was low on energon. Undoubtedly, he was conserving fuel and prioritizing auto-repairs for the most critical elements. Dents in armor weren't as important as fixing singed circuits.

The tall red and blue mech had to be in quite a bit of pain, but he wasn't showing it visibly. Maybe he was just used to it. In Kup's time, any soldier with that much damage would have been confined to a med bay. A Prime injured like that would have had his own wing of a hospital working nonstop to effect repairs.

_They don't even have the resources to fix their Primes properly. Pit, what hell have I woken to?_

The buildings were small and cramped by Cybertronian standards. They were also not armored: just sheets of tin bolted to a skeletal framework of steel beams. One good fission bomb, and the whole place would be a smoking crater and they'd be minus six Primes. This scared him, particularly in light of the fact that the Decepticons had recently attempted just such an assault.

Optimus led the way towards one of the hangars. Several humans were working on a project by the door. They were offloading some sort of machine with the word "Pepsi" emblazoned across the front from the back of a drone vehicle. The humans looked up as Optimus approached, and one shouted, "Hey! Chief! No rocket launchers in this one, we promise!"

Optimus chuckled, and altered his course a bit to approach them. The five human soldiers looked up at the Autobots, and Kup was impressed by the fact that they stood their ground without flinching. Two climbed up on the back of their vehicle, a move that rendered them less than waist height to Optimus and elbow height to Kup. Optimus said, of the machine, "Perhaps I should make sure ...?"

"Maybe we should just shoot this one, too," Ironhide said, ominously. His pulse cannon began to whine.

One of the soldiers still on the ground jumped in front of the machine, arms spread in defense. "Noooo! Whatever did Pepsi do to you?"

Kup glanced from the soldier to Ironhide, and back. No fear. None. They were joking feely with one another, even after Ironhide had powered up his weapon.

"Seriously," another soldier said, in a far more sober tone, "we had Wheeljack look at it. It's just a Pepsi machine, Big Boss. We wouldn't put you in danger again. Though if you want to have a peek at it, I do have the key to open the machine's door."

"I'll trust Wheeljack's judgment," Optimus said, smiling, "though if that machine so much as _looks _at anyone wrong, Ironhide has my permission to kill it. Men, this is Captain Kup, by the way. He's in charge of the ship."

Optimus proceeded to introduce the soldiers by name and rank. The soldiers beamed. Kup wasn't sure why they were so happy, though he did note that they all seemed to be fairly low status soldiers. Optimus added, "And I do thank you for replacing the soda machine. I am certain that it will be appreciated by the humans who work here, as we do not have climate control in the hangars."

After they left the soldiers behind, Kup said, "What was that about?"

"Evil Decepticon Mountain Dew Machine of Death tried to assassinate Optimus," Ratchet gestured with one hand at Optimus's charred chest. "And nearly killed Wheelie, our only youngling."

Ironhide grunted at Wheelie's name. "Kid saved Optimus's life. He's still a Decepticreep turncoat, but at least he's a useful Decepticreep."

"To clarify what they're grousing about, the previous soda machine was a Decepticon in disguise. He shot me with a rocket launcher at close range, but Wheelie knocked his aim off. Wheelie was badly damaged in the fight. And yes, he's a former Decepticon, though I would hope he has firmly established his loyalty now."

"To you, anyway," Ironhide said, but he was smiling. "I'll reserve judgment on him for a little while longer. His interests are too conflicted and he's so very young."

Kup considered the three of them as they walked into the hangar, feeling a bit more comfortable. The base was dismayingly crude and impoverished, but he _liked _these leaders.

Optimus was indisputably the base commander; Kup could have picked him out of a crowd without being told who he was in advance. He wore command like others wore paint. It was integral to the core of his spark, and written in every line of his dignified bearing. He had been a Prime, according to Bee's files, for a very long time and Bumblebee's profound respect for him was clearly echoed in the way the others related to him. Kup would also have known him to be a Prime from the moment he first spoke.

Ironhide was all soldier. A weapons specialist by training, he had arms that made Bumblebee's cannon and rocket launchers look like target guns. Kup viewed those guns with both appreciation, and no small amount of bitter awareness of the reality he had woken to. Bumblebee had said guns like his were meant for killing other mechs. Ironhide's weapons could take down a battleship. What the hell had he been fighting, to need cannons like that?

"You've seen some action," Ironhide said to Kup as Ratchet tried to shut the hangar doors. The door stuck, and Ratchet cursed at it and kicked the wall hard enough to shake the building. The door was either jostled or possibly cowed into moving, and began to rattle downward again.

Ironhide's words were a statement, not a question, but Kup answered anyway, "Not against other mechs, thank Primus. In fact, just before I got stranded here, the empire had concluded a war with an organic race that was sending robotic drones against us. Stupid drones, but effective, and prolific."

Kup glanced around the inside of the hangar, which had catwalks up high for human convenience in speaking to vastly taller Autobots. It looked like there were some offices recently suspended up high, as well, either for smaller mechs or human use. Then he added, "I don't know if you still have the records in your data modules, or if it's been so long that war is now considered irrelevant. We had colonized a moon in their system, around a gas giant, and they objected and decided to be territorial about it. They didn't even know we were there until we had a sizable settlement established. They were not using the moon, and probably would not need it for many millennia, if ever. They were fairly sensitive to radiation and were oxygen breathers ... I've yet to see 02 breathers establish any sort of sizable manufacturing installation on a methane world ... at any right, Vermillion decided to fight back, and the war lasted around nine thousand years, off and on."

"Ah." Optimus nodded. "It's in my memory modules, if you're speaking of the war of Eld!kt. The organics eventually decided trade was smarter than fighting, didn't they?"

Kup huffed a sigh, human style, wind puffing out his vents. "Yes, because we finally got fed up with a barrage of missiles and drones every time a good launch window happened for the organics' planet. They killed a number of us, including my second in command, may Primus hold his Spark. With our Prime's authorization, we finally stopped slagging drones and took some strategic cities in an assault. It was an ugly fight. They were fairly technologically advanced, much like Nebulos, and we lost a lot more mechs. But at least we had peace after that, on both sides."

"Fighting organics," Ratchet murmured, sounding a little scandalized. "We try to avoid hurting organics."

"Yeah, well, these organics were killing us." Kup shot a sharp look in the direction of the third Prime in the room. "As far as I'm concerned, the 'don't kill the organics' ethos doesn't apply when they're the ones with the hot cannons and they're repeatedly attacking without provocation. I can remember plenty of times in my life when I've been outgunned by the squishies."

Ratchet snorted, to Kup's surprise, and said, "Hnnh, yes, I'd be tempted to shoot back in that case, too. Perhaps sooner than you did."

"We do not use the term 'squishy' to describe organics," Optimus rumbled at him.

"Well, I do, when I've spent most of a millennia being shot at by them," he growled back, a little annoyed by the correction. "I'll reserve the polite terms for the squishies that aren't trying to slag my aft. I could tell you stories about the little beasts that'd strip your bolts."

Optimus sighed, sounding merely resigned. "Humans are not beasts, and I'll ask you to remember that."

Kup thought of the two organics who accompanied Bumblebee, and nodded curtly. "So far, humans seem much more reasonable."

"You were the commanding officer, weren't you?" Ironhide said. "I'm reviewing those files now. Nice tactics with taking control of those hydroelectric dams. Saved a lot of lives on both sides, I'd warrant."

He wasn't too humble to say, "Vermilian was pleased with us. He gave me a number of commendations and a retirement from the military. I had earned a post as a teacher of history at Iacon. It was there that I met Grimlock. He was a student in one of my classes."

Kup considered his memories of Grimlock for a moment before stating, with a rather fond smile, "He was the most argumentative and blockheaded student I had ever known."

"That's our Grim," Ratchet confirmed, "You might add loyal, moral, and courageous a fault to that description, though. He may piss us off, but he's one of the 'bots I trust most at my back during a fight, when it comes right down to it."

Kup nodded. He was utterly unsurprised that Grimlock had become a soldier, even though his original purpose had been explorer. "He hasn't changed at all, then."

"Probably not." Ratchet sounded downright cheerful.

Ironhide added, "He's too blasted stubborn. I suspect he's been set in his ways since roughly 1.2 astroseconds after coming online."

And Optimus shook his head, and contributed, "He is the only person I have ever known who has actually made stubbornness seem a virtue."

They were, Kup realized, very old friends, these three. There was banter and familiarity between them. Optimus was clearly the undisputed leader, but all three seemed to share a deep level of trust and affection. That affection was clearly extended to their troops, even the human ones, who had viewed the Autobot leaders without fear or wariness.

"And yet," Optimus said to Kup, "you retired and then ended up captain of a starship."

"I asked for the position," he said, gruffly. "Don't get me wrong. I love working with younglings. But command, it's in my spark. When I heard that Vermillion was intending to send a crew of civilians out in a research vessel, I practically begged him on hands and knees for the position of captain. A chance to explore, to research, to _learn, _without shooting things up or killing anything, or being shot at? It was the best job I could ever imagine."

"I can understand the appeal," Optimus said, voice dry. "Sometimes I'm not sure what's worse: being shot at, or the necessity of returning fire when you'd rather not kill the targets."

_Yes_, Kup decided, in that moment. _I will follow you, Optimus._

He called them 'squishies' because if he called them 'people' he would mourn too much. What was done was done. What was the point of guilt over past actions that had been_ wholly _justifiable? Optimus clearly understood that returning fire to save your own spark was sometimes both necessary and regrettable, and Kup, decision made, nodded curtly. "So. Oaths. I can give you mine, and Teletraan is willing, and I think that Manywinds has already told Bumblebee he'll join you. Do you want me to talk to the rest of the crew, or do you want to interview them personally?"

Optimus didn't hesitate. "I would prefer to speak to them directly, Captain. And once we have their oaths, we will shuffle personnel around. I am going to need Teletraan immediately -- as soon as he can refine enough energon for launch, I have a mission for him."

"You are aware that the Ark is unarmed." Kup was a bit concerned about that. He liked Teletraan, and did not want to see the Ark destroyed and Teletraan killed.

"It is a rescue mission, sadly." Optimus stared off into space, over Kup's head for a moment, seeing Primus-new-what. Finally, he added, "I will need you to get fifteen of my soldiers plus some neutrals off a moon before the Decepticons kill them. They stand no chance against the Decepticon forces our enemy intends to send against them. Neither surrender or defense are viable options; that leaves, simply, retreat."

"Prime ..." Ironhide said, "We shed lives for that moon. You can't be contemplating giving it up."

Optimus turned his attention to his weapons specialist, and handed him something, which turned out to be a small data cube, glossy black, with the Decepticon emblem on it.

"What's this?" Ironhide hesitated before scanning it.

"A gift from Fangface," Optimus said, then pressed his lips together for a moment. To Kup's eyes, the leader looked clearly unhappy. He added, finally, "It's a breakdown of his troop locations and numbers. And our numbers, as well."

"Fangface is the Decepticon leader, correct?" Kup said, "Why would he give you that sort of information?"

Ratchet ignored Kup's question, and told Ironhide, in a dry tone, "Don't worry, 'Hide. Optimus had me scan it thoroughly for viruses, and I had Elita double check my work. There was only one virus, it was very obvious, and Fang had included the message 'I'm evil, so I have to at least make a token effort to frag your processors' in the code. He also said 'Hi, Hatchet, you may need this,' and gave me his personal cell phone number."

Optimus shook his head. "Make sure the other officers get that number, Ratchet. He's giving us a line of communication, and very deliberately so. Doesn't mean he won't attack us, but it may very well be useful in the future."

Ironhide held the cube up to eye level and interfaced with it using his optics, which was one of the safer ways to download information from a potentially corrupted source. After a moment, he blinked, and said grimly, "_Primus_."

"The way I see it, Megatron and Starscream, Shockwave and Soundwave, they were fighting for revenge, or power, or hate. Fang is fighting to win." Ratchet took the cube from Ironhide's hands and passed it to Kup. "-- Kup, you should see this if you're going to fight with us. It's not too late to reconsider."

Optimus added to Ratchet's statement, "Fang gave me that cube so I would know precisely where we stand. Starscream spent the last tens of millennia searching for the Allspark, conquering planets, and trying to kill _me_. Fangface ... plans to end the war, I think, and he's got the troops to do it simply by running over the top of us."

Kup accessed the data, and felt his spark contract in his chest. For every single Autobot, there were ten better equipped Decepticons and twenty support mechs. The Autobots had two battleships, and three transport ships, and a handful of light couriers. The Decepticons had scores. Worse -- far worse, by his estimation -- was the total numbers of mechs. _We've lost over ninety-nine percent of our population. _It was a sobering, shattering revelation.

"We knew we were outnumbered," Optimus said, quietly. "We've known that for a very long time. One of the problems with being outnumbered to this degree, however, is that we lack espionage and surveillance capabilities. I had not realized how very bad it was until Fangface gave me this."

Ironhide said quietly, "Are you certain this is accurate?"

"What I can verify is accurate, 'Hide." Optimus's voice was the only noise in the room. "He is likely going to ask us to surrender."

"Reminds me of the time I led twenty mechs against a Quintesson space bridge installation, that time we were at war with the Quints." Kup spoke up, causing all three Primes to look at him.

"Did you win?" Ratchet asked, sounding curious.

"Nah." Kup shrugged. "Not that time. The Quints are pretty tough. We fought 'em to a standstill, though, and I had some great stories to tell after we got away, about the damage we caused 'em. Stellar Prime kept us busy doing hit and run raids. We kept it pit-slagging expensive for 'em, right up until the time the treaty was signed. Helped with the concessions, you know. Our orders were to blow the slag out of anything expensive, and avoid excess casualties, because we didn't want to worsen the blood feud. Just make the cost/benefit analysis fall on the side of peace."

Ratchet snorted. "Unfortunately, the Decepticons are not that rational. Surrender is not an option."

"Primus, no!" Ironhide agreed.

Optimus was silent, but his eyes held a steely glint that spoke of a stubborn refusal to bow, no matter how overwhelming the odds.

"So what else do I need to know?" Kup asked. It wasn't the first time he'd been on the losing side of a conflict. Sometimes, tables could be turned unexpectedly.

Optimus shuttered his optics twice, then said, "Yes. -- Kup, you wanted a situation report. I am preparing a detailed history of the conflict as we speak. I would understand, in light of this news, if you elect to avoid siding with us. You may be able to escape undetected and head for remote parts of the galaxy until the conflict is over. However, I would appreciate if you would help us ... it will save lives."

"Nah. Already said I was joining up. I'll give my crew the option of skipping out, but I'm not sure where they'd go. Teletraan is on board with me on this, so it's not like they could get offworld." Kup shrugged. "I'm in, and he's in, and most of the rest of us will probably join. And a rescue mission we can do."

* * * * *

Elita groaned, and eased herself up onto a berth as her partially healed and imperfectly repaired legs sent a multitude of painful error messages to her processors. Ratchet had just returned from a conference with the ship's new captain, and had fixed her with a dangerously pissed look when he'd found her on her feet, and picking at the remnants of a damaged dataport on her wrist with a screwdriver. "Ratchet, I swear, I'm getting too damned old for this war. This is the sixth time you've had to put me back together from broken bits and pieces and it never gets any easier."

"You need to learn to dodge better," he said, gruffly, as he bent and caught her ankles and lifted her legs up. "How's that knee?"

"Still unstable enough to ping my processor with a critical error every time I put my full weight on it, and I had to add oil twice this morning. You're going to need to rebuild the whole joint, like you did my femur struts." She reached down and poked at the armor covering the offending body part. It popped open and Ratchet's surprisingly gentle fingers began to probe at the damaged joint. Lubricant was leaking everywhere. She'd taken a direct hit to the legs from a pulse cannon and the joint's seals were cracked and distorted. "I finally just killed the sensory node."

"That's an unwise thing to do," a sharp voice said, from behind them. "You should not ignore an error like that. The damage could become far worse."

Elita twisted around to see who had spoken and discovered that it was the civilian medic, Grip. She narrowed her eyes at him. He hadn't impressed her from the beginning, and that comment had not helped. Ratchet's faceplate tightened in matching displeasure, but he remained focused on her knee. He appeared to be taking measurements of the gap between parts. She wondered absently if he'd try to machine a new joint or reshape her current one to try for a better seal.

Grip continued, "And how do you even have access to those codes? You should not be able to turn that sort of node off yourself. Only medics have those codes." Grip stared disapprovingly at her, apparently oblivious to both her scowl and the nature of the medic whose bay he had just walked into.

Elita lifted an optic ridge at him, but it was Ratchet who snapped without looking up, "The damage can't be much worse than needing a total knee replacement. If Elita wants to shut down her pain receptors, it doesn't bother me one bit. There's no need for warning pain when the joint is damaged beyond the point of no return. And as far as knowing the codes go, Elita is the best programmer in the army, with a specialty in processor core software."

Her heart fell at his words. He'd obviously come to the same conclusion she had, which was that she needed a replacement, not a repair. That meant more time and more parts of her made from substandard metals.

"This is your med bay?" Grip looked around the building, ignoring Ratchet's sharp rebuke.

"Such as it is." Ratchet was furiously tense. Elita had seen him calmer on his way into battle. For all that, however, his hands remained gentle as he reached for a bottle of lubricant and a syringe and flexible tubing, then swiftly but painlessly refilled the reservoir of fluid above the knee joint. She couldn't do it better herself; she tended to end up wincing when she handled her own refills.

"Oye, he's in for it now ..." Sunstreaker, on a berth behind Elita, murmured. "'Lita, I'll bet you ten credits the Hatchet throws a wrench before this is over."

"Be quiet, you." She shot Sunstreaker a deadly glare. Hound, on the third occupied table, chuckled softly but said nothing himself. Ratchet, without looking at Grip, gently bent her knee. She couldn't help the flinch as metal ground on metal even with the fresh refill of oil. The whole joint was distorted.

Grip's eyes scanned her briefly, then Sunstreaker, and finished with Hound. She was pretty sure she had just been medically scanned, as well as given a visual once over. Grip confirmed this when he said, "How many times have you been this injured?"

"Six, since I had a total rebuild several millennia ago." She tried to meet his eyes, but he was staring at her knee. "Ratchet's generally brilliant when it comes to repairs."

"This is your med bay?" Grip repeated, turning his attention to Sunstreaker, who met his gaze with a flat, cold, deadly glare. Sunny had been in a particularly foul mood since waking.

"You'd be amazed at the creative uses you can find for an arc welder and a cutting torch," Ratchet snapped. He closed her armor with a firm shove; the electrical and sensory lines were cut to that plate and she was only aware it was shut by the sharp _click_ of the latch catching.

Sunstreaker snickered, hearing the threat to Grip in that statement, and Elita rolled her optics. Grip, however, seemed oblivious to the idea that Ratchet might use said implements on _him_. He padded further into the med bay, then looked up at the ceiling and said with disdain, "The roof leaks."

"Yes."

"And the voltage is 220. You're using an electric welder with 220 volt AC to make strut repairs?" Grip's optic ridges rose, and he shot a look again at Elita's knee, where new struts had been attached to the damaged joints.

"I have access to a plasma welder when I need it, but it's currently being used on an F22 with a crack in the fuselage," Ratchet said, with deadly steel in his voice. "And if you're done taking inventory of my med bay's failings you might volunteer the use of _your _facilities, which I understand are sufficient to get my soldiers on their feet again swiftly."

"I had planned to see the Primes first in medical," Grip said, absently, as he turned a sharp eye on the shelf of parts, most of which were salvage or make-do human made bits.

"Have you _talked _to the Primes about that?" Ratchet folded his arms, even as Elita winced. The two of them were not going to get off to a good start, that much was clear. "_This _Prime puts a priority on getting soldiers back into fighting shape. Priority for repairs is Elita, Hound, then Sunstreaker, in that order, because Elita and Hound are going to be much easier to fix than Sunny. After that I want to repair Optimus's shoulder and 'Hide's battle damage from three weeks ago. Then Hot Shot has two bad power cells. Then I'd like to get my assistants in better shape, so nobody offlines from neglect at a bad point during our next emergency. That means First Aid needs two processor core mounts repaired, and I need to replace all of Wheeljack's coolant valves because his are even older than Bee's and Bee had one stick open during the last fight ..."

Grip started to say something, but Ratchet just raised his voice and spoke over him, "... and then I have a long list of additional repairs. Ironhide has three cracked armor clips on his thigh. Arcee's pink unit has a lubricant leak. Bluestreak's comlink is fritzing on certain bandwidths and I think his antenna's loose ..."

"... not that anyone is complaining about that ..." Sunstreaker muttered.

Ratchet snagged a wrench up off a table and threatened Sunny with it.

"It's _true_," Sunny protested.

Ratchet growled, "If you weren't in pieces, you _would _be when I was done with you, Sunny. Bluestreak's issues are off limits and you _know _it. And you know exactly _why._"

He set the wrench back down with a click, then turned back to Grip. Who promptly said, "Were it my decision, I'd fix the mech with no legs or arms first. He's definitely the worst off."

"It's not your decision." Ratchet said, shortly. "Tactical triage. Elita and Hound can be back battle-ready faster than Sunstreaker can."

Grip regarded Sunstreaker for a long moment, then said, "Assuming specs haven't changed significantly, we have a couple dozen protoform shells in the hold of the ship. Why not just do complete swap for all three?"

"You. Have. Shells." Ratchet's eyes narrowed at Grip; Elita knew that expression well; it was his not-suffering-fools-gladly look. "Complete shells."

"Yes, of course, it's standard to have some on every mission, in case someone is hurt, and we'd swap out their cores and spark long before they got to the state that your soldiers are in now." Grip sounded nonplussed. "Don't you carry shells on your missions?"

"Grip," Ratchet said, with false patience, "There only a few thousand Autobots left in the entire universe. We have very limited manufacturing capability, and _no _ability to assemble a complete shell just to have on hand in case somebody gets hurt. I can't even get coolant valves or new lubricant, half the time." He held up the bottle he had been using on Elita's knee. "This is Valvoline. If I have a shell handy it is because somebody _died _and I could repair their body enough to be usable after their spark joined Primus."

The civilian medic's eyes widened, at that, then he sighed, and hesitated, then said, "But ... surely _somebody _could ..."

"Let's see these shells of yours," Ratchet grabbed a rag off the table, wiped grease from his fingers, then headed for the door. "That certainly would be an improvement over making 'bot legs from steel I-beams.''

* * * * *

The vehicle waiting for Sam outside his last college class wasn't Bumblebee. He blinked in surprise, recognizing, of all improbable Autobots, Skids. Not Arcee. Not Sideswipe. Not even Ironhide. _Skids_. And by himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Skids by himself.

"Where's your brother?" He asked, as he slipped into the driver's seat.

"On assignment," Skids said, in a notably not-Ebonics dialect. Skids sounded broadly midwestern, at the moment, and both brothers been distinctly sheepish for several days. Sam was given to understand that the Twins had finally irritated several soldiers to the point where they'd gone to Optimus, and Optimus had decreed that the two of them were to speak in a neutral dialect until further notice.

Also, Epps had taken to correcting their English at every chance he got.

"Where's Bumblebee?"

"Staff meeting."

"Still?"

"Was, when I left. Don't know where now." The accent was gone, but Skids still managed to sound a bit rough around the edges. "Your college is far, man."

He shrugged. "So what's your brother assigned to?"

"Patrol with Silverbolt."

"Oh, now _there's _an odd couple," Sam said, picturing Mudflap trotting along after Silver's heels.

"Silverbolt asked for him. I'm gettin paired with 'Sides. It's not fair, I tell you. Everyone wants to work with Silverbolt. Sideswipe is scary. Did you _see _what he did to Sideways in that battle?"

"I wasn't there," Sam said, dryly

"But there's vids."

"Haven't seen them."

"I could show you ..." Skids offered, and suited action to words as he triggered a holo-emitter. Suddenly, Sam was getting a bot's-eye view of a vicious battle. Cannons boomed and gunfire rattled and mechs cursed and Sam yelped in shock and real fear. It was as if he'd suddenly been thrust into the middle of a fight.

"Stop! Stop!"

Skids shut the holo-emitter down. "Ooh! Made you squeal like a baby ..."

He covered his face with his hands. He'd been through enough alien battles in his life. He didn't appreciate the nightmare-inducing potential of unexpectedly being tossed into the middle of another one. "Not funny, Skids. Can you just take me to Mikaela's? Please?"

"Sure, buddy. I can do that." Skids, at least, had the good grace to sound chastized.

Mikaela had not answered her cell phone all day. He was worried about her; he had started out pissed off, yesterday morning, but now he was just _concerned_. Something was very wrong and he wanted to know what it was, and if he could help. _Perhaps just grief over her father, _he thought, but knowing Mikaela it would not be that simple. It never was. Sometimes, he felt like she was _looking _for something to go wrong. She immediately assumed the worst about him, and everyone else, and then she withdrew and stalked off. Her tolerance for the failings of others was nil.

_Because, _he realized, _people have failed her so often in her life._

Which meant he would just have to try harder to convince her that he was not going to let her down. And if that meant a three hour drive from the campus to her shop for an evening chat, so be it. As long as she didn't accuse him of stalking (because he would _not _be stalker-boy) he was not going to give up on her.

* * * * *

"Hey, 'Kaela," one of her two hired mechanics said, "that freaky robot car of yours just pulled into the parking lot."

"Yeah, yeah, Tom. He's not mine, he's just a friend. You want to meet him?" She glanced over at the man, he was brand new, had worked for her for four days, and was supposed to be filling her father's shoes. He didn't have her father's skills, really, but on the other hand, the till was balancing every night. Right now, he was finishing up sweeping the floor after dumping kitty litter on the day's oil spills.

Tom blinked, and said, "Really? I dunno ... "

"Sure, c'mon. Bee should know who works here, anyway."

Looking a bit nervous, her employee trailed her out into the parking lot. "Hey, Bee," she said, waving a greeting. "You've met Henry, my other employee. This is Tom, the new guy."

Bumblebee said, "Hello, Tom."

Tom visibly jumped at the voice coming from the car. "Yikes. It really does talk."

"_He _is smarter than both of us put together," Mikaela patted Bee's hood. "It's probably okay to transform, buddy. You wouldn't be showing any of the neighbors anything they haven't seen before and I'd like Tom to know what you look like, just in case."

"... in case?" Tom said, then squeaked in a little girl voice, when Bumblebee transformed and stood up. "Oh, fuck!"

Mikaela gave him a funny look. She was so used to seeing Autobots now that she sometimes reacted with awe at a particularly cool transformation, but as long as the mech in question didn't have red eyes and silver paint, she wasn't prone to 'oh fuck' reactions. Belatedly, she remembered what it looked like from a complete newbie's standpoint: really big scary alien robot with big guns.

Bee crouched, trying to look less threatening. He waved.

Tom took two huge steps back.

Bee trilled wordlessly.

"Umm. I think I liked him better when he was doing the KITT impersonation. Umm, I think I forgot something inside!" Tom backed away, then nearly ran inside.

Mikaela looked at Bumblebee, and shrugged.

Bee made a small mournful sound and sagged his shoulders, and played a snatch of song: Freddy Mercure, crooning, "... you're my only friend ..."

She laughed at his clowning, and swatted him on the armor. "Hardly. And don't let Sam hear you say that or you'd hurt his feelings forever."

"... here, at this moment ..." Bee added, in a very passable imitation of Mercure. His faceplate scrunched up into a Bee-smile. She'd learned he could mimic a broad range of singing styles, but that had been positively eerie.

"Good Lord, don't let Hollywood hear you sing like that," she leaned her forehead against his arm, "or you'd be beating the talent agents off with a stick. The Singing Autobot. They'd love you. You'd be megabucks on wheels."

He transformed, and popped the door driver's side door open. "I hope I didn't scar your employee for life."

She shook her head, not wanting him to worry about it, because the man's fear and flight had definitely hurt Bee's feelings. "If he quits, he's not got the guts for the job anyway. And, seriously, Bee, you have an amazing voice."

"It is not anything difficult to do," Bumblebee said, "music and math are very closely related. By our very nature, Autobots are very good at math. Music is simply an extension of that. It is all about tonalities, and beats, and rhythm. When my vocalizer is actually working properly I have full artistic control over the sounds it emits, which makes human style singing very simple and easy."

"If you say so."

"I do say so. Human music is fascinating in that humans often make music without being aware of the math involved. For example, did you know that each octave doubles -- or halves -- the frequency of the sound? And at the same time, music is expressed with half and full and quarter notes, very commonly. Good music has a very intricate mathematical relationship that is just beautiful to behold."

"If you say so. I just think it sounds pretty." She laughed, and patted the dash.

"Well, there is that, too." He paused, for a moment, as he pulled out into traffic, mind clearly focused on oncoming cars. He then continued, "Cybertronian singing is far, far more complicated than human song, but I find a real beauty in the simple elegance of your music. Plus, it's a lot easier to do. I will admit that has some appeal. I've spent human years working the math out for one new song, or rather used to, when I had the peace for it, and the processor time to spare."

"Bumblebee," she said, "where are you taking me?"

"I thought we could go to the overlook."

There were too many memories associated with that place, and she shuddered. "No, thank you."

"There's that drive-in movie theater," he suggested tentatively, "or we could just drive."

"A movie would be good," she agreed, because she wasn't exactly sure she really wanted to talk. If they drove, he would ask questions, and she would have to answer. Watching a movie would give her an excuse to not spill her gut. She just wanted to sit with him, really; somehow, Bumblebee had become utterly _comforting. _He was her walking, talking, security blanket.

"You should eat first, however," Bee said, and pulled into a strip mall parking lot that was shared by several fast food places. "Where would you like me to stop?"

She chose a burger joint at random, and ordered a random McSomething. "Maybe I should eat inside ... I could make a mess ..."

"I'm a bit more washable than your average car," Bee pointed out, clearly not letting her get away with the excuse. "We were going to talk, right?"

Damn. She wasn't getting out of this. Still, fooling the alien with a good show of acting might be worth it. She tried, "I think I'm okay now ..."

Bumblebee blew a raspberry at her, expressing his disbelief at that statement, then drove down the street and pulled into a parking lot that faced a city park. She said nothing at first, pretending to focus on her cola and burger. And he was quiet, not pushing her.

"Bee," she said, finally, "I don't even know where to begin."

"You might begin with why Sam is so upset."

"We, umm ..." she knew she was blushing, and she stammered, "Kinda, uh, bad sex. My fault. He thinks ... honestly, I don't know what he thinks, Bee. But it was pretty bad. And then I fled."

There was silence, from the Autobot, for a long, long moment. She wondered if she'd embarrassed him. Or, given that he was an asexual alien, if he even had a context to understand the problem. Though Bee seemed quite good at empathy, all things considered. Eventually, he asked quietly, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why was it bad?" Ancient alien robots, apparently, were _not _too embarrassed to ask personal questions.

"I, umm ... I didn't want to, so I, umm ..." she couldn't tell him this. It was too private.

To her relief, Bumblebee had mercy on her, because he said quietly, "Why didn't you just say no? Sam would not have proceeded with the intercourse if he believed you did not wish to take part."

"I didn't want to disappoint him." She knew she was ten shades of pink. Discussing her sex life with an ancient alien robot had to be one of the most bizarre experiences of her life.

"And why did you not _want _to?" His tone was utterly unruffled. Surely, he was aware of her discomfort!

That was a lot harder to answer. She bit her lip for a moment, wanting to tell him to go take a flying leap, but his calm questions compelled her to answer truthfully. "It scares me."

"The act of sex scares you?"

"Oh, not that." She waved a dismissive hand in the air. "I was thirteen when I lost my virginity."

Bumblebee was quiet for so long that thought perhaps he hadn't heard her, or that he was getting one of those silence-causing transmissions from his team. However, he finally said, "But with Sam, it's not just an act, is it?"

She tucked her knees to her chest on the seat, and wrapped her arms around her legs. Miserably, she said, "No."

Bee, ever perceptive, had nailed the problem dead on. His guess was just about as accurate as it could possibly be. She was scared of intimacy with Sam because of what it implied, and that fear had led her to really screw things up with him.

"Mikaela," Bee said, voice as calm as still waters, "you are aware that my people love, and form long-lasting partnerships much as humans do, correct?"

"Optimus and Elita, I've seen them, yeah." She thought it was fairly obvious that the two Autobots shared a bond that went beyond the simple cameraderie between soldiers and old friends. They were dignified and reserved, and weren't exactly engaging in public displays of affection, but there were little things she'd noticed. Optimus was polite and even friendly to anyone who had not actively pissed him off, but when he caught sight of Elita he smiled and visibly relaxed in a response he showed for no other. Additionally, Elita would routinely step into his personal space, standing very close to him without actually touching, and sometimes Optimus did the same, walking closer to her than he would to any other mech. It was the little things, mostly in their body language, that told Mikaela that Optimus viewed Elita differently than any other mech.

Bee nodded, then said, "And Sunstreaker and 'Sides, and Skids and Mudflap. And Silverbolt had his gestalt, though all but one is dead now and he has forsworn the one still living."

Bee's voice dipped a little lower in sadness as he mentioned the last group. She didn't know the story there, though several of the 'bots had referred to it.

"But they're all brothers," she objected.

"We use that term for convenience," Bumblebee reminded her, "Mechs do not reproduce sexually, Mikaela. That fact has affected the very fabric of our culture. Humans pair off. Even same sex pairs tend to be just that, pairs. I suspect that is a reflection of your core biology. Most humans, with some exceptions, are hard coded to pair bond. It is what your biology drives you to do. And, of course, relationships with 'siblings' are utter taboo because of the genetic issues inherent in organic reproduction using DNA. You cannot risk duplicating genetic errors by having children with a sibling."

She covered her face with her hands. "And it would just be gross."

Bee explained, "From a Cybertronian standpoint, there is no _need _for such a taboo. We call mechs who were created at the same time 'siblings' or 'twins' and they spend much of their early childhood together in small groups. If they are compatible, as the two sets of twins at the base are, they tend to maintain a very close relationship into adulthood. However, not all siblings are that compatible. You will note that Optimus is very close to Magnus, but does not consider him a partner. And Megatron ... well, according to Magnus, Optimus tried, and Megatron tried to dominate, and that didn't work very well."

She goggled at the dashboard. She couldn't imagine anyone thinking Megatron and Optimus were even remotely compatible as life partners. Not anyone watching, and certainly not the mechs themselves could have thought that, right? What had they been _thinking_?

"If anything," Bee continued, "we encourage sibling-pairings in particular. If you have known a mech your entire life, from the instant you were created, who better to spend all your days with? However, sometimes mechs find each other in adulthood. Elita and Optimus have known each other since they were young, but not since they were sparklings."

Still ignoring her reaction to the thought of Megatron and Optimus being any sort of friend (surely, he wasn't oblivious to it) Bumblebee continued, "We do not have an act of procreation, obviously, but do note, Mikaela, that we have something akin to _intimacy. _Our memory and processor cores are protected behind a very powerful set of firewalls. There are only three times in a mech's life that those firewalls are ever willingly lowered to allow another to have access. The first is when a mentor is working with a very young sparkling. The sparkling will instinctively lower his firewalls to allow the mentor access to link in and upload code and data modules. If you hear a mech refer to a parent, it is usually such a mentor. Not all mentors are created equal ... mine was a brilliant musician and mathematician, and a very noble person, and I was very lucky."

_His parent is dead_, Mikaela realized, without being told. There was a certain sorrowful note in Bee's voice that told her that was an old, tired pain; something a long way in his past, but not forgotten. She did not have to ask. She heard the unspoken truth in his words and that simple 'was' in 'I was very lucky.'

His tone turned thoughtful, and he mused, "I imagine many Decepticons cannot say the same kind things of their mentors as I can of mine, though perhaps Wheelie has that sort of relationship with Fangface. For all that he claims to be evil, I have never known Fang to be cruel to a youngling. Magnus claims that Megatron and Optimus had very different mentors, one kind and one very sadistic. You can guess who had who ... Magnus had the same mentor as Optimus, for what it's worth."

"I never realized you even _had _anything like a parent."

"Mmm. But you've seen a newly created sparkling, I believe: the Nokia, at Hoover Dam. We are born terrified and violent, and it is through the guidance of a mentor, effectively a parent, that we become the people you've come to know."

She wondered how many children they'd killed in that research facility without ever realizing that was what they were destroying.

Bumblebee hesitated, then said, "Rarely, in adulthood, something will go wrong with a mech's code, or a hardware glitch will cause an unrecoverable error that requires an external reboot, or a mech will contract a virus. It is considered unpleasant but necessary to allow a medic access in the case of processor issues. The medic is oath-bound to secrecy regarding what he finds. In times past, the mechs who did such work were anonymous. You would never know their designation nor their appearance. It was a specialty. Now, Ratchet or Elita perform such services when they are needed and traditionally, if there was time, Elita did such work for Optimus's team, and Ratchet for Magnus's, to maintain some semblence of privacy. I have yet to decide if it is better to have a friend have access to your most secret thoughts, or an anonymous stranger that you will never see again."

"They can see everything?" Suddenly, she understood why he would call such a link _intimate_. And why he had reacted with such horror to their attempts to breach his firewall at Hoover Dam. And why Bluestreak and Sunstreaker were just a little bit ... off.

"Everything," Bee confirmed, voice soft. "Your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams and your nightmares. The good and the bad. All of us have thoughts that are very private; darkness and despair and hate. Fantasies, too, and little falsehoods we tell ourselves. When you link to another mech without a firewall between you, all of this is laid bare. They see you as you really are, without pretense."

"Without masks," she murmured, remembering Wheelie's words when he'd told her that everyone wore a mask, hiding their true selves.

"Yes."

He paused, not a hesitation, but she somehow knew that he was simply letting her think his words over before he continued. He then said, "You see, the third occasion when a mech may lower their firewalls is with a partner-for-life. The essence of your very self is laid bare, and your systems themselves are vulnerable harm when you do so. The trust required between two mechs to do this is phenomenal."

"That's frightening. What if they don't like what they see?" _Or use what they find against you ..._

"What if they _do_ like what they see?" Bee countered, a thought that made her shiver. What if someone looked in your head and found you perfect? That was somehow almost scarier than the idea of them finding her wanting, though she couldn't begin to say why. "Imagine laying yourself bare to someone and having them declare, 'Yes, _you _are what I am looking for.'"

"Well, I can see why it didn't work with Megatron."

Bee's snort of laughter made the car vibrate. "Yes. I said much the same thing when Magnus told me that Optimus had tried. I suspect Optimus _wanted _Megatron to be the hero he truly could have been."

"Heh. That would have saved us all a lot of trouble."

"And don't think Optimus doesn't brood about that, either," Bee said, his tone growing soft and thoughtful again. "I suspect he wishes he could have saved Megatron from himself, and saved our world in the process. Those who knew him say that he tried so very hard. It certainly would be a very different world that we live in now if he had succeeded in turning Megatron away from his dark path."

"That's awful. Optimus has to live with that."

"He has to live with a lot of things, some of them his fault, and some of them not. That one is not his fault, but I am certain he wonders if he could have done things differently. Optimus's strength leaves me in awe. Were I to carry his burdens I do not think I could remain strong," Bumblebee's voice was still thoughtful. "Mikaela, it is very common for mechs to resist that final step, linking together with lowered firewalls, when they are forging a relationship with someone. You cannot know, until you lower your firewalls and initiate that link, if the one you have chosen will _truly _accept you as you are. Everyone has flaws, and sometimes those flaws are not readily visible. Sometimes the person on the other side of the firewall is not who you think they are, and sometimes ... sometimes one would-be partner may reject the other when the firewalls come down."

She frowned. "That's horrible."

"That's _life_." Bee sighed static at her. "That fear of rejection is very much a dynamic I can understand. I think perhaps you are afraid that if you lower your defenses and become intimate with him, Sam will see you as you really are, and reject you?"

She said nothing. Her throat seemed to be clogged. She wanted to cry, but couldn't find voice to do it.

"Mikaela, it would be easy for me to tell you that you're lovely and beautiful and kind, and brave and funny and intelligent and Sam would be a fool to not love you. You are all of those things, but I won't blow that smoke up your aft. There is more to a relationship than being appealing to the other party -- and we both know Sam is perfectly capable of being a fool. What I _will _tell you is that Sam is worth taking a chance on, is he not? Is he not worth _trying _for?"

She bowed her head, and murmured, "Yeah."

"Good." Bee started his engine back up. "I believe we have a movie to go see."

"Bee, have you ever ... did you ever love anyone like that? Without firewalls?"

Belatedly, however, she realized she'd basically asked him if he was still a virgin. She wasn't sure if he'd give a straight answer, and she wouldn't have blamed him if he'd simply refused to answer. However, his response was simple. "No, I've never lowered my firewalls with a partner. I have wished ... But it would not work."

"Unrequited love, hmm?"

"It is not something I feel like joking about, Mikaela," he said, voice turning just a little bit waspish.

"Sorry," she said, realizing she'd inadvertently poked a sore spot she didn't even know existed. "Do you want to, umm, talk about it?"

"Not really," Bumblebee said, with a bit of humor creeping back into his voice, though she wondered what he found funny. "I'm just glad you're feeling better. You are, right?"

"Well," she leaned back in the seat, "I'll ... try. With Sam. That's all I can promise you. But you are right -- I think he is worth it."

"He loves you more than anything in the world," Bumblebee's voice was again soft and thoughtful. "He would do anything for you. I do not doubt his love for you, and I think he will readily forgive and move past any slights you may have inadvertently given him. And I believe you feel a similar love for him. Now all that remains is for you to trust each other and stop putting walls up."

"Bee, I don't know how to tell him ..."

Bumblebee's glove compartment popped open. "You can simply tell him of this talk, Mikaela, but I would also remind you that I record everything I see and hear eidetically. You could simply show him your words, if you like. This may be less ... emotional."

A memory stick lay in the glove compartment. She realized he was giving her a copy of the conversation.

"For you, too," Bee added, when she picked it up. "Human memory is so fallible."

* * * * * *

Sam left Skids idling in the parking lot, and stuck his head into the garage, "Mikaela! You here?"

An unfamiliar man, blond, blocky, emerged from the shop's office when he called. "The boss took off with that ..." he visibly shuddered, "... thing."

"Thing?" Sam stared at Mikaela's employee, disliking him instantly and immediately. He was pretty sure that the guy had just referred to one of the Autobots as a 'thing.' "Which thing?"

"The yellow Camaro thing."

Well, that explained where Mikaela had went. Bee hadn't said a thing about planning something with her, but, he rationalized, Bumblebee wasn't exactly _required _to account for every minute of his day with Sam. He and Mikaela were friends too -- maybe they'd just gone to do something. Without Sam.

_Ouch. _He realized he was feeling a little left out. What could they be up to that he wasn't welcome tagging along with? Neither had said anything to him about plans.

"The Camaro thing is Bumblebee, and he's not a thing." Sam scowled. The man frowned back. Deciding he didn't want to get into it with one of Mikaela's employees, he stepped back outside where one half of the Terrible Twins was waiting.

Skids said helpfully, "I heard what the man said and gave Bee a quick call. He said he's going out to a drive-in movie with Mikaela."

_A movie_? Okay, now he was hurt. Why hadn't they invited him?

Skids added, "You okay, Sam? You look kinda funny there, boy."

He opened the driver's side door and sat down. "Skids, take me home, will you?"

"You got it. Though we could always catch up to Bee if you want."

"Skids, if Bee and Mikaela wanted me along, they would have said something," Sam said, with certainty. "I just want to go home."

"Ooooh," Skids said, in a tone of voice that oozed with false sympathy, "Sam got ditched by his car and his girlfriend. Awwwwwwwww."

"Skids, shut the fuck up." Sam smacked the dashboard hard enough that Skids gave a hiccup of surprise.

"Sorrrry. But you gotta admit, she's always had a thing for Bee ..." There was a moment of burbling alien laughter. "And he is quite the catch. I've seen quite a variety of mechs hit on him over the years. Bee just isn't ever interested, not in anybody I've ever seen, not beyond just being friends. But Mikaela, she's _special. _Maybe he's attracted to organics ... can't imagine why, but maybe that's the explanation why he's everybody's friend and nobody's ..."

"Shut. Up." Sam hit the dashboard again, hard enough that he probably bruised his hand. Skids' warped sense of humor was not helping. "NOT funny."

"Okay, okay." A pause, from the annoying 'bot -- Sam was rapidly deciding that Skids (and Mudflap, by association) was just about his least favorite 'bot in the world. He was right up there with Leo for the ability to annoy. He'd seen Skids and Mudflap pick fights, deliberately, with everyone from his father to Ratchet, and you had to be a complete idiot to harass Ratchet. This was more of the same, and it was incredibly bad timing. It wasn't funny. It _hurt. _"Not funny!"

Skids continued, "-- But I think it's all kinds of funny."

"Shut the fuck up!" Sam had not actually kicked an Autobot in the dashboard since he'd actually learned that cars turned into giant robots. At that moment, he was a bit more tempted to do so. He drew his knee up, seriously thinking about it.

"Okay, okay. Cool your jets, boy!" Skids finally let it go.

Sam kicked him anyway. "Afthead."


	28. Chapter 28

"Nice paint, Sunny," Arcee said, as Sunstreaker zoomed into the rec hangar on the morning following the arrival of the civilians. She said this with full knowledge that the irony of her words would be utterly lost on the 'bot who had just entered. Grip, Ratchet, Wheeljack and First Aid had worked long into the night to get Sunstreaker, Hound, and Elita into their new protoform shells.

Of course, Sunstreaker, being Sunstreaker, had to show everyone his pretty new form, regardless of their level of interest. Or lack thereof.

He spun about to regard her with one upraised optic ridge and asked, "You like what you see?" in a tone absolutely full of innuendo. Then he held his arms out, displaying brand new armor that had been waxed to a brilliant shine. He was no longer the mirror image of his brother, but they'd managed to match the protoform pretty close, which meant he was tall and rolling on aggressively treaded wheels.

She snorted. Sunstreaker was utterly insufferable, and would probably flirt with Megatron himself if the chance arose and the Decepticon managed to return from the dead yet again. She said, with a roll of her optics, because she was very well aware of his tendencies, "I bet _you _like what you see."

"Beats being a slagged ruin." He huffed a dramatic sigh and held his hands wide so she could see his pretty armor better, "And I _am _happy to be whole and intact again. I like this new shell -- hey!"

A small street-legal dirt bike zipped through the doorway, going too fast to stop quickly. At the last moment, the motorcycle tipped over, slid across the floor towards Sunstreak, and transformed into a protoform with a startled yelp. Wheelie tumbled into Sunny's tire with a thud, then scrambled to his feet, and said, "Sorry, Sunny! Still learning my new gyros ... hey!"

Sunny grabbed for him. Wheelie dodged frantically, and repeated, "Hey! I'm sorry!"

"Little glitch! You scuffed my brand new tire!"

Wheelie heard the threat in that voice and ran for the far side of the hangar, even as Arcee intercepted Sunstreaker. Sunny stood a good ten feet taller than she did, but there were three of her, and all of them regarded Sunstreaker with a determined glare. "Leave the kid alone."

"He's just a little Decepticreep ..." he balanced on one tire, and pointed at the other one. There was a small scuff on the sidewall. "Look what he did!"

"Sunstreaker," her patience evaporated, "Put it in neutral. It's not even _paint. _It'll heal on its own in about ten minutes."

"He ..."

"Are you _arguing _with me, Sunstreaker?" Her voice hit a note of command that reminded him she outranked him _and _it would be three-on-one if they tangled. "Are you _seriously _threatening a child?"

".... No."

"Get out of here." She pointed at the door.

"Yes ma'am." He shot Wheelie a deadly glare, then, with a pissed growl of motors, very slowly left.

"What's _his _fritz?" Wheelie demanded. He'd been wise enough to run, but Arcee could tell he was furious. His eyes, still Decepticon red, gleamed with frustrated fury. Then he blinked them a couple of times and turned his attention to her, and said, "And, I guess, thank you."

She had a certain air of snarl to her own engines when she rolled back to the plasma screen television she was installing on one wall. "Wheelie, Sunstreaker would not actually have hurt you, but he's a bully and I just don't like bullies. Don't thank me. I'd have called him out if he'd picked on _any _Autobot."

Wheelie trotted after her. "You realize you just called me an Autobot."

She frowned down at him. He returned her expression with an absolutely impudent grin. She mulled her options and then said, "You wear the emblem, don't you? Swore an oath? Have, so far, upheld it? Technically, I'm being accurate."

He chuckled, and shot her a salute. "Yes, ma'am."

"Get out of here, before I change my mind about protecting you from Sunny." She pointed at the door. Then, in a much kinder voice she added, "And Wheelie, go slower until you figure out how to balance. It's a lot harder to navigate on two wheels than four, and you're also learning how to shift about two hundred pounds more mass around."

"Gee, one would almost think you were being nice to me!" He shot her another salute, then ran off on two legs.

Arcee watched him go, going so far as to roll one of her units to the door and peer out to make sure that Sunstreaker was not going to harass Wheelie as soon as he was out of sight. Sunstreaker wasn't visible, and Wheelie safely made it to the main hangar, where she knew that there were several other 'bots. Grimlock was one of them, and she highly doubted Grim would let _anyone _hurt a youngling.

To nobody in particular she said, "One would almost think I was getting soft in the processors."

* * * * *

The Ark was quiet except for the low thrum of the energon plant as it refined tanker truckloads of oil into that oh-so-vital fuel. The generators, normally a heavier vibration, were powered down. It was a sunny day, and the ship's solar cells were sufficient to meet the Ark's basic power needs. Ratchet knew that Socket and a couple other crew members were busy doing maintenance on the idled machinery.

It had been a very long time since Ratchet had walked the halls of a starship of this size. He seemed to be alone, it was late afternoon, and while he had an appointment in surgery, he suspected most of the rest of the crew was off-duty and either engaging in recreation or recharging. They'd been up all night, yesterday, moving the ship from Arizona to Nevada and without mechs in them the halls seemed endless, and a little bit lonely.

_They each have quarters of their own. Such incredible luxury._

He'd recharged for four hours -- in the very public and quite noisy hangar -- after finishing up with the last transplant, Elita's, into her new shell. Tactical triage had changed with the circumstances and since Sunstreaker was the most effective fighter, and they had decided to do complete transplants, Sunstreaker had gone first, followed by Hound and then Elita. _I'll say this for Sunny, _Ratchet thought, _He may he a Pit-born terror, but he's probably the number three fighter we have. Only Optimus and Grimlock could take him out for certain. _

Fortunately, keeping said Pit-born terror in line was not his job. Equally fortunately, both Optimus _and _Grimlock were well aware of Sunstreaker's nastier tendencies and had always presented a united front along with the rest of the officers. Sunny was useful. His brother was reasonably well liked _and _useful, and had made it abundantly clear over the years that he and Sunny were a package deal. For those two reasons, and those two reasons alone, Sunstreaker was tolerated.

_Well, that, and there's always been the fear that if we kicked him out, he'd turn Decepticon. I seriously do not want to face Sunstreaker someday on a field of battle. I believe if he ever becomes too much of a liability, we will not turn him out. We will _have _to offline him until the war is over. _

"Hi, Ratchet," Windy greeted him as Ratchet stepped through the door of the medical bay. The tiny flier's cheerful greeting was at sharp odds to Ratchet's grim thoughts, and made him look up sharply in surprise. He was early, but apparently Manywinds was even earlier.

"Grip around?" Ratchet asked. Only Windy, who was scheduled for surgery to have weapons mounts added, seemed to be present. Windy was standing by the surgery's window. The room had an actual _window_, which could be protected by a blast shield during flight. It was currently open. Afternoon sun shone through it, making the flier's iridescent green facial markings shine.

"He came by and told me that if I wanted to have myself disfigured with guns, he wouldn't help, and that I'd be on my own with you." Windy saluted Ratchet with one raised hand. "I'm here to be disfigured, sir."

Ratchet sighed static. "That's what he said, hmm?"

"Kup probably will not be happy, but Grip is very firm in his beliefs." Windy shrugged expressively, thin shoulders rising with remarkable flexibility. "But I don't agree with him. I don't mind being armed. I volunteered to go first, actually. I don't like the idea of fighting, but I like the idea of fighting without weapons even less."

"Let's see how long those beliefs of Grip's last the first time he comes face to face with a Decepticon bearing a pulse cannon and a datalink cable," Ratchet growled, vexed.

"Datalink cable?" Windy's eyes grew very wide at the implications.

"I swore an oath never to kill," Ratchet folded his arms, and regarded Windy with keen eyes, adding a medical scan to his survey. _Pit_, Windy had a fragile frame. He elaborated on his statement with the explanation, "Medics are valuable to the Decepticons. So are fliers. If you won't cooperate with them willingly, they'll stick a virus in your processor that will turn you crazy and savage and very Decepticon. We're pretty sure a good chunk of the Decepticon forces are buggy as hell ... So, yeah, pulse cannon and a datalink cable. First time a Decepticon came at me with both of those, I punched a laser scalpel through his chestplate and into his spark chamber."

Windy's green optics were very wide. "I think that would pretty much be my reaction."

"Kup said Grip was going to be assisting," Ratchet muttered, as he turned to survey the equipment in the room. He'd gained a passing familiarity with the layout of the medical bay, but Grip had proved to be more than competent as an actual _surgeon _and Ratchet had respected the mech's authority in his own bay once he'd verified that Grip wasn't going to hook energon lines to coolant pump intakes. He had only handled the transfer of weapons from their ruined protoforms to the new bodies, since Grip had indicated total unfamiliarity with the process. This meant he still didn't know the location of everything in the med bay as well as he'd like.

Additionally, installing weapons mounts really took two people. Grip had, reluctantly, aided him last night when he needed a second set of hands. Grip was clearly not willing to continue to help.

Ratchet sighed deeply, "You _all _need weapons, and you need them as soon as possible. What does he think you're going to do, throw rocks at the Decepticons?"

Manywinds grinned, baring actual teeth, faceplate crinkling up so far it probably narrowed his optic range. "Might win points for originality. Maybe surprise them into giving me a tactical advantage, yes?"

"Or they'd just blast you into slag while laughing their bolts off," Ratchet informed him, scowling. Then he said, "Wait a minute, while I find an assistant ..."

He opened his comlink and sent Optimus a quick message, _:Boss, I need an extra set of hands in the surgery. Who's available?:_

_:First Aid's recharging right next to me here in the hangar. Wheeljack, too. Would you like me I wake one of them?: _Optimus knew what he was up to, and wholeheartedly agreed that arming the civilians was a priority. They had to be armed to be trained. And weapons training needed to start immediately. Manywinds was on the schedule tomorrow for a session with Ironhide.

However, both Jack and First Aid had been running as hard and as long as Ratchet, and he was loathe to disturb them. He knew exactly how tired they were, because _he _was that exhausted. He just didn't have any option of slowing down. There was too much to get done. _:No, don't wake them. Anyone else?:_

_:Wheelie's awake. He's scheduled for a patrol with Mudflap, but I can pull him off it. I'm not sure that's the greatest combination of Autobots ever invented, anyway.: _Optimus's voice was ruefully amused.  
_  
:You think? Though to be fair, Mudflap might pick up some manners from Wheelie.:_

_:Ratchet, neither Mudflap nor Wheelie mean badly. They are merely both very young and very inexperienced and a little socially clueless.: _Optimus's rebuke held a bit of humor, but was also firm.  
_  
:Yes, boss. I completely agree. And I still say Wheelie's manners are better and Mudflap could learn something from him. The plan to split the twins up so they stop feeding off each other and learn from the other mechs is a good one:_

_:Wheelie's manners, such as they are, would be Fang's influence. And yet I suspect Wheelie could have been raised in the hallowed halls of Iacon and still be a little terror.:_

_:Scary thought, that.: _Ratchet snickered. _:Though I will admit that Fangface definitely has far more charm than any Decepticon leader we've ever dealt with. He would probably apologize for the inconvenience just before he slagged my aft.:_

_:Ratchet, Mikaela just pulled in. Would you like me to send her your way? She's likely looking for Bumblebee and he's going to be tied up on the phone for the next few hours. He's on a conference call with the Secret Service and the FBI to make arrangements before I have a speech in California next week.:_

Ratchet perked up at that. _:You have Secret Service protection now?:_

_:The event will. Though, this came from my last conference with the president's cabinet: By next week, we'll officially be a foreign embassy here on the base. As a foreign embassy, we will have government -- Secret Service -- protection. More importantly, it gives everyone in my chain of command diplomatic immunity, which, I note, will _not _be a license to commit traffic violations. They won't be able to charge us with anything, but _I _am working on having a brig set up. I can and will enforce human laws whenever they are relevant.:_

Ratchet laughed aloud, making Windy blink at him in surprise. Windy certainly knew he was having an encrypted conversation with someone, because he could detect the radio transmissions even if he couldn't crack them without being very rude, but given that Ratchet had been growling and snarling a moment ago, perhaps it _was _a bit shocking to hear him amused now. He held one finger up to Windy in a 'just a moment' gesture and told Optimus, _:Be sure that the Evil Twins know that.:_

_:I will also remind Jack.: _Optimus transmitted an image of Wheeljack beating both of the 'Evil Twins' in a race as a reminder of just who currently held the Autobot land speed record.

Deeply amused, Ratchet replied, _:Yes. And do send me Mikaela if she's willing.:_

_:She's already on her way. I just told her you needed her. And do try to keep her for a few hours. That Mustang she drives has some major mechanical issues. When Wheeljack wakes up I'd like to have him look at it. I'm not even sure it's safe for her to be traveling in it.:_

Ratchet, approvingly, said, _:Just make sure it doesn't explode when he's done.:_

_:Given the state of the vehicle, I'm a bit more concerned it could blow up without his assistance. Ratchet, I need to go, I've got to call the Sec Def about the Ark. He's demanding a tour.:_

_:You planning on letting him on board, boss?:_

_:In the crew areas. Engineering and storage will be off limits.:_

_:Sensible.: _  
_  
:Want to give the tour?: _Optimus's voice turned just a little bit teasing.  
_  
:What do _I _know about politics?: _Ratchet let real laughter tinge his response over the com.

_:Do note that I have not forgotten you were a senator. And you've got a better track record at peace negotiations than I do.: _Optimus was definitely gently hassling him. The chief was in a good mood.  
_  
:Ack, that sounds like a threat, boss.__: _  
_  
:Just an observation that I am well aware of all of your talents.:_

_:Then observe that I am needed as a medic more than anywhere else.: _He growled back, though with full knowledge that Optimus knew him _quite _well enough to know he was laughing even when he did snarl words in that tone of voice.  
_  
:Which is precisely why I haven't tapped you for the political wrangling yet. And as far as tours goes, I've half a mind to turn some of earth's scientists loose in the hold as a good will gesture. You know they have live animals on board?:_

_:I'm not surprised. It's what the Ark was for.:_

_:Almost half of them are extinct now. The other half are alien to this world. Optimus out.:_

The comlink crackled, then went silent.

"Well, that takes care of help," Ratchet said, after a bemused glance downward in the direction of the hold. "Wheelie and Mikaela will be here in a minute."

"The human girl?" Windy seemed surprised.

"If you have any issues with humans, and that human in particular, get over it now." Ratchet gave the flier a stern look. "Mikaela's more than earned a place among us."

"It's ..." Windy laughed, a low and genuinely amused sound. "I rather like her. She put me in my place when I deserved it, when we first met. I was expecting the native sentients of this world to be little more than clever monkeys. She established she was much more than that, in about three sentences, and with a complete lack of fear and a heck of a lot of attitude. I just didn't know she was medically trained."

"Interesting attitude there, kiddo," Ratchet let an approving smile lift his faceplate up. "And Mikaela's usefully mechanically inclined, though I'm only beginning to train her."

Ratchet turned his attention to the room. It seemed as if he would need to acquaint himself better with the medical bay. He could see lots of equipment: scanners, welders, even an oven for baking enamel on armor. Howeer, a quick check of the cabinets didn't turn up any surgical tools. "Windy, do you know where Grip keeps his hand tools and supplies?"

"No ..." Windy shook his head. "Not a clue. This is sort've Grip's domain. If you're not dying or in need of actual maintenance, it's best to avoid the place. He's a bit difficult when it comes to the medbay."

"Well, so am I," Ratchet said, amiably, "but if he's not going to help, the least he could do would be to tell me where to find things."

"He's not that cooperative. Are you kidding?" Windy frowned. "I have not been in here often, but I seem to remember him going into the next room," he pointed at an open doorway, "when he needed tools."

Ratchet nodded, "Let me see if I can find what we need."

He had already seen inventories and knew that the Ark was fantastically well supplied, with every conceivable piece of equipment or repair part he could imagine. Ratchet hadn't seen a clinic this well appointed since the beginning of his career, when he'd worked in a civilian teaching hospital. In many ways, it was pure heaven. But _finding _things? That was proving to be a bigger challenge than he'd expected. There was just so much stuff, and some of it was not logically laid out. He had a sneaking suspicion that Grip had never had to deal with anything resembling battlefield casualties, or he would never have put his laser scalpels in another room from the surgery.

He walked into the next room, with Windy following close to his heels, and began opening cabinets. There, he located the tools and supplies he needed, all finely crafted, and multiple sets. He selected a set of laser scalpels, a drill, a sturdy and brand new stainless steel brush, degreaser, a bottle of the appropriate solvents, and clamps in the right size for Windy's tiny arms. He had to go to _another _storeroom to locate the actual weapons mounts, motherboards, wires, the smallest diameter of energon feeder lines he could find and matching valves, several feet of armored conduit, and sensory nodes. And a tray, to put everything on. Thus laden, he returned to the room.

"Here," he said, reaching down and lifting Windy up like he would a human. He set the flier on the edge of a surgical table, then began to attach a clamp to the edge. "You have a choice, now. I can do this with you awake, or with you offline."

"Will it hurt?" Manywinds asked. The flier sounded nervous, for the first time.

Ratchet hesitated. "There may be some discomfort, but no serious pain. I've installed _many _weapons mounts in my career, Windy. I've yet to lose a patient."

That earned him a smile.

"What some mechs find disturbing is that I will need to enter your chest to install a weapons motherboard." Ratchet reached for his arm as he spoke.

Windy was stiff now, resisting the touch, and gave him an alarmed look. "You do? I didn't realize that."

"Future weapons can use the same motherboard, and I'll pull some extra leads, but I do need to install it as an upgrade. It's a very simple, very common modification, that I have done many, many times." Ratchet resisted the temptation to tell Manywinds to suck it up. Windy was not one of his soldiers -- not yet -- he was just a very scared, and very small, civilian. Ratchet told himself he needed to be patient.

Windy wouldn't meet his eyes now. He folded his arms defensively across his chestplates and hunched his shoulders. "The only mech who's ever been in my chest since I was a Sparkling is Grip."

"Well, Grip's not here," Ratchet bent over to meet Windy's eyes. "You're a survivor, Windy. You're going to need to let me do this if you want to have a prayer of defending yourself. Rocks are _not _going to stop Decepticons."

"I ... know that."

At that moment, Mikaela and Wheelie entered together. Mikaela had welding gloves and a welding mask in her hands, to Ratchet's pleasure. New ones. Doc had ordered her top of the line protective equipment, after the incident with her burning her fingers so badly while saving Sunstreaker. Mikaela said, "What's up, Ratchet?"

He reached down, scooped her up, and deposited her on the table next to Windy before explaining, "I'm going to need your help with installing weapons mounts in a few spots. Wheelie, you can run errands if I need more parts."

"Aww, I want to see what you're doing," Wheelie grumbled.

Ratchet scowled down at his second helper. "If you want to help at all, you'll do as I say."

He was certain he didn't mistake the flare of frustrated anger in those red eyes before Wheelie folded his arms and grumbled, "Yeah, okay."

Meanwhile, Manywinds had apparently come to a decision, because he was meeting Ratchet's eyes again. He said, "I know I need to do this. But I'm not all original. Just so you know."

"Hnnh." Ratchet cocked his head to the side, regarding Windy in surprise. What was Windy worried about? "I'm sure it's nothing I haven't seen before."

The flier gave a firm nod, "Probably, given the life I understand you people live now. However, there are many people who do not know my past history, and I would like to keep it that way. I don't appreciate being judged by who I was before."

_Oh_. Understanding dawned. Yes, what Manywinds was implying was certainly a valid reason for a mech to take a position a long way from home, and to start a whole new life. Grimly, he nodded, "I get it, Windy. Awake or asleep?"

"Umm, asleep, I think, sir." Manywinds folded his arms and miserably stared down at the ground, a long way beneath his feet. "I'd rather just wake up and have it all be over."

Ratchet grunted an affirmative indicating understanding, set the tray of supplies down on the table, and went to get a datalink cable and a diagnostic handpad. Then, with experienced fingers, he found the data port under one of Windy's arms, which was a very well protected location, and was covered by a plate of armor. He attached the cable with a loud click. Windy, cooperatively, held his arm up, which earned him favorable points in Ratchet's estimation. There were a few mechs he worked with who had to be physically restrained before he could offline them, even when it was medically necessary. The last time they'd had to take Bluestreak down, it had required three larger mechs to pin him so that Ratchet could work. He'd had an energon leak. It had been _necessary._

_Not that I exactly blame Blue for being phobic about anything jacking into his processor core, even just a handpad. _

Windy merely grumbled, "I _hate _this part ..."

Ratchet, without further comment, punched a button with one finger and took Windy offline. Mikaela gave a muffled cry of surprise as Windy gasped and slumped forward. Ratchet caught him before he could topple off the berth, and then gently laid him out flat.

"Geeze, that's creepy," Mikaela said, staring at suddenly dark optics. She touched Windy's shoulder, found him totally still, and said, "He feels dead."

"There's still enough electricity in his system to make _you _dead, so watch where you put your fingers," Ratchet fixed her with a warning look. Then he sighed, as he took in Windy's thin build. Now that the mech wasn't moving, he looked even smaller and more fragile. His thin armor was going to be very little protection, and beneath it, Windy's chestplate was a rather fragile gauge of aluminum. A few strategic joints and hinges -- wear parts -- were duryllium alloy, but most of the little flier's frame was aluminum, titanium, or carbon fiber. And Ratchet doubted they could upgrade his defenses much.

He'd suggested a complete transplant into a larger protoform shell, earlier that day. Windy had flatly refused. He claimed he needed to be human sized to effectively study human society. And that had been the end of that discussion.

Something of his dismay about Windy's sheer fragility must have been obvious, because Mikaela caught it. "Ratchet, is something wrong?"

"Not exactly wrong, but Windy is just _not _built for fighting. The recoil alone from his weapons is going to be brutal for him, and he will never be able to support the sort of armor necessary for effective defense." He rested his hand next to Windy, fingers half the length of Windy's entire body. "He better learn to dodge fast, because he is going to be a pit-slagging pain in the aft to work on at this size. I sure don't want to see him back here."

"What was he talking about, not having original parts?"

Ratchet hesitated, wondering if this fell under the heading of things that Autobots didn't tell humans. However, if Mikaela thought about it, she would be able to figure out most of the technical information. What she was asking mostly fell under 'cultural' knowledge, and might not be obvious. He transformed a finger into a thin, hooked probe and expertly popped the catches on Windy's chest plate. It opened smoothly at his touch, without even a creak of hinges, and he explained as he worked, "Mikaela, there are three physical elements that define a transformer's personality. The first is the spark itself, what you would call a soul. The second part is our processor core. Mechs are created with a purpose in mind, and with a processor to suit that purpose, though, of course, a processor core can be modified or completely replaced if need be."

He pointed out the parts as he worked, even though he knew she already had a good grasp of Cybertronian anatomy. "This is Windy's spark chamber," he indicated the part -- which, disturbingly, appeared to be made of titanium and not heavier duryllium alloy. Titanium had a frighteningly low melting point. Also, it was a pain in the butt to weld. Above the spark chamber, to the right, was a mass of finely corrugated metal -- more aluminum, encasing the processor core to shed heat, and this was a _good _use for that very heat-conductive metal. "And that's his processor core."

"No liquid coolant system," she observed.

"Windy doesn't need liquid coolant. He's small enough that air works fine, though there's some drawbacks to that ..."

"Less efficient on hot days," Mikaela said.

"Yes. Very good."

Mikaela beamed.

Ratchet continued, "And Mikaela, a good bit of our personality is determined by our spark, but our capabilities -- what we are able to do with that personality -- are determined mostly by our processor core. So, for example, a mech who is driven to be creative may become an engineer, an artist, or a musician, all depending on what abilities are inherent in that core. Conversely, a spark that is inclined to be rigid and very rules-oriented may have a great deal of trouble being an artist, no matter how much graphical processing power you give them. And sometimes you will find a mech with only an average amount of ability in a given area who is still excelling at a skill -- Kup is apparently renowned for his ability to tell stories, but he is strictly a military spec mech. I understand he makes creative use of his holo-emitter circuits."

"I think I understand," Mikaela said, in a tone that indicated she probably did.

He tapped the other core, located to the right of the spark chamber. "The third part is our memory core. From the moment we come online, we have eidetic memories. Our experiences are recorded and stored and shape who we become. Just as with humans, our earliest memories can influence our later life very dramatically. And bad experiences as younglings can lead to adults who have psychological difficulties."

"Mmm." Mikaela made a noise that indicated she understood that concept perhaps rather too well. He shot her a look, but she didn't seem overly distressed, so he let it go.

"This is a date," he pointed out glyphs engraved on Windy's spark chamber. "See? Here it is again, on the processor core. Sometimes the processor and spark chamber won't have the same date, and that's fine -- it generally indicates the mech got an upgrade somewhere along the lines. However, what should  
_always _match, unless there is a very good explanation why they don't, are the dates on the spark chamber and," he tapped the glyphs, "the memory core."

"These don't match." Mikaela cocked her head to one side, studying the alien characters.

"Windy's spark chamber is about five million years old, though I doubt that is the original spark chamber -- they would simply stamp the original date on the new chamber if they transferred his spark. Eventually, even the most stable of alloys decay and this particular alloy of titanium is not particularly stable ... His memory core is a little more than four million years," Ratchet said, as he reached for a screwdriver then began to remove a cover on the processor core. "He has a _new _memory core."

"Meaning -- a million years of memories, lost?"

"More than that. Effectively, he became a sparkling again when it happened. If you lose your memory core, who you were is _gone_. Effectively, for all practical intents and purposes, you become a new mech. Legally so, even. He was given a new designation and, likely, a new shell. Mikaela, the spark is personality, but it is not _person_. The best analogy I can come up with is that Windy would be seen as the mech equivalent of a reincarnation. Same soul, new person. And to live with that ... it is sometimes very difficult. Because the friends of your former self do not always understand you are not that person any more."

"How many mechs are actually that old?"

Ratchet traced a finger over that ancient spark chamber. If the date was correct, this was one of the oldest mechs he had ever known or heard of. And, simultaneously, the youngest after Wheelie on the base, as he had only been actually awake, with his new core, for a few thousand years. Belatedly, he queried his matrix with Windy's designation. While he was waiting for a response, he said, "I've never personally seen anyone this old. We're a long lived race, Mikaela, but I will admit I am stunned by this ..."

His matrix came back with no information. Bee's might have more; he would need to ask Bumblebee if there were any memories specific to Vermillion in his Matrix.

He got to work, then. First he removed the armor from his forearms, baring painfully delicate struts. He examined those struts for the best spot to attach mounts. They were aluminum, which was so very malleable ... once he decided on the specific location he first disconnected and pulled the hydraulic lines and wires that filled that strut, then drilled a couple of holes through the metal, for power and energon conduits, then handed the limp arm over to Mikaela. "Here, scrub that with degreaser, then wipe it down with solvent." He looked down at Wheelie, "And Wheelie, fetch a bucket of water and some rags, will you? There's a sink in the storeroom."

"I _hate _welding aluminum," Mikaela said, conversationally, as she washed the metal.

"I don't normally have to," Ratchet said, with complete agreement on that sentiment. It was a difficult metal to work with, on many levels.

Working efficiently, now, he put the appropriate holes in Windy's right arm while Mikaela prepped the left for welding. When she was done, he directed, "I need you to fish that energon line from his pump up through his shoulder joint and down his arm to the weapons mounts. Weapons get their own lines."

She started to do so, then said, "Ratchet, there's not space for two lines to fit through the tunnel into the humeral strut without being pinched when he moves his arm."

He paused in his work to study the problem she'd discovered. "Slag," he said, "you're right. It's too narrow."

It took nearly two hours of work to rebuild both of Windy's shoulder joints to allow a second energon line to pass without being constricted. He was, at least, working with a proper med bay, but it was an aggravating complication. Then they promptly discovered that Windy's capacitors were not sufficient to support the load of any weapon. Ratchet swore and stomped into the store room for bigger capacitors_. _Installing them meant that he had to install a motherboard not just to support the weapons, but an upgraded power supply, as well.

"You know how to weld aluminum?" He thrust the business end of a TIG welder into Mikaela's hands. "You tack on the blasted weapons mounts. _I _will deal with the wiring. _Pit _this is supposed to be an easy surgery ..."

He watched her for a moment to verify she did in fact know how to do it. Her work was neat and efficient. He turned his attention back to a third problem which was that the wiring harness for the weapons mounts needed to be cut down to Windy's size.

By the time he finished that, Mikaela had attached both mounts. He took a quick x-ray of her work, declared it better than acceptable, then started double-checking all the connections he'd made.

"Mikaela, your arm's all red," Wheelie said. Wheelie had scrambled up onto the table and was watching the proceedings with interest.

Mikaela glanced at her arm, then said, "Like I said, I hate aluminum. I'd have worn a long-sleeved shirt if I knew I'd be doing this."

Puzzled, Ratchet glanced over at her. He was pretty sure the thermal radiation from her work had not exceeded the tolerance of human skin. She had good gloves now, too. However, her arms did look distinctly pink. When she stripped her gloves off, there was a sharp line between pink (and slightly swollen!) skin and undamaged normal flesh.

Quickly, he cross-referenced "burns+welding" on the internet and realized, to his dismay, that the UV radiation had given her an injury akin to a sunburn. "Mikaela," he growled at her, "that can cause _cancer_."

"Not the first time I've been a crispy critter after welding something," she sighed at him.

"Wheelie," he said, as he gently picked her up and set her on the ground. "Go with Mikaela and make sure she sees Doc before she does anything else. Those burns are going to blister in a few places if we don't treat them."

"Yeah, sure." Wheelie nimbly hoped to the ground. He transformed, then said, "C'mon, Goddess. I'll give you a lift. And damnit! If you needed a shirt, any of the soldiers here at the base would have loaned you one."

After she was gone, Ratchet regarded the tiny little flier thoughtfully. It would be at least an hour before the aluminum cooled, and he could not to attach the energon lines until the heat had lessened. "Manywinds," he said, to the still unconscious mech, "Primus save me from over-eager apprentices."

* * * * *

Doc met them in his office, and scowled at her. Then he glared at her arm, as if the burns on it were personally offensive to him. Then he turned his attention to Wheelie and said, "Scram, kid. You should be in recharge now."

Wheelie started to protest.

"Get. Now. Recharge. You have patrol tomorrow at oh-600."

"Not like there's any Decepticons around ..."

"No, but we've had several attempts by humans with ill intent to access the base. _Go_." Doc pointed a finger in the general direction of the hangar floor and the recharging mechs clustered together at the base of the stairs.

"Might have said, 'thank you, Wheelie, for bringing the girl' ..." Wheelie grumbled.

"Thank you, Wheelie," Mikaela said. "And go get some sleep. I'll be fine."

He shot her a grin and _got_, hurrying out the door. Doc made a clicking sound, perhaps expressing something of his opinion of Wheelie (and she wasn't even sure what that was, so she had no idea how to interpret that alien noise) then said, "Mikaela, your injury could very easily have been prevented."

"Yeah, I know, I should have worn a shirt." Her arms were really starting to hurt now. The effect was exactly like a sunburn, a bad one. "I didn't think it would be this bad, but I got wrapped up in making it perfect. It's not like welding an engine repair, you know. It's his _arm_. So it took longer than I expected."

"Hnnh. Humans are so fragile. The type of welding you were doing generates considerable UV radiation, but it is merely _light_." He caught her hand in his, long metal fingers gently coaxing her to turn her hand over. The thinner skin on the inside of her wrist, just above where the welding glove had ended, was definitely blistered. His fingers morphed, becoming somehow soft and pliant, like rubber, and he gently applied a little pressure to her skin. It dimpled at his touch, going white, and took a long time to flush back to red. She managed not to wince. Even though his hands were unbelievably gentle, it hurt. Even air across her arms hurt right now.

Though, she thought, a UV burn was worth it to be able to claim she'd helped with surgery on an Autobot.

"Well," he finally said, "I have a new generator of nanobot dermal repair gel I'd like you to try, if you don't mind being a guinea pig. I _have _tested this on other subjects, and it has done no harm, but I've never tried it on an actual injury. Only healthy volunteers. I am confident that it will do you no harm, but I am not sure what your trust level is with us yet. I will not be offended if you decline. You may have some minor scarring and an increased chance of skin cancer but this injury will heal on its own."

"It won't turn me into the Incredible Hulkette, will it?" she said, teasingly.

"_One _bad-tempered, not very bright, and overly large soldier who likes to smash things on this team is bad enough," Doc smiled, "Optimus would have my bolts if I gave him a second one. So no. It won't. This is merely a slightly different formulation than before. It works a little slower, so it won't generate so much heat, and it penetrates tissue. It is actually intended to repair considerably more damage than minor skin wounds but this is a good injury for a trial test on it, as it _is _a minor burn."

_Did he just understand that reference ...? _She met Doc's optics. He was so reserved, so dignified, and so _quiet_, that she had never expected him to actually know who the Hulk was. _Dang robots. I think somebody just made a pop-culture module and passed it around to the entire team so they would get our jokes. Bet that was Bumblebee's work. Doc can't possibly _like _Earth comics._

"Cool. You know that you guys are going to make a fortune on this technology, aren't you?"

Doc released her arm for a moment, and produced a small clear glass jar of emerald blue gel from a cabinet.

"Okay," she said, looking at it, "I'm going to turn into the Incredible Blue Hulkette."

He smiled, and said, "Or Dr. Manhattan."

She grinned. "Now _that _would upset Sam. Scar him for _life_." She paused, then added, "If I had to be a blue superhero, I'd prefer to be Nightcrawler."

"Why is that?" He opened the lid, long metal fingers astonishingly nimble.

"I'd like to stay sorta-human, thanks, but the ability to teleport would be uber cool."

He glanced up at her from looking at the vial, expression utterly unreadable for a moment. Then he explained, "The blue coloring is simply a dye."

"Why a dye?"

"Because humans like pretty colors." He swirled his fingers through the gel, then caught her hand again, and began to very gently rub it into her skin. The pain stopped almost immediately as it soaked in, and the color vanished quickly. As the blue disappeared, normal-looking skin was left behind.

"I'm not going to grow horns, or have special super powers, or anything like that?"

"I am afraid not." He released her hand and reached for her other arm. "Would you like super powers?"

"Can you _do _that?" She asked, with no small amount of curiosity. Sometimes it seemed like the Transformers could do anything.

He laughed, then, with real amusement. "Define 'super power' and I can answer that question better. I cannot make humans fly like Superman, as I cannot violate the laws of physics, but a real-life Ironman or Batman would easily be within our ability to create, and I suspect that we could make a Wolverine, as well, with a little work and some research into Nebulan technology." He tilted his head to one side. "Wolverine would be an interesting challenge, truthfully. The Bionic Woman would be far easier."

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Doc? Are you actually _reading _human comics?"

He smiled. "I have familiarized myself with your fictional media in regards to comic book heroes, because some of what I can do will seem very much like a mad scientist's best work."

"Yeah? What do you _think _of Earth comics?"

That earned her a blink of his optics as he considered the question. "Some of the story lines are quite fascinating."

She snickered. She couldn't help it. It was all in the way he said 'fascinating' in a tone that was dry, clinical, and dignified. _Right_. She couldn't always read the emotions of the giant alien robots, not when they were trying to hide their feelings or alien body language and thought processes came into play, but damned if he hadn't just outed himself as a closet comic book fan. That too-careful response was very telling. Perhaps it was the cessation of pain that made her giddy, but she couldn't help but tease him a bit. "So if you could be any hero you wanted, who would you be?"

He gave her a very cautious look. "I have not considered this."

"Riiiight. You know I'm going to tease you more if you don't tell than if you do."

He eyed her suspiciously. "I would prefer not to be teased."

"Embarrassed, are we?"

"No!" He covered his face with his hand. "Mikaela, I am a scientist. My processor core has over a hundred thousand years of functional time. I have spent eons in research labs, studying the hard sciences and applying them to organic medicine. I have the complete genetic profiles of over five thousand sentient organic species in my memory, and I have, since I was a sparkling, been fascinated by how very minor variations of deoxyribonucleic acid can trigger vastly different cell growth patterns in complex organic life. I am considered a specialist in this field, and one of the last. There may be one other Autobot still alive whose research interests parallel mine."

"Yeah, you're really, really, smart. I get that."

"The problem is, _your _world's medical scientists do _not _get this." He eyed her between his fingers. His blue eyes glowed brilliantly in the shadows created by his hand. "If they were aware that I spend my leisure time reading comic books, do you think they would really respect me?"

She grinned. "I see your point."

He chuckled, "And, the answer would be Cutter."

"Cutter?" she didn't recognize the reference, at least, not at first.

"ElfQuest." This time he covered his face with both hands. Voice a bit muffled, he explained, "I am no hero, Mikaela, nor will I ever be, as I am well aware that my true value is as a researcher and not a warrior, but it is fun to dream, is it not? And the story of the alien race, crash landing on Earth and struggling to survive in an alien land, it resonates."

She giggled.

"You're _laughing _at me," he accused, though he seemed amused by her reaction. "Without the restriction of 'blue' who would _you_ be?"

"Oh, Wonder Woman. Totally." She put the little jar of blue gel in her pocket, then sighed. "And I should go track down Bumblebee. I can't leave without at least saying 'hi' to him, and it's hours for me to get home yet. Optimus said he would probably be up very late."

"Why did you even come, today?" He asked, as he guided her out the door of his office with a casual hand on her back. He flipped off the light as he left, and pulled the door shut, and locked and alarmed the door with several swift keystrokes on a keypad, then added, when she didn't answer his questions, "it will be almost three AM before you get home."

"I just can't stay away," she said, which was entirely true.

"Optimus has indicated you and Sam are always welcome. I was simply surprise that you would come on a weekday, and stay so late," he walked beside her as they headed down the catwalk towards the stairs. "It is a very long drive home, and you must be tired."

"I'll be okay. I'll stop for coffee ..."

He fell silent, for a moment, head tilted to one side, as they descended the stairs. At the top of the stairs, he said, in a low voice and sounding apologetic, "Bumblebee says he is still caught up in that conference call, and he does not wish to divide his attention. He is very apologetic."

"I'll bet. Tell him he has my sympathy." She matched his low tones, as they were approaching the cluster of sleeping Autobots at the base of the stairs. Even Optimus was recharging; the hangar was completely quiet and all but a handful of overhead lights had been turned off. Belatedly, she realized Ratchet might have woken Doc to see to her burns, and felt guilty about it. She liked Doc and suspected he, like most of the rest of the 'bots, was working long hours without enough time recharging.

Her cell phone buzzed with a sudden text message. She pulled it out, flipped it open, and glanced at it as she quietly navigated between two of Arcee and First Aid. Bee's message read, "I'll take your sympathy, but I'd rather have you, Sam, and some open road in front of us."

Only Bee could send a grammatically perfect text message like that. She smiled and put the phone back in her pocket ... just as the door of the Peterbilt several sleeping Autobots away silently swung open. Optimus, apparently, was awake. Doc waved at his superior, and obviously assumed she would go talk to Optimus about whatever he wanted to discuss. "Good night, Mikaela," he whispered, then transformed into his ATV alt mode.

She walked over to Optimus as quietly as she could. Even so, she knew she woke a few of the Autobots because Bluestreak's dash console lit briefly as she tip-toed past, Sunstreaker shifted on his shocks, and something under Ironhide's hood clicked and whined before falling silent. Next to Optimus, in the dimly lit hangar, she could see a small Jeep parked only inches from his front bumper. That Jeep was probably Elita. Though she hadn't heard what form Elita had taken, there was only one mech who routinely moved into Optimus's normally sizable personal space like that. The other mechs had given him a few more feet than they gave each other when arranging themselves for sleep, and she wasn't even sure they consciously realized they did that.

She managed not to wake the Jeep. She hoped. Elita didn't stir, anyway.

After his door was shut, Optimus said inside your cab, "How are your injuries?"

"All better. Doc really cares about people, doesn't he?"

"The Decepticons tried to recruit him, early in the history of our war. They offered him everything a researcher could want: a huge lab, assistants, an unlimited budget, luxurious personal quarters, and fame. All I could offer him was a berth on a ship headed for an alien world, and a promise to try to get lab equipment at our destination. He chose our side, and he told me the reason was that the one thing the Decepticons could not offer him was a cause he could believe in."

That sounded about right. She said, "He's so quiet, I'd never even spoken to him much until now." Then she yawned sleepily.

"Mikaela, I do not want you driving home tonight," Optimus said. "Will you stay over? I can have someone drive you home in the morning."

"Stay ... over?"

With complete ease, Optimus pointed out, "This is a sleeper-cab truck."

"Oh." She glanced into the back of Peterbilt where, indeed, he _did _have bunks. He also had what appeared to be a microwave and television and small fridge. It was basically a very small, rolling apartment, though she was somewhat relieved that the cab didn't have a shower or commode as would normally be standard. "Umm."

It was acutely awkward. Crashing out in Bumblebee's passenger seat was one thing; she was so comfortable with Bee, these days, that she felt a bit lonely when he wasn't around. This, however, was Optimus Prime. It was different. Sleeping in his bunks was very much getting in his personal space.

He chuckled, very low, and said, "If it helps you decide, the other option is that I drive you home. Wheeljack says that your vehicle has a number of mechanical deficiencies and it is very late at night. I would much prefer to recharge now, and see that you get home safely in the morning, as I am rather tired. However, I understand that you may not be that comfortable with me."

Oh, God. If she said she wanted to go home she would likely not only inconvenience him, she would also insult him. Optimus had _died _defending Sam, and had been willing to die to save the world, and yeah, after that sort of record, she trusted him. She was a hundred percent sure that if she fell asleep in his bunk she would wake up just fine, no worries there. It was just very weird.

Additionally, she knew he was every bit as stubborn as any other Autobot. She was beginning to suspect that 'stubborn' was as much a Cybertronian species trait as 'good mimic' or 'can do trigonometry at birth'. She was taking him at face value when he said her options were to either accept a ride home from him or sleep over.

"Mmph. Okay, but I warn you, I snore."

"Duly noted." He dimmed the lights in his cab, then, and started to play classical music. "Good night, Mikaela."

Surprisingly, she fell asleep right away, and slept rather well.

* * * * *

Leo's hand on Sam's shoulder woke him sometime well after dawn. He came up swinging, yelling, "... SCALPEL!"

"Ack!" Leo recoiled, as Sam's fist nearly took his nose off. "Sam! Wake up!"

It took him a moment for his heart to stop racing in his chest, and to realize he was safe in his own bed in his dorm room and _not _being pinned down by giant alien robot while a miniature alien robot jacked directly into his brain through his optic nerves. Still a bit hyperventilating, he shot an alarmed look at his clock then demanded, "Fuck, what? My first class isn't for three hours! It's Wednesday. I just have Astronomy at eleven!"

"Fuck, watch the news, man." Leo had a laptop in his hand and thrust it into Sam's fingers.

Sam, confused, and half fearing he would either see his own face or the vast destruction of a city by Decepticons, scrubbed at his eyes then peered at the monitor. A city reporter was standing on a rooftop across a street from a burning building, "... belongs to known Autobot sympathizer Mikaela Banes ..."

_Mikaela_.

"... location unknown at this time ..."

_MIKAELA!_

"... large explosion ..."

_Fuck fuck fuck Decepticons, they are not keeping the truce!_

"... bomb threat called into the local media affiliate before ..."

He lunged to his feet, scrambling for his jeans, which was where he thought he'd left his cell phone. His jean pockets turned out to be empty, however, and his cell phone wasn't on the top of his desk or his dresser. "Phone! Need phone, where's my phone, gotta find my phone! Leo! Phone!"

"Use mine," Leo thrust his own cell phone into Sam's fingers. His face was pale, and his hands were shaking.

Frantically, he dialed Mikaela's cell phone number. It rang four times before a male voice answered, "Yes, Leo?"

"... Optimus?" he said, incredibly, picturing Optimus answering the tiny phone. Likely, however, he had simply hijacked the signal.

"Sam. I thought this was Leo's phone number ..."

"Can't find mine. Why are you answering Mikaela's phone?" He couldn't breathe, as a thousand random wild possibilities raced through his head.

"I thought it best to let her sleep. She was up until one AM last night here."

"Shop! Her shop! Decepticons!" But she was alive. Optimus said she was just asleep. The relief was enormous.

"Sam, slow down, and tell me what has happened." Optimus's voice was utterly calm, that 'do not panic' tone he heard from Bumblebee sometimes, magnified tenfold. The last time he'd heard Optimus actually frightened, Optimus had been dying and Megatron had been after Sam. "Are you injured?"

"No-no! Oh, God, her shop!"

"Take a long, slow breath and then report to me what has happened in a coherent manner," Optimus said. Giant alien robots might not panic often, but Optimus could certainly sound impatient.

He took the deep breath, then tried again, "Her shop's on fire. The news said there was an explosion. I thought a pulse cannon or missile or something."

"Mikaela is not injured. She is asleep in my bunk," Optimus said, then fell silent for a moment. He dressed frantically while Optimus was, undoubtedly, checking Google or phoning someone else, or talking to another Autobot over a comlink. Bunk? Mikaela was sleeping in Optimus's cab? Why_? Where_ were they? He wasn't sure if he should be jealous that she was spending time with the 'bots without him, or just be confused. He opted for 'confused' given the circumstances. Finally, Optimus said, "It appears that there was some sort of explosion at her shop, but Fangface swears it wasn't Decepticon. I believe him, Sam. He is certainly capable of killing humans, but he would not harm Mikaela."

"You called Fang?" He said, in utter shock. It seemed too easy, somehow, for Optimus to simply telephone the leader of the Decepticons.

"I do have his cell phone number," Optimus pointed out, "specifically for such incidents as this. And he has mine."

"Why not harm Mikaela?" He still wasn't entirely coherent, though he felt a bit calmer.

"Because she is important to Wheelie, and, additionally, the attack would have little strategic significance."

"Who died?" He yanked a t-shirt over his head. "They said someone died."

"We are still determining that."

"Where are you at?"

"The base, but perhaps you should meet us at the shop. I will wake Mikaela now. Optimus out."

"Wait!" he said, "Optimus, why is Mikaela at he base?"

"I believe she enjoys spending time with us. And for our part, we welcome her presence. And Sam, until we know what happened, I would prefer if you come to the base also. This may not be Decepticons but it could be malicious. Optimus out." The phone went dead.

_If she was at the shop she might be dead. But -- but -- damn it! I _am _jealous! _It seemed as if Mikaela was spending a ton of time with the 'bots and not even telling him about it.

He turned to Leo, and said, "I'm going to the base."

"Your Astronomy class, and Sam, you _can't _miss any more time!" Leo protested, "You'll get flunked!"

"I know," he said, grimly, "but Optimus thinks it might be some sort of attack. He's worried about me." He shivered. These days, he took those sorts of warnings very seriously. There were scary things in the world. "I'll ...oh, screw the class, half of what that instructor teaches isn't true anyway. You should hear Bee laugh about what's in my textbook. And I sure don't need it for the law degree."

He grabbed his backpack, jammed his feet into sneakers, and ran out the door. He jogged all the way to the parking lot outside, where he scanned the lot for whatever Autobot was assigned the morning Sam-watching detail. They had discussed lowering his security, but had not yet actually done so. He partially suspected that this was because the 'bots _enjoyed _the excuse to get off base.

Last night, his bodyguard had been Skids again. The shift would have changed at 6 AM, and he wasn't sure who he was assigned ad he had not asked. Somewhat confused, he surveyed the parking lot without seeing any obvious Autobot vehicles. _I miss it always being Bee. He has other responsibilities now, but I _miss _seeing Bee every single day._

A little blue Jeep flashed headlights at him from a location three rows away. He took that as a clue, and headed in that direction. When he was within about ten feet, the Miata said, "Sam, it's me. I just got this alt mode yesterday."

"Elita?"

"Yes," she confirmed, opening her door. "That's right."

"I'm surprised Optimus sent you out on guard duty." He was under the impression that Elita was an officer, ranking just under Magnus. He buckled up even as she was pulling out of the parking space.

"I don't report to Optimus," she replied, "... ever. It's a conflict of interest. And as far as active duty goes, now that I am repaired, I will be taking a shift just like the others. Ironhide is currently handling scheduling. There are too few of us to allow anyone to be idle."


	29. Chapter 29

Author's note: The "... And Buffy staked Edward" t-shirt is real, and I own one. There is also an absolutely hysterical video that I love lots that expands on this. Google "Buffy Staked Edward The Video" to find it.

* * *

"Mikaela ..."

The voice was deep, a little rough, and insistent. Sleepily, she muttered, "Yeah, Dad?"

"Mikaela, it is Optimus. You need to wake up now."

"Da ..." his words registered, and she sat up on the bunk. She was painfully tired, and blearily blinked through the door and into the front of the truck. And her dad was dead. She remembered that belatedly, with a bit of shock -- so many things had happened so quickly that this didn't seem entirely real yet. "Prime? What's up?"

His engine rumbled to life. "Bumblebee is outside. You need to speak to him."

"Oh. Nnnh. Okay." She raked her hands through her hair, aware that she probably looked like Medusa. She'd left her purse in the Mustang, and -- oh, hell. It was Bee. He'd seen her in the morning plenty of times before, looking this bad. Hell, he'd seen her _camping_. The whole thing with sleeping over at the base, in Optimus of all 'bots, had her completely disoriented.

"Optimus, thank you," she said, jamming her feet into her shoes, then stepping forward into the front of the vehicle. Optimus opened the door for her, and she hopped down.

Bumblebee, looking scarily grave, stood just outside. The hangar was empty, and brightly lit. Belatedly, she realized it was late -- maybe he just wanted to take her to work. "Oh, shit, I had to be at work ... I thought you'd wake me up!"

"I believe your employee would have opened for you," Optimus said, behind her, sounding just a wee bit defensive, "the younger one arrives at eight, does he not?"

"... Damnit, Optimus ..." She could trust him with her life, but not, apparently, trust him to be her alarm clock. He'd decided she needed sleep, and to hell with her job.

"Mikaela," Bee said, drawing her attention. His tone of voice was very sober, and completely unamused. At first, she thought he was about to scold her for cussing at Optimus, but he dropped down to one knee, and rested an enormous hand on her shoulder. "We are very glad you were not at your shop last night. It was destroyed. I am so sorry."

"My ... no, that can't be right." Destroyed? Her shop? Her business? Destroyed?

His blue optics met hers, then he slowly shook his head and looked away. "It is correct. I have already had Lennox speak to the police. It is a complete loss. There was a large blast, and they believe a car bomb may have been used."

"My shop ..." she swallowed hard. "... My employees?"

"Both accounted for. The media is showing pictures of it, and the building is leveled."

"DAMNIT."

He still would not meet her eyes. "We have been worried about Decepticons, Mikaela, but the police believe this act may have been done by someone who disapproves of your friendship with us. There was a threat delivered to the media before the blast happened."

"Well, _frag _them. Damnit, I worked so hard, Bee ..." Cold anger filled her, mixed with despair, and wild and giddy disorientation.

"I know." He sat down, and gently urged her to lean against the warm, bumpy metal of his chest by pressing his fingers gently against her back. "I'm so sorry, Mikaela."

"I don't have insurance. And ... and there were customers' cars in the building. Oh, God, there was Mr. Sallyson's classic 'Vette and ..." she clung to his bumper.

"... and _you _could have been in the building." His voice hit a deep, rumbling tone, two octaves lower than his normal voice, that was near deadly in its intensity. Autobot, pissed, that. She'd heard them do that before and it was a very alien thing -- lower voices during moments of real rage. He was quivering, almost shaking. "Blast it, Mikaela, you could have died. For what, because we are your _friends_?"

His hand swept lower, scooping her up and lifting her higher. He covered her with his other palm, fiercely protective, wrapping her in the safe cage of his hands. He was swaying back and forth, holding her close to his very lumpy and bumpy shoulder. "Mikaela, if anything happened to you or Sam because of your association with us, I would grieve so very, very  
much. It would destroy me."

"I'm fine. I was here." It was funny, it was almost as if she was reassuring him, comforting him, and not the other way around.

"I don't know _why _you were here ..."

"... I was lonely." That was an easy admission. "The apartment's so quiet at night. It was driving me nuts. I decided to take a drive, and ended up here, somehow."

"Thank Primus for that," Bumblebee wasn't letting go of her. His grip on her was gentle, but fierce, all the same. Over the top of her head he asked, "Optimus, may I make a request?"

Optimus said, "Bee, I can anticipate what you are going to ask ..."

"Both of them. Here. I want them both here. Please, Optimus."

Bumblebee sounded like he was ready to give Optimus an argument. Optimus, however, simply said, "By next weekend our compound will legally be an embassy. I've already asked Lennox if he can provide some trailers for human staff. It is Mikaela's choice, but if she wants to become part of that staff, she is welcome. Mikaela -- I do not want you to answer that now, but be aware that Ratchet has been asking me to hire you on as a medic in training since that day you saved Sunstreaker."

"I ... oh." She couldn't find words. She had lost her home and her business, and been offered the chance to live within the Autobot compound itself, all at the same time. _I was lonely, last night and ended up here ... _How easy a choice this would be. "Thank you. Both of you."

"And Sam?" Bumblebee demanded. "What of Sam?"

"Elita has already picked him up, and he is on his way."

"What of keeping Sam where we can protect him?" Bee clarified.

Silence, from Optimus, for a moment. "We will speak to him, Bumblebee, but do not forget that he is attending school and it is almost an hour drive."

Bumblebee whined miserably, wordless in English and probably without meaning beyond emotional in Cybertronian, as well. Then he stated, "They would have killed her!"

Optimus transformed behind Bee, then crouched down to be on both their eye levels. "Bumblebee, they may have set that bomb last night knowing no one was home. It may not have been an attempt to murder, merely to destroy property. Or it may have been much worse. We cannot know yet. But ..."

"... we dropped her security detail." Bumblebee sounded angry, and interrupted Optimus. He was never rude to his leader; Mikaela sometimes thought he was a little excessively polite to Optimus, given the casual banter she'd heard the other officers exchange with him. "I thought it would be fine."

A human would have been rubbing her back, and hugging her, Mikaela realized. Autobots were not, as a rule, touchy-feely. Bee's hands around her were still, and the way he was holding her was not meant to comfort -- it was protective. He was keeping the world from harming her. And she _knew _by the tone of his voice just how badly he must have been frightened. Hesitantly, she said, "Bumblebee, I'm okay."

"I know," he turned her attention to her, "and I am so, so sorry that I thought it would be safe enough. We did not think of human threats, only Decepticon ones. I could have lost you -- Sam could have lost you ..."

"Bee," Optimus clearly heard the terror in his voice, as well. His voice was completely calm. "We will _talk _to Sam, and we will reinstate her security detail. For now, however, she is fine. And FBI agent Sarah Nielsen just arrived at the base. They're calling _me _because you did not answer your cell."

Bumblebee heaved a very, very, _very _annoyed sigh. "I apologize, Optimus. -- Mikaela, I'm in charge of the Autobot side of the security detail for Optimus next week as of the last staff meeting. It seems I'm our resident expert on human behavior."

"Security detail?"

"We are not particularly worried about harm to Optimus," he was still swaying, but talking about something other than the destruction of her home seemed to calm him. "However, we are worried about humans harming other humans -- which makes what happened to you all the worse, because we could have anticipated it. We've seen the FBI reports on anti-Cybertronian groups. They are out there, and they are gaining traction. We should have been more careful! The event is causing agitation among them."

"I haven't really been watching the news," she murmured, "is there really that much of a bad reaction? You guys _saved the world_."

"Yes," Optimus said, "There was a march in Mission City last week -- about a hundred thousand people attended. And one in Paris, with an equal number, and some violence."

"Oh."

"And," Bumblebee said, "you should see some of the malicious hatred on the web. We are not surprised by it, but it is disheartening. One of the reasons we're giving so little notice to the world about Optimus's speech is we want to prevent an organized march of millions against us. However, this means _we _are also scrambling to get things organized."

"Bumblebee! Optimus Prime!" A woman's voice shouted. "There you are."

Bee half turned, and greeted her with an, "Agent Nielsen, it is good to meet you in person, finally."

The woman was dressed in a pants suit, very professional looking, and probably, to Mikaela's eye, former military. Her hair was pulled back into a stern braid, and she walked with an aggressive stride across the hangar, pumps clicking on the cement. Square shoulders, fit, and a sharp, alert look in her eyes. A couple of the N.E.S.T. soldiers trailed after her, certainly functioning as guides and minders. She walked right towards the two mechs without evident fear, and with a clear goal in mind.

Bumblebee set Mikaela down, and, when Nielsen reached them, introduced her. "Agent Nielsen, this is Mikaela Banes."

Mikaela was suddenly aware that her hair was uncombed, she was wearing yesterday's clothes, she hadn't brushed her teeth, and, probably, her mascara was running. She was wearing yesterday's makeup too. Obviously, her appearance was frightful, because Nielsen gave her a questioning look and said, "Are you _okay_?"

"Not really," she replied, candidly.

Nielsen gave Bumblebee a suspicious look. Mikaela caught that look, realized the woman thought Bee might have done something, and stepped closer to Bumblebee. Bee put a hand down on her shoulders. Mikaela explained, "My shop ... my business, my home ... they blew it up. We think because I'm friends with the 'bots."

The woman's lips pursed into a thin frown, then she said, "I'm sorry." She paused, then said, in evident recognition, "You're Bee's friend from the videos."

Optimus said, tone very gentle, "Nielsen, I'll attend the meeting with your people in Bee's stead. I will send him a recording of our discussion when we are done and can call if him any questions arise regarding subjects you have already discussed. I've already rescheduled my other obligations. Bee, Elita's going to meet you at Mikaela's shop -- will you meet her there?"

Nielsen turned her attention to Optimus. She nodded curtly. "That will work. Ms. Banes, and I am sorry to hear about your business. It is fortunate that you were not there."

* * *

Ironhide was a hulking giant of a mech, Manywinds thought, as he trotted after the soldier. 'Hide was heavily armed, and even more heavily armored, he had the brusque manners of an ogre when he was pissed, and at the moment, he was pretty angry. Word of the destruction of Mikaela's home had spread rapidly around the base, and most of the Autobots were reacting with a deeply personal sense of affront. Mikaela was well liked, had done nothing wrong, and had been attacked simply because she was their friend and, the feeling went, because she was an easy target.

"Prime," Windy asked, "Bumblebee's very fond of the human couple, isn't he?"

He was fishing, a bit, trying to figure that relationship out. It was clear they were close, but _how _close?

Ironhide grunted. "Call me Ironhide. Or 'Hide. Anyone calls me Prime, I start looking around for Optimus, or wondering what they want from me."

"Yes sir. Bee said much the same thing."

"Bumblebee is smart. It's confusing to have a Prime reporting to a Prime so we're trying not to remind the others of it. If the officers present a unified front, the troops follow. Optimus is _the _leader. We follow him, and that is the end of the story," Ironhide explained, "And to answer your question, yes, he's very fond of them. We all are, but Bee ... honestly, I've never seen Bumblebee quite that attached to anyone, and I've known him for most of his life."

"Really?" Bee seemed friendly enough. Windy would have though that the young scout would make friends very easily.

"Hnnh. I think the two of them fill a need for him that we can't. He's been a soldier almost all his life either scouting alone, or fighting and killing things with us, and sometimes leading troops into battle, as the need arises. He's never had a chance to just be a mech. Those two treat him like he's a friend, and expect nothing more from him than friendship. For Bee, maybe, that's what he needs right now. He can lower his walls around them."

'Hide was silent, for a moment, as he asked the control tower for permission to cross the runway. He didn't encrypt that transmission, and Windy heard it: a gruff demand, a polite response. Then Ironhide transformed and said, "Hop in."

He did, knowing they would need to hurry across the runway while the tower stopped any air traffic. When he'd settled into the passenger seat he continued, "Prime thinks Bumblebee could be a great leader someday, you know, somebody we really need. But he needs to be more than _just _a soldier to make it there. So he's been encouraging Bee to reach out to the humans. It's good for him. It expands his horizons."

"Ah."

"And I don't think Bee's complaining much," Ironhide chuckled. His wheels bumped over onto dirt, and he started bouncing down a washboard track towards the gunnery range. "He loves those two and my only concern is how he'll react if something happens to them. It's a good idea to have Mikaela here, but Sam is attending school. I believe, however, Sam's mother may be about to demand he drop out."

"The concern is more human threats than Decepticons, correct?" Windy said, then grabbed for the panic bar over the window as Ironhide shot over an uneven patch of road so fast that Windy nearly hit his head on the roof.

"For the moment. None of us think Fang is particularly interested in revenge, and that would be the only reason anyone would hunt Sam, for the moment, as far as we can figure." Ironhide slowed marginally at a checkpoint, to allow the guards time to lift the gate, then rumbled through. "Why?"

"I'm a scientist, Ironhide. I'm not a warrior, and never will be. Not by mech standards." He ran a hand over the laser rifle newly mounted on one wrist. It was cold and hard under his fingers, an alien thing attached to his strut. The other wrist held a very small pulse cannon. He could not conceal either under his armor as the larger mechs did. The weapons felt oversized and awkward; not part of his body. He was pretty sure Ironhide considered his guns an extension of his very Spark.

"And?" Ironhide asked, when Windy didn't immediately come to the point.

"As a scientist, I would prefer to be where the other scientists are. The institute that Sam attends has a sizable department with studies that parallel mine. I would like to see if they will allow me to audit some anthropology classes, and perhaps share information on _our _culture with their researchers, and give me an office and research facility. Perhaps pair me with a human who could apply for grants. And, also, to further my studies, I would like to live on the campus." He let a sly tone touch his voice, "I expect they will be quite cooperative when they realize we have ten breeding pair of Australopithecus in the hold to sweeten the deal and that I am not above bargaining with other research institutions for a position if they do not meet my requirements."

Ironhide snorted. "They also will not allow you to bear arms on campus because it makes 'em real nervous to see guns. They only tolerate the Autobots who guard Sam because they can't exactly ban all cars from the entire campus, and we're hard to detect, and it's hard to tell if we're armed unless we want you to see the guns, anyway. Part of the reason we have different mechs pick Sam up now is that this makes it harder for any enemies to know who, and where, his protection is."

Windy shrugged. "I expect I'd still be able to take down a human threat."

"Don't bet on it," Ironhide snapped, "You weigh less than a human man, and they tend to fight in packs." He hesitated, then allowed, "As additional protection at night, however, it may be to our advantage to have you living there. I will discuss it with the others."

"Seriously. I think I could deal with a human."

Ironhide's snort of static made her jump. "Maybe. But without hurting the human? Unlikely. Optimus's rules. We don't hurt the humans. Ever. Even if they hit first."

"Why?"

"Because he thinks it's wrong. Maybe he's right, dunno. There's definitely an inequality of power there. We don't _need _to hurt them, if we're trained right, to defend ourselves." Ironhide bounced through a dry riverbed, not slowing down much for the rocks. "But you are not trained, and you are not a typical Autobot. I will give you the skills and knowledge that I can, but I will worry about you nearly as much as I worry about our humans, Manywinds."

"You take humans into combat," Windy pointed out.

"Hrmmm. Yes. And they die, in combat. That is their right -- this is their world, and ridding it of Decepticons is their fight too -- but they _die_. They die far easier than we do. As will you, if you are incautious or unlucky. And your greater value to us will _be _as a researcher. We would prefer that you not fight anything, Manywinds, but we cannot guarantee your safety. How can we ask you to protect anyone else?"

He wanted to argue but suspected that would provoke another lecture. He held his peace, deciding to save this discussion for later, after he'd proven himself a bit. However, Ironhide wasn't done. He continued, in a quieter, more thoughtful tone of voice, "One of the basic differences between Autobots and Decepticons is that our leadership -- and that includes me, for what it's worth -- believes that _all _sentients have a right to life. That includes sentients we don't personally like, such as obnoxious organics that try to slag us."

"Yet you kill Decepticons." Windy thought that was a point worth mentioning.

"Yep." He downshifted and plowed his way up loose sand, climbing out of the dry riverbed. "When it comes right down to it, I value my life just a bit more than I value theirs. If they're violating _my _right to life, I'm going to stop that threat. They started it, they're more than equal opponents, and we have a right to live too. And individual 'cons do not _have _to be Decepticons. Optimus has standing orders that any 'con who defects shall at a minimum be granted Neutral status. As you've seen with Wheelie, sometimes we allow them to join us."

Ironhide fell quiet, for a minute, then said, "I want to emphasize that: We do _not _start fights. I've seen Optimus personally offline a soldier who violated a truce and slagged a Decepticon who didn't start the fight. And that action by that soldier caused the 'cons to attack us. We lost several mechs in the fight that followed. So for multiple reasons, we do not _start _things. But we can, do, and will kill other mechs in battle. What we do not, ever, do is kill humans."

"What if the human is about to kill _me_?" Windy wanted to know.

"Even then, we don't fight back with deadly force. Optimus's orders. And we've held to that rule even when it was very difficult to do. I watched them capture and haul Bumblebee away, and I didn't know if we'd get him back alive. They did try to hack him. Wish we could have stopped it -- I know that haunts him. But it turned out for the best that we didn't, because I don't think we would have the relationship we have now with the government if we'd killed their soldiers in that fight. Likely, they would have hunted us to the ends of the Earth. So mebbe Optimus is right." He sighed. "Or maybe not. But those are the orders, and that's what we do, no matter what. You understand?"

"Yessir."

"Good." He paused, then added, in a very grim tone of voice, "You ever violate those orders, the penalty's immediate offlining until the end of the war. Optimus is serious about that, and I have no doubt he'd do it. There would be a trial when we have the resources to do so. If the war never ends, if we simply die out as a species, then you would never wake up."

"I ... understand."

"An additional rule you should know, when it comes to weapons: Optimus has a two-strikes rule for assaulting other Autobots, and will offline you after the second offense pending a trial at the end of the war. I don't mean pranks, or a bit of bickering that turns into a shoving match or a little friendly hazing. But you better not go after another 'bot with deadly force unless you've got a blasted good reason, and can back that reason up with hard evidence. And he _will _do it. You've met Silverbolt, right?"

"... Yeah."

"Silver was part of a combiner team, once upon a time. A true gestalt, and a tighter bunch of five I'd never seen. Three of those mechs are dead. The fourth, Air Raid, and Silverbolt were the last two survivors of their group. Raid was a bit of an idiot, but Silver loved him very much." Ironhide slowed down at a second checkpoint, then spun his tires when the gate lifted. "Anyway, we had to leave another of their brothers behind, because Slingshot could _not _be saved. He was wounded and falling into the gravity well of a gas giant, and we had no way to retrieve him. And there was a huge army of Decepticons bearing down on our afts."

Ironhide fell silent, for a moment, probably remembering that tough decision. Then he continued, "We'd have lost a lot more than Slingshot if we tried to save him. Raid didn't like that, and fired on me, and a few others. Injured some mechs. That was his first offense."

"That's horrible. He must have been frantic. I ... I've had a relationship like that. If anything had happened to t'Grethi ..."

"Raid could hear Slingshot screaming over the com. We all could." Ironhide sounded unhappy. "But it doesn't matter. He used dangerous force against us. You fight for the Autobots, you need to be prepared -- well, Optimus says no sacrifice is too great for the cause of freedom, and he means it. He expects us to adhere to that belief. Means you may be called upon to give your own life, or watch your loved ones die, if the need is there. Harder to watch those you love die, than die yourself, for most of us. But it happens. That's just part of war."

"Air Raid needed to sacrifice Slingshot."

"And couldn't." Ironhide slowed, coming to a stop in a field that was backed by a good-sized hill. The hill was pocked with craters, and had targets set up on it. Windy reached for the door, and discovered it was locked. Ironhide continued, "Raid spent some time in the brig for that, got busted back in rank, and there were some other punishments, but he was, eventually, put back on active duty. However, that incident was on his record, and it's a permanent black mark. Then ... well, Optimus had a second in command named Prowl. Prowl was a tough old mech, and they just don't make them like that anymore. He was all soldier, and when a couple of mechs under his command got pinned down behind enemy lines on some forsaken methane moon, he hatched a plan to get 'em out. With _him _leading."

Ironhide's sigh made the truck vibrate, and he seemed to sink a little bit down on his shocks. "His calculations were wrong, and he took a bad hit. He was leaking energon all over the place, and at risk of losing his spark. We had to get a medic and supplies in to him or he was going to die. At the time, Raid was on the injured list and not able to fly, and the only other flight-capable mech was Silver."

"Oh." Windy suddenly guessed where this was going. And he had met Silver: tall, gangly, a little awkward in protoform. "Oh, dear. Silverbolt's not much of a fighter, is he?"

"He can, if pressed, and he'll give his all, but no. He's not a fighter." Ironhide paused, and seemed to weigh his words before continuing, "He is loyal, however, and he would sacrifice anything we asked in the name of our cause. And in this case we asked him to fly a dangerous mission behind enemy lines because the cost/benefit analysis came out on the side of trying to save Prowl. We knew there was a chance we would lose Silverbolt, but Silver was one flier and Prowl was tactically more important to our army."

"Air Raid disagreed."

"Air Raid," Ironhide ground out, "snapped. He started out ranting and raving, and then he began shooting. And when Silverbolt tried to stop him, he _shot Silverbolt._ He said he would rather Silver die at his own hands, than die at Decepticon hands."

"That's ... Pit! He must have been mad."

"Insane with terror, grief, whatever." Ironhide's voice was a low, deadly growl. "We offlined him after that. He'll face a trial at the end of the war. I seriously doubt Silverbolt will ever look him in the eyes again; Silver might have forgiven being shot, but he was disabled, unable to fly, and because of that we lost Prowl. The mechs with him were dead when we finally got some foot soldiers to them, and we never found Prowl's body. I expect the Decepticons took him and hacked him and after that, we truly do not know what happened. He may be dead. He may be alive. And I am truthfully not sure which is worse, for if he is alive and functional, he is probably buggy as all frag with viruses. Glitched to the pit and gone, and no longer my friend Prowl. Unrecoverable, likely."

"Why ..." Manywinds hesitated. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Ironhide. It must be hard to live with."

"Feh. Out, Shrimp."

Windy scrambled out as Ironhide transformed. He stared down at Windy, arms folded, and a fierce expression on his face. "Reason I'm telling you this is -- well. Put yourself in Raid's tracks. He _loved _Silverbolt. And they were potentially sending Silver to his death."

"T'Grethi," Windy said, closing his eyes. "I'd have ... I'd have stripped my bolts in a panic if anyone tried to do that with him."

"Mmm. And before now, you get upset, you might hit somebody or kick somebody or throw something. But odds are, you won't kill anyone, or even do any real damage, as long as your targets were other mechs." Ironhide's blue eyes fixed on Windy's pulse cannon. "Now? With those weapons? You _can _do some real damage. You have a responsibility, to yourself, to others, and to the cause, to keep a cool head. You can no longer afford childish displays of temper, or selfish bouts of emotion."

Windy swallowed hard. "I ..."

"I'm not done with you," Ironhide dropped down to one knee, and reached for the plasma cannon on Windy's arm. He closed his hand around both the cannon and Windy's wrist. Though Ratchet had gone over the controls with him yesterday, 'Hide did it again, with blunt efficiency. "This cannon has six safeties. Five are programmatical. You _think _something might be threatening? You charge your capacitors but don't remove the safeties. The capacitors are a bit of a power draw, but there's also about .025 of a second to charge 'em. While they're charging, by the way, a good tactic is to fire your laser cannon at the optics of whatever's coming after you. It's not much more than a nuisance for any Cybertronian, but it'll keep 'em distracted while you ready your heavier weapon. Got that?"

He nodded.

"Okay. Five programmatical safeties. Number one prevents you from firing the cannon, period. Number two prevents you from firing at anything that will be damaged by the blast. Number three stops you from firing at a life form. Number four stops you from firing at a _sentient _life form. Number five stops you from firing at friendlies."

"Why would I ever want to fire at a friendly?"

"Charge your capacitors, kid." Ironhide poked at the cannon on Windy's arm, doing something to the manual settings. While he worked, in an almost distracted tone, he said, "And say the leader of the Decepticons has your best buddy in a headlock as a hostage?"

"Oh. It would stop me from shooting the leader?" Comprehension dawned. And he obediently initiated the brand new routines that fired up his brand new power system.

"It would stop you from fragging both of them together," Ironhide informed Manywinds. "Remember what I said about sacrifices."

... and comprehension turned to horrified understanding.

"The sixth safety is manual. You can release it with a servo -- have you found the routine?"

Manywinds nodded, but didn't demonstrate. Ironhide had the barrel of his cannon pointed directly at his chest. That didn't seem safe.

"See this button?" Ironhide indicated a switch on the back of the gun, pushing it down so they could both see. "If you're ever so injured that you can't access the gun's controls with your processor, that is for manual fire. You take the safety off this way ..." he pushed a lever under the gun with one thick finger, "... aim it at whatever you want to shoot ..." Ironhide pointed the pulse cannon, and Windy's arm, at his own chest "... and get your _fingers _out of the way, you stupid glitch ..."

_Glitch? He just called me a glitch!_

Anger flared at the insult, which was severe -- fighting words, as the humans would say.

"... you lose your hand to your own cannon blast, Ratchet will laugh his aft off, and probably weld the new one on upside down."

Windy made a fist, fuming, so that his fingers weren't possibly in the line of fire. He also wrote a quick subroutine reminding himself not to blast off his own hand.

"Better. Safety's off. All you have to do to shoot whatever it is you want to hit is to ..." Ironhide reached for the button "... fire it."

The cannon _exploded _with heat and light and energy and ... frag, Ironhide had been pointing it at his own chest and had pushed the button and ... Primus, he had to be dead! "NO!" Manywinds screamed.

Ironhide popped up from the ground, so quickly Windy barely had time to register the motion, leveled his own pulse cannon, and hit Windy with a blast. It was like being hit by a freight train. Windy flipped end over end and hit the ground so hard that his circuits reset.

When he came to, it was to a screaming world of error messages. And fury. "_Slag _you!"

"Get up," the old weapons master snapped.

"What? You _shot _me."

"And what did you just learn?" Ironhide stared down at him. "And _get up_."

"You _shot _me."

"Obviously." Ironhide reached down, grabbed Windy by the arm, and yanked him back to his feet. "You're not hurt."

"I don't _feel _not hurt," Windy shrugged free of Ironhide's grip and folded his arms. He was going to be sore for days, as minor damage auto-repaired.

"You're _not _hurt. I hit you with the lowest power, on the widest dispersal. You have no permanent damage. So stop sniveling." Ironhide's voice was positively menacing now. "What did you just learn?"

Manywinds was sorely tempted to take another shot at Ironhide, this time of his own volition, and aim for 'Hide's head. Surely, his pulse cannon could fry Ironhide's optics, if nothing else ... it had done nothing more than leave a charred mark on Ironhide's armor, and the blast had been from point blank range. And at full power.

"_Pit_," Windy swore. "That didn't hurt you at all."

"Don't you want to hit me?" Ironhide growled. "Aren't you furious at me?"

Manywinds cocked his head at Ironhide. "Love to, 'Hide, but I think you're deliberately trying to provoke me. You are testing my responses, right?"

Ironhide suddenly ... relaxed. "And you pass the test, if you can give me an answer to my question."

Manywinds forced his rattled processors to focus on Ironhide's words. Question? What question? Oh, right, Ironhide wanted to know what he'd learned. Windy grinned. "That you're a ruthless son-of-a-glitch who I should be terrified of. Also, my best weapon can't blister a well armored Decepticon's paint even at point blank and full power."

Ironhide snorted. "You might damage their paint, if you were lucky. You _will _remember that now, won't you?"

Windy's response was profane. He followed it with, "I thought you were going to be dead. And you knocked me out with a low power blast?"

"Less power than that gun of yours has," Ironhide confirmed. "Mind, that gun ..." He grabbed Windy's wrist, and before Windy could react, he aimed it at a nearby scrubby desert tree, "... can do a _hell _of a lot of damage if it hits something less formidable than proper Cybertronian heavy armor and a force shield."

The tree exploded into splinters.

"Now imagine what that would do to a human. Or to a mech Wheelie's or Doc's size. Or to my head, if I didn't have my force shield up when you fired." Ironhide released Manywind's arm.

Windy's processors stuttered in reaction to the images that Ironhide's words produced. "I ... yeah, I get it. Man, I thought you were just going to show me how to operate my weapons."

"I am," Ironhide snapped, "teaching. _Now_, however, we will focus on blowing things up. Targeting, that's the easy part. Knowing when to shoot, what to shoot, and the time to hold your fire and run like hell? _That _is what I teach new soldiers."

"Yes sir."

"And," Ironhide frowned at Windy, "I do wish you were bigger. You haven't screwed up yet, kid."

Somehow, that minor praise made Manywinds feel like he was thirty feet tall. He grinned.

Ironhide huffed something that Windy didn't quite catch, then pointed out a rock. "See that? It's a Decepticon. Kill it."

Windy eyed the old soldier for a moment, then inquired sweetly, "Can I pretend it's you, instead? Might be easier to pull the trigger. I think I'm going to have nightmares about you shooting yourself with my gun tonight, thanks a _lot_, Ironhide."

Ironhide roared a laugh. And Windy decided he wasn't quite as mad at Ironhide as he'd believed.


	30. Chapter 30

"... so he said, 'Can I pretend it's you, instead?'" Ironhide chuckled, as Ratchet inspected the damage to 'Hide's armor an hour later.

"You've got two sensory nodes offline," Ratchet shook his head in disbelief at Ironhide's training methods. He'd been shaking his head at Ironhide for millennia, though he had to admit that the troops that didn't run screaming from Ironhide in the first few days turned out pretty decent. He'd trained Arcee, Bee and Bluestreak, among others -- Blue was their best sniper. Ratchet wasn't about to admit that, however, as harassing Ironhide counted as good entertainment in an otherwise aggravating day. Instead, he scowled at the chest plate. "And you bent a clip on this piece of armor."

"It'll heal," Ironhide said, dismissively. "Don't worry about fixing it."

Ratchet snorted. "It'll heal in about a week, _if _you don't do anything stupid in the meantime. Given you have nineteen more troops plus the Teletraan to put through your special brand of orientation, I don't expect you'll be avoiding stupid behavior. And while it is healing, you can't feel your bumper. Sit." He pointed at a medical berth.

'Hide growled something that wasn't quite words under his breath, but he did sit down. Ratchet, grumbling right back, grabbed the appropriate tools from the appropriate drawers (and since Grip was refusing to set foot in the med bay on the general principle of the matter, he had rearranged things to suit himself) and set to work repairing sensors. "Ironhide, I swear by Primus's Spark, one of these days you're going to have a trainee die of shock when you shoot yourself with their gun. Their spark will just go poof, and evaporate."

"Stop your bitching," Ironhide snapped back, "it keeps them from thinking that their guns are the answer to every crisis. Which reduces your workload. Yes?"

Ratchet said a rude word.

"Ratchet," Ironhide said, thoughtfully, and not, exactly, trying to change the subject, "What do you think of Windy?"

"Think?" Ratchet glanced up. Though he knew that Windy wasn't even remotely the sort of mech that made Ironhide look twice, he couldn't resist teasing, "Why, you looking to start courting?"

Ironhide spluttered, "... No!"

Ratchet chuckled darkly, pleased by the fact that he'd made Ironhide react with indignation. "Now, now, he has such pretty colors ..."

"Oh, slag you, Ratchet." Ironhide scowled.

"All done," Ratchet shut Ironhide's armor with a snick of smoothly catching clasps. "Minor, this time."

Ironhide then clicked the armor on the back of his hand off, and extended it towards Ratchet. "While you're at it, will you look at the gears in my fingers? I think there's sand in them."

"... Windy could look at them for you ..." Ratchet teased, earning himself a black look, but he snagged a small brush and bottle of canned air from a shelf, and then bent over to have a look at the joints. There _was _sand there -- quite a lot, actually. It probably hurt, and equally probably, Ironhide had been ignoring the problem for days.

Ironhide winced as Ratchet poked at his thumb joint, but only said, "The reason I ask is I think he has a crush on Bee."

Ratchet glanced up at him. "Who doesn't?"

Ironhide pretended to give the question some serious thought. "Sunstreaker, maybe."

Ratchet snorted a laugh. This was an old joke between entire team, and one that they'd shared _with _Sunny a few times. "Yes, because Sunstreaker has a crush on himself that leaves no room for anyone else."

"Not entirely true. He does love Sideswipe." Ironhide's correction was minor. However, having actually commanded both Evil Twins, he probably felt a bit honor-bound to defend Sunny, who was an idiot, but not completely so. Given what Ratchet knew of the twins' history, perhaps it was a miracle that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were not complete sociopaths.

Ironhide continued, "And most of that 'tude of his is defensive. He's as bad as Blue when you get right down to it. Both of them are scared to death. _I'm _scared not _of _Sunny, but of what his future holds. You know that if you ever get Sunny in a melancholy mood and get him actually talking, and he's definitely one of us. He just doesn't show it well. He'll make the right decisions in a crisis. Has, in the past. Will, again. We just have to keep him from self-destructing in the doldrums between emergencies."

"He shot Mirage." That story was near legendary.

"Mirage ... pretty much had it coming, the way I heard it." Ironhide sounded merely amused by this. "I'm not entirely sure that should be a black mark on Sunny's record. Mirage picked that fight with Sideswipe, won it by underhanded methods, and then found out that he really should have factored Sunstreaker into his plans for revenge against Sideswipe's pranks. And, also, that clever illusions are not proof against a pulse cannon set on wide dispersal and used enthusiastically."

"Hnnh. Okay, I'll grant you that point." Ratchet turned serious, and asked, "Any idea what Bee thinks of the Windy?"

Ironhide shrugged. He had no clue.

Ratchet drummed his fingers on the table for a moment before saying, "Any idea what Bee thinks of his humans?"

"Mikaela and Sam?" Ironhide didn't have to pretend this time; he seriously mulled Ratchet's comment for a moment. He would lie if he claimed he hadn't wondered about that before, though excessive thought on such matters wasn't really his style. Most of his past evaluations of the situation had been in the context of Bumblebee's likely responses to threats to his friends. So far, Bumblebee had behaved appropriately and rationally and -- when it was a human threat -- in a decently restrained manner when danger from humans threatened the two. Beyond verifying that Bee was following the spirit of his orders, he hadn't really concerned himself with Bee's emotional connections. That was ultimately Bumblebee's business.

Though, because Ratchet was asking, Ironhide finally said, "I'm not sure it matters what Bee thinks. And Bee's smart enough to know it, and logical enough to not torture himself too much over what could never be. The humans just aren't _programmed _right. Not for what we need when we seek partners."

"That's sort've what I've been thinking." Ratchet found a rock in the gears and pried it out without bothering to offline the related sensory node, making Ironhide curse at him. "Quit complaining, you're not a sparkling. You'd bitch more if I wasted your time with killing the pain signals first. And maybe we should encourage Bee and Windy."

"Hnnnh. As a distraction?"

"As another option." Ratchet flexed Ironhide's wrist, apparently decided he didn't like what he felt, and towed Ironhide by the hand over to the med bay's x-ray machine. He pushed Ironhide's wrist down on the plate and ordered, "Don't _move_."

Ironhide scowled at the machine (and pointedly not at Ratchet, who would smack him upside the head if he did) and held still as Ratchet had commanded. Ratchet triggered the machine, and then took several x-rays at a variety of angles.

"As far as Windy and Bee go," Ratchet said, thoughtfully, as he downloaded the x-rays to his processor to review, "Bumblebee's asked to have Windy stay here and be assigned to his team when the ship leaves for Nieryl Six. I say we make sure that happens."

"Mmm. They're delivering cargo containers for us to make actual private crew quarters with tomorrow, too. Let's make sure they get quarters next to each other." Ironhide grinned, then voiced an opinion he wasn't shy about having. He'd told Bumblebee himself this a few times. "I tell you, Ratchet, it would be do Bee a world of good to find someone. I don't really care who, as long as they're sane, but _someone_."

"So _you_ like Windy, then?"

Ironhide shrugged. "I don't have an objection to Windy. He did good on the gunnery range for his first time. Nice level head. Gets mad, but keeps thinking even when he's pissed off. He'd make a great scout if he was bigger."

"That would be your sole criteria for judging the worth of a mech," Ratchet chuckled, sounding very amused.

"You've got to admit you can tell a lot about someone by how they handle their guns," Ironhide replied, less amused.

Ratchet paused, for a second, as he compared an old set of Ironhide's scans to new ones. There _was _a problem in his wrist. "And then, of course, if this works and they form the tightest bond ever and we have to separate them for their own good, and for the good of the cause, you get to deal with a Bumblebee moping for the next several millennia. You _sure _it's a good idea to encourage things?"

"War's got to end someday. I'm thinking of Bee's future. He's going to be a Prime, and a good one, when all is said and done. Primes need friends. A partner they can trust, and rely upon, that's even better."

Ratchet changed the subject with a a grunt. "'Hide, you have two teeth missing off your dorsal ulnar gear, and a stripped carpal screw. What were you _doing_?" Ratchet now led Ironhide by the elbow over to his workbench, shoved his hand down on the top, and said, "Don't _move._"

"I don't have time ..." Ironhide tried to protest.

"If your wrist seizes up in a fight, you'll wish you took the time." Ratchet smacked Ironhide in the head with one hand on his way past, causing a loud clang of metal on metal to echo out the door and down the hall. He stalked into the storeroom, rummaged through several bins, and located the appropriate parts plus a kit of small tools. This was a repair that Ratchet knew nanos _could _do, given a little time and immobilization of the joint (or a reckless use of energon, and their supplies were still very tight), but it was certainly easier and less fuel intensive just to fix it with a quick bit of surgery. This was particularly true since Ironhide was very unlikely to wear a splint religiously.

Ratchet continued, a bit annoyed by the fact that Ironhide hadn't mentioned the problem, "You should have told me about this when it first started hurting. The damage to the screw is secondary. What were you _doing_?"

"Helping one of the base mechanics change a flat tire."

Ratchet looked up at him, and raised an optic ridge.

"The jack didn't work."

The other ridge rose. Picking a car up by hand was well within Ironhide's design tolerances.

"It was an APC. It was raining. The poor humans were shivering."

Ratchet snorted. Then he poked Ironhide's shoulder armor, finger clicking on the metal. "Open up. I need to kill your sensory nodes. Even _you _won't be able to hold still when I start taking apart your wrist joint."

Ironhide grumbled under his breath, but complied, releasing the catches. Ratchet set the plate of armor down on a berth, then hooked a datalink cable from a handpad to the sensory node and sent the commands to disconnect it. 'Hide's entire arm from the shoulder down went dead and limp, armor sagging and cables falling slack.

"Coulda just shut off the hand," Ironhide complained, reacting with displeasure to the paralysis.

"Coulda. Except if you were picking that much weight up I expect you fragged your own elbow, too. Right?" Since he was currently arranging the arm to his satisfaction on the desk, he glared at the offending wrist rather than up at Ironhide's optics. Then he offered Ironhide what he knew would be a less appealing alternative, "If you'd like, I can just remove your arm at the shoulder and give it back to you in about two hours."

"Pit. Ratchet, there's mechs hurt a lot worse than this that haven't seen you yet -- you still haven't fixed Optimus."

Ironhide clearly did not like the idea of walking around without his arm, and Ratchet had counted on that to convince him to cooperate. However, Ironhide had brought up another point that Ratchet had been meaning to mention. He said, "Optimus's injuries are bad, but I need about twelve hours of his undivided time to fix them, because I'm going to have to offline him to do it. Have _you _seen him stop moving for twelve hours? I haven't. I've tried, 'Hide." Ratchet unbolted the missile launcher on Hide's wrist, set it aside with more cautious respect than he generally gave the mech who bore it, then clamped Ironhide's arm to the edge of the work bench with the inside facing upwards. He pointed a work light at the wrist, popped the armor plate off, and sprayed everything with degreaser from a rack at the back of the bench.

When the soapy fluid ran black with grunge, Ratchet couldn't resist needling Ironhide, "And do you _ever _clean your joints? Geeze, Hide, I swear you're worse than a sparkling. I find more dirt and crap in your gears than I do in Hound's."

Ironhide sighed, as Ratchet mopped at the grungy fluid that ran out of his arm and across the desk. "I've been out on the gunnery range most of this week. It's a desert. Dirt happens. Bee's been busy, you've been busy, and I'm sure not asking Optimus right now to help."

Ratchet knew that. But it was fun to hassle 'Hide, and see him squirm. He continued, mentioning the mech he knew was Ironhide's least favorite civilian, "Grip generally has lots of free time. He's an idiot, but he's a well trained idiot. I'm certain he could figure out how to field strip and clean armor and joints, and I'm equally certain you could convince him to do it."

Ironhide's snort was expressive, and lacked actual words.

Ratchet stuck a tool into the damaged gears and started removing screws and bolts. He added, "By the way, when I'm done here, I was hoping to get you and the other officers together in a conference call. Optimus _does _need to be repaired, and he's avoiding me, and I'm going to make time in my surgery a medical order. If I have to I _will _pull rank on him."

The Chief Medical Officer, currently Ratchet, outranked even Optimus when it came to the troop's health care. Even -- or, perhaps, especially -- when the injured mech in question _was _Optimus, Ratchet's word was final. It would not be the first time that Ratchet had bullied Optimus into the medical bay. And he feared it wouldn't be the last.

"Mmm. When's a good time for that?" Ironhide's tone indicated he fully agreed with Ratchet.

"We can overlap with his recharge cycle, but he's only been recharging for about four hours at a time."

"Primus, he's shorting himself."

"Well," Ratchet said ruefully, "I think I had three hours last night after I was done with Windy. You?"

"Six," Ironhide admitted, feeling almost bad about it, though nine hours of recharge was normal.

"Oh, that's downright _decadent_." Ratchet chuckled. "So, we're all shorting ourselves, and no, I'm not going to yell at him about his recharging habits. If he begins fritzing all over the place, we'll get Grimlock to sit on him and I'll manually take him down. Until then, it's just affecting his processor speed and not enough to really matter. If it was _Teletraan _who wasn't recharging the suggested amount, now, I'd throw a fit."

Teletraan, always listening in the background, said in his usual mild tone, "I recharged 9.2 hours today."

"Good boy." Ratchet, who was not at all surprised by the comment, ironically saluted a bulkhead after quickly glancing up from his work on Ironhide's wrist. Teletraan kept an absolutely rigid schedule.

Ironhide shook his head, "Eh. Optimus's too smart to let it get to the point of damage. If you take him offline for twelve hours that will give you time to run a deep defrag on his cores, too, while he's under, right? So -- ideas for a time?"

Ratchet had already thought this one through. "He's got a teleconference scheduled with the president and his cabinet for about four hours tomorrow night. Then his four hour recharge cycle. Then a six hour block escorting tourists, ah, dignitaries around on Saturday morning. Magnus and Roddy are already on board to cover for him with the tour, and Elita's rearranging schedules to cover _their _obligations. That gives us fourteen hours total -- I'd like a bit of cushion for the work."

"The meeting with the President sounds important."

Ratchet nodded. "Probably, but the president is also a reasonable man. I've e-mailed him and explained that Optimus is neglecting his medical needs in favor of political wrangling. He's already said we can postpone and that _he _will back us up if Optimus argues. Then Optimus has his recharge scheduled, then a half hour for responding to messages and a debriefing with the rest of us, then on Saturday morning Optimus had a meeting planned with the local mayor and his council. Elita and Hound will cover that."

"Optimus is going to be ticked off." Ironhide didn't sound worried about this. Mostly, he sounded amused. It was rare that the entire team conspired against Optimus, and this was wholly an appropriate reason.

"Optimus can be ticked all he wants." Ratchet extracted the damaged gears with a pair of forceps, dropped them on the counter, and broke open the seal on the metal container with the new pieces. He held a shiny gear up. "Look at this -- factory new. I haven't seen factory new parts since I was living in Iacon."

"Mmm." Ironhide picked the other one up and peered at it. "Long as they work, I don't worry myself where the parts come from."

Ratchet clicked the new gears into place, closed everything up, then inspected Ironhide's elbow joint. "I'm going to leave this elbow alone. There's a little bit of stripping here, but if you don't overdo it, it will heal." He hit the nanobots already clustered in the area with a focused energy beam that they could convert to extra power, then added, "Recharge with an EM generator on your arm. And if you come back and the damage is worse, I'm taking the whole limb. It doesn't _need _you to auto-repair, you know. And don't you _dare _put that cannon back on for at least six days."

That last medical edict earned him a rude word from 'Hide. Then, when Ratchet turned the sensory node back on, Ironhide swore louder.

"Sorry, go put some oil on that. WD-40 is a human concoction that I'm beginning to swear by," Ratchet replied to the profanity, unapologetically, and knowing exactly the reason for Ironhide's outburst. It took new gears weeks to seat in properly and the slight mismatch at the wear points was enough to trigger painful sensory errors until his nanobots and general use refined the fit. Ratchet slapped Hide on the shoulder. "Go on, get out of here. I've got an appointment with Doc in a few moments."

"Something wrong with Doc?" Ironhide picked his gun up with his good hand.

"Nah. I'm taking an hour break to discuss some theories with the doctor."

"Mmm. Which generally means you two are plotting some major scientific breakthrough."

Just to keep him guessing, Ratchet offered mischievously, "Or a really good prank."

Ironhide huffed a sigh. "I'd believe that, but we're all too busy for fun."

"Don't I know it. I'm about to make _have some fun _a medical order for the whole blasted team. And get out of here, now, before I decide to see what damage you've done to your other arm." He fixed a stern scowl on his faceplate.

Ironhide, laughing, retreated. Only after he was gone did Ratchet allow a geniune smile to lift his features. Hassling Ironhide was always guaranteed to put him in a better mood, and he just didn't have enough time to do it these days.

* * *

  
Mikaela had lived in some pretty rough neighborhoods in her life. In some of them, her neighbors had burned their trash on a regular basis. The smell wafting off the ruins of her shop and home -- burning plastic, charred wood, smoldering rubber, steam -- was familiar. It was a burning trash heap on a gigantic scale.

The landlord was not pleased. His building was a ruin. Never mind that she had lost every single thing she owned save the clothes on her back and her purse and a POS Mustang with no hood and a bad starter, he was furious and she was a convenient target. He'd been harassing her since she had arrived thirty minutes earlier. She was very glad that Sam had not yet shown up because Sam would have likely done the man some physical damage. However, his aggressively nasty temper had attracted the attention of the police, and he now had his very own minder -- though Mikaela wasn't sure if the landlord realized that the cop was actually watching him to make sure he didn't do anything stupid, rather than just generally standing around.

"... this is _your _fault!" He screeched at her, fists balled, and probably oblivious to the reality of the giant alien robot that was the Camaro behind her. Mikaela stood across the street from the property, with Bee parked on the curb in front of her, and glass from shattered windows crunching under her feet. She wanted to walk away from the man, but couldn't. There wasn't anywhere else for Bee to park, as the street was clogged with emergency vehicles and rubble, and she didn't want to leave the safety of Bumblebee's proximity.

"She wasn't even home," the officer -- his badge said 'Davis' -- said, sounding tired. Mikaela thought the officer knew about Bumblebee, but Bee was being very quiet. There was media here, and he had already warned her that he didn't want to give them a second show.

She wasn't exactly on her own. Just Bee's presence was comforting. However, she wished he could transform and stand behind her, a solid and looming presence. It would shut the landlord up in a hurry. And she'd come to appreciate his unbelievably gentle touch. Comforting physical contact didn't do much for Cybertronians -- it wasn't in their programming -- but he had learned that he could calm her by putting a soothing hand on her back or shoulders.

"_She _brought this down on me. Probably did it herself!" He was a pasty, skinny little man, balding, with missing teeth. He'd been a lot friendlier when she'd given him a fat deposit and signed the lease paperwork, three months ago.

"Her alibi is rock solid," the cop pointed out, sounding far more patient than Mikaela herself felt. "She was three hours away at the base all night. They log all visitors coming and going."

"Shoulda been home!" The man took a step towards her.

Mikaela stood her ground. "Oh, fuck you. You've got insurance. I've got ... I've got _nothing. _After I pay my employees' salary I'm going to have two hundred forty-three dollars in the bank. All I own now is the clothes I'm wearing."

"Pretty damn nice car," the man observed, glancing at Bee.

The cop gave Bumblebee a long, measuring look before finally stating, "She doesn't own the car. The car owns itself, if I understand everything correctly."

The night that Mikaela's father had died was very much a blur. However, she thought she'd recognized the officer as one of the men present at the shop. That clinched it. He definitely knew who Bumblebee was. _Brave man_, she thought, _to get involved here. He has to be wondering what Bumblebee will do._

The landlord's eyes went wide. He also knew that Mikaela was a friend of the Autobots, but it apparently had not occurred to him that her ride might be one of them. "That's one of ... one of _the aliens?_" He whispered, in a strangled whisper.

Mikaela sat down on Bee's hood, resisting the urge to giggle hysterically. She patted Bee's quarter panel and said, "This is Bumblebee."

"Shit." The landlord stared. "Those things -- those things are why they burned the place down. And now you brought one here?"

"And here I thought you said that _I _burned the building down. I must have misheard." Mikaela was certain she didn't imagine the click and whine of capacitors powering up somewhere deep within Bee's frame. There was zero chance that Bee would use his weapons on the landlord, but she'd gotten pretty good at reading the unspoken meanings in Autobot actions. Charging weapons capacitors, in a context like this, had pretty much the same meaning as an uplifted middle finger.

"Maybe you did," the man's eyes glittered with anger. "Anyone crazy enough to be friends with those things ..."

What the hell ... it wasn't like he could kick her out of her own home now. She lifted her own finger up and demonstrated her opinion of the man. "You're an _ass_."

He stared at her, face beginning to turn an unpleasant red color. Officer Davis said, "Hey, now, there's no need for that."

Bee's radio clicked on, and Lisa Marie Presley's 'Idiot' began to play. The landlord didn't get it, but Mikaela did, and so did the cop, who gave Bumblebee a sharp look, then glanced at the building's owner. The owner was still glaring at Mikaela and appeared to be completely oblivious to the fact that he was being dissed in song by an alien robot.

"That's enough of that," Davis said, finally, mustering the courage to talk to Bumblebee directly, and tell him to knock it off. Mikaela wasn't surprised when Bee's radio cut off in mid note, but the cop's eyebrows rose when he realized Bee had listened to his tentative command.

Mikaela took the opportunity to tell the policeman, "Bumblebee's under strict orders to obey reasonable requests from human law enforcement. For what it's worth."

"Who defines reasonable?" The cop asked. He sounded like he wanted to laugh, perhaps lose it entirely, but was holding on to control of the situation with grim determination. It was a serious question. She rather pitied the officer -- he was stuck with the task of babysitting a rather irrational human, Mikaela (who was avoiding hysteria by sheer willpower), and a real live alien. Said alien was big enough to squash the cop flat, and the officer, from his standpoint, had no idea what the alien might do. _And _Bumblebee had, as one of Davis's colleagues had previously observed, some big damn guns. Cops as a rule did not like to deal with people with big damn guns, nevermind sixteen foot tall alien robots.

"I do," Bee spoke up, making the landlord jump a bit and edge away, "but 'reasonable' would be anything that doesn't put my life, or the lives of my team or friends, in jeopardy."

"Oh." The policeman ran a hand over his face, and said, "Okay. That's, err, reasonable. I guess."

"We have diplomatic immunity," Bee added, "though _my _commander would have my bolts if I broke a law without very good reason. If it's not life-or-death, the punishment he gives would be worse than anything human society would dictate."

Mikaela thought, _Well, small white lie, buddy. The diplomatic immunity doesn't take effect until next week some time, along with legislation defining Cybertronians as having the same legal rights as humans. And I swear that the latter is because someone got wind of Doc's work to the money-makers in Congress and they want a share of the taxes and/or the profits. The 'bots are entirely smart enough to use human greed to their legal advantage if it secures them a real place in this world._

"That's ..." The landlord looked from Bumblebee to the smoldering rubble and then to the police officer, and finished with a hard glare at Mikaela. "Oh, fuck this."

He stalked off, got in his own car, slammed the door, and roared off.

"Thank _God,_" Mikaela murmured.

"Primus, what an idiot."

The policeman flashed a very brief smile when Bumblebee expressed his opinion, but then he asked seriously, "Miss Bane, do you have a place to stay?"

"I've got friends -- I'll probably stay with the Autobots. They've already offered." She ran a hand along Bumblebee's quarter panel, the warm metal vibrating ever so slightly with the energy of his life force. The whine of his capacitors faded slowly away, and she felt him shift his weight around on his wheels. "It'll be safer. People are getting nasty. And it's so ..." She trailed off. The cop was silent, listening to her. _Really _listening, she realized. She had his undivided attention. Maybe the 'I'll stay with the Autobots' line had done it. She smiled faintly. "It's so unnecessary. Once you get to know them, they're people like anyone else. And they're not dangerous -- not like people seem to think."

"There's some pretty scary videos out there ..." the cop said, hesitantly.

"I can guarantee that Bumblebee was furious, a minute ago, at that man." Mikaela stroked his hood without even thinking about it. He couldn't feel the touch as anything more than a slight vibration, so it was purely for her own comfort. "He's pretty damn protective of me and Sam. But you saw what he did."

"The song," the cop noted.

Mikaela smiled. "And for all that ass knew, it was just a random song playing on the radio and not deliberate. And that's typical of the way most of the Autobots would react -- I've never seen an Autobot seriously threaten a human, even when absolutely enraged. The worst I've ever seen any of them do is pour used oil on a human's head. Maybe a bit of intimidation, from Optimus, but we had been kidnapped ... And let's just say Simmons had it coming. Both times."

Bumblebee chuckled, very quietly, and added, "Simmons is still an idiot, but we've moved past that. And the oil was my stunt. Optimus lectured me at length for it later, too, once all the drama was over."

Mikaela sighed, and raked a hand through her hair. She needed a shower. She probably still looked a fright. And she regarded the shop -- the damage was incredible. The building was leveled. Surrounding buildings were damaged. There was a two foot deep crater and the mangled ruins of a pickup truck in the road. Businesses half a block away had lost their windows. She had started out horrified, then had moved to pissed fear, and was now transitioning to vexed annoyance. A car bomb? _Really_? She'd survived Megatron, Starscream, even frigging _Devastator_. "Sir," she asked, "whose responsibility is it to clean up the mess: mine, or the landlord's?"

"His," the cop said, "though you might want to talk to a lawyer."

"I have two hundred and forty-three dollars to my name," Mikaela said, "and twelve cents. A lawyer will have to wait."

"He should have insurance on the property. If he doesn't, that's not really your problem," the office offered, tentatively.

Bee chirped, drawing her attention to him. "You're not legally responsible, Mikaela. I just checked. He will need to pay for the waste removal services and any rebuilding he wishes to do. He can seek compensation from the criminals who did this, assuming they are captured, or any insurance he may have purchased."

"Oh, _goody_." She took a certain malicious glee in that news.

"However, as you had no renter's insurance, you will also have no way of recouping the loss of your property. I am sorry."

She swallowed. "It's not the tools. I mean, I worked hard for them ... but my grandfather's lighter was in there. _Damnit_. And some photos of me and my Dad ..."

"I cannot replace the photographs of your father," Bee said, quietly, "but I did see him a few times. I can generate some images for you, if you would like."

"My grandmother has some. I think." She patted his hood again. The cop listened, but said nothing. "So I can get some copies from her, I guess."

"Sam, Elita, and Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky are arriving," Bee said, just as a small blue Jeep rounded the corner. Elita, apparently not as currently wary of cameras as Bumblebee, transformed after she let her passengers out. The reporters clustered a hundred feet away collectively reacted with excitement, turning their attention, and cameras, from the firefighters still extinguishing hot spots to the Autobot. An officer held a hand up, warning them not to chase after the 'bot.

Elita surveyed the scene calmly, without evident excitement. She was now tall and leggy, with metallic blue armor. After taking in all the damage and undoubtedly cataloging the location of all humans watching, she crossed the street in the direction of the rubble.

"'Kaela!" Sam ran to her and folded her into a hug. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry ..."

"Mikaela," Mrs. Witwicky, three strides behind her son, hugged _both _of them. "You worked so hard ... I'm so sorry. All your work, your tools, all burned ..."

"I don't have any insurance," she mumbled, into Sam's shoulder, but speaking to his mom, "I don't know how I'll repay the money you loaned me now for the funeral, without a job ..."

"Don't worry about that one bit," that was Sam's father, resting a hand on her shoulder. "Pay us back when you can. Whenever that is."

"We're making Sam leave school," Mrs. Witwicky said, "it's just too dangerous. My baby's in _danger._"

"Mom ..." Sam protested. "I've got the Autobots with me."

"Don't 'mom' me," she said, sternly. "You _see _what they did to her shop. If she'd been home she would be dead. D-e-a-d! Dead!" Mrs. Witwicky's voice hit a near frantic tone, "And ..."

"But ..." Sam tried to interrupt him.

Bumblebee interrupted both of them with a loud squeal of static. Mikaela interpreted that as a very vexed sigh. Sam likely understood the intent as well. The Witwickys just jumped, and Mr. Witwicky said, "... I thought he fixed that problem."

Bumblebee ignored the comment, and said, firmly, "Sam, I spent over a year in your family's garage, and I have spent weeks on campus with you, and have sacrificed much to keep you safe. Now we ask that you -- temporarily -- sacrifice your immediate desires to keep yourself safe. I _will _protect you, to the end of my days if need be, but this will be much easier to do if you help us all by moving to the base."

"In other words," Mikaela translated, "You're being selfish. I don't know if you've noticed this, but the 'bots are running themselves ragged as it is. If we move to the base, not only do we lighten their workload a bit, but we can also _help_. I don't know about you, but I'm all for helping them."

He flushed, and, jaw set, said, "Optimus said -- Dad said -- school!"

"Things change," she said, mercilessly. Sometimes, Sam could make her crazy.

"My folks spent ..."

"I'd go bankrupt to keep you safe," his father grunted. "School can wait. In a year or two, hopefully things will blow over. Meantime, you get to travel the world with aliens. Chance of a lifetime. Take it, boy."

"Travel?" Sam squeaked. "Who said anything about travel?"

"Well," Bumblebee said, "we're going to California next week, for starters, for a speech for Optimus and -- well, now there's talk of a reception afterwards. I can certainly put you to work basically immediately, running errands for things I can't handle over the phone, or dealing with civilians. We were going to hire human staff anyway. We _trust _you, Sam, and you would be number one on the list of people to hire."

Sam blinked. "I don't know anything about ..."

Mrs. Witwicky said curiously, "A reception? What kind of reception?"

Bumblebee's sigh was distinctly aggravated now. "Optimus is going to give a big speech next week, on Friday afternoon. Afterwards, the plan is that we have some sort of party for the influential people of your world to meet us. We would like it to be fairly informal, a casual setting where we can actually mingle -- you do understand, Mrs. Witwicky, that we are trying very hard to tear down the instinctive walls between our peoples. Humans are scared, and try to see us as monsters. We want to make sure your important folk know who we are, and see us as _people_. An effective way to do that is to socialize with them, and generally be friendly and accessible."

"... Sure is an improvement over living in my garage," Mr. Witwicky patted Bee's roof.

"Mmm. But I'll note _you _aren't afraid of me," Bumblebee pointed out. "You've come to see me as a person."

Mrs. Witwicky giggled. "Secretly? He wants a robot Camaro of his own, Bee."

"And my point is made," Bumblebee's response was serene.

Elita padded back across the street, causing the policeman to step backwards and the rest of the humans to absently make room for her, so she would be standing in a circle with them and not talking over someone's head. She stated, "I concur with the belief it was a vehicle bomb, likely using something akin to dynamite. I'm picking up traces of nitroglycerin. It was not a particularly large explosion, but certainly would have been fatal to anyone in close proximity to it. Due to the rudimentary nature of the explosive, I do not believe we are dealing with a Decepticon attack."

Mikaela leaned back against Bumblebee. She didn't know how to react, honestly. Her home was _gone_. Her business. And they'd probably tried to kill her.

Elita crouched, bringing her nearly to eye level with the humans. "Officer," she directed her comment to the policeman, who was watching her with fascination, "do you require anything else from Mikaela?"

"N-no."

"Then I propose that we remove ourselves from this location. We are drawing a crowd, and that cannot be safe with the amount of glass on the ground and the possibility of a flare-up of the fire. Additionally, those who did this could return and react badly if they found Autobots or our human friends here."

"G-good thinking." He was gamely standing his ground, and pointedly keeping his hand away from his weapon, but he looked scared.

Elita tilted her head, that Autobot-body-language gesture of 'I'm thinking, and possibly talking on the com link to someone, give me a second' that Mikaela had become very familiar with. Then she said, "Bumblebee technically is our human point of contact, but he has been extremely busy lately. I am Ultra Magnus's assistant, and Magnus reports directly to Rodimus, who is one of our Primes. If I give you my contact information, will you use it, should any Autobot-related issues arise? You may pass the information on to your fellow officers and your superiors. If I cannot help you I will immediately refer you to the mech who can."

"Errm. You mean like a bat signal, or something?" The officer's eyes were huge in his face.

"Like a phone number," Elita corrected his assumptions. However, she seemed amused by the reference, and Mikaela added another mech to her list of Autobots who were acquainting themselves with human pop culture. Elita's next words, in a somewhat teasing tone of voice, confirmed Mikaela's suspicion. Elita said, "A bat signal would summon the wrong hero."

That little bit of humor did it -- the policeman relaxed visibly. "I should probably go through the proper channels, but, sure, I'll take your number."

"If you have time, by all means, follow procedures." Elita nodded understanding of that. "However, if need to reach us in a hurry, you'll have our number. Also, we're always happy to answer simple questions. Open lines of communication are going to be very important as we establish more of a presence here."

"... presence?" The cop said, nervous again. "Are you guys -- moving in, or something?"

Elita sighed, "Officer Davis, my people are a battered, dying race. We are effectively refugees, and are looking for nothing more than a safe refuge. We intend to make it an equitable relationship with humanity -- our science in exchange for sanctuary on this world. Additionally, and quite frankly, Earth will _need _us. This is an energy-rich world and the Decepticons would be only too happy to conquer it and steal its resources. They have done so in the past, to other worlds."

"Oh." He blinked a couple of times.

"In other words, Officer," Mrs. Witwicky said, "They're _not _writing a book entitled 'How to Serve Mankind.'"

That earned a laugh from the humans, and a pause from Elita as she very obviously searched for the reference. She chuckled slightly after she found it.

Bumblebee's contribution to the banter was a clip from a Weird Al Yankovich song: "Just eat it, eat it, just eat it, eat it; Just eat it, eat it, just eat it, eat it, ooh ..."

And Mikaela, at that point, dissolved in hysterical, and seemingly unstoppable giggles. Her world was reeling about her -- home destroyed, father dead, relationship with Sam shaken -- but Bee was still Bumblebee, and _God _it felt good to laugh at his antics. She ended up leaning against him, forehead resting against the roof, and suddenly, the laughter turned to tears as something terrible twisted inside her. The emotional pain was sharp as glass.

"'Kaela, 'Kaela, it's okay, stop, it's okay ..." Sam's hands plucked at her shoulders, trying to pull her away from Bee. "Mikaela, look at me."

"Mikaela," Bee said, voice holding command, "trust Sam."

She looked up at him, then, and Sam pulled her into his arms, and held her tighter than he had before. "It'll be okay," he whispered, "Mikaela, we're all here for you. It _will _be okay. You'll see. I promise."

_Bumblebee_, she thought bitterly, _doesn't make promises he can't keep. _

But she let Sam hold her close. Buried her face in his shoulder. And let him rub her back and continue to mumble futile guarantees. "Mikaela, Mikaela, we'll find them. We'll get 'em arrested. They'll have to pay for this. I promise. I promise. This is stupid. They can't do this you. I promise the cops will find them, I promise ..."

After a couple of minutes, Bumblebee said in a deeply apologetic voice, "Mikaela, I need to go. I have a meeting scheduled that I cannot miss -- I cannot neglect our security next week, or the safety of the attending humans, no matter how much I want to stay with you. Elita will take you to purchase some clothing and any other items you may need, and then bring you to the base. Lennox assures me that we will have housing set up for all of you by this evening."

"You're leaving?"

Something of her panic must have been audible in her voice, because Sam said, "Hey, hey, I'm here."

He sounded wounded by her instinctive reaction to Bee's departure. Something twisted in her heart, and it was hard to breathe. She'd just heart Sam's feelings -- made him doubt her, and she knew it. Bumblebee didn't doubt her. She also knew that. He understood. Sam, by contrast, was probably wondering why she'd just basically said she preferred Bee's comfort to his ... and she just could _not _deal with that right now. She didn't want to see the hurt in Sam's eyes, didn't want to _hurt _him. Almost literally, she couldn't.

"I am sorry, Mikaela." The Autobot hesitated, for a long moment, before repeating, "I am _sorry_. I have duties, however, and I _will _see you this evening. You will be living with us. That will make everything so much easier."

Sam added, "And I'm here. Right? I'm here. You'll be okay, I promise."

_Oh, Sam, _she thought, _don't make promises you cannot keep. _

And yet, as Bumblebee pulled away from the curb, she found she couldn't let go of Sam. Even when his parents steered them towards Elita's back seat, she clung to him. Even as she wondered what _he _was thinking of her, she couldn't let go. She didn't want to, and she was deeply relieved when he simply put his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head, and rocked back and forth. He kept murmuring things she didn't want to hear and she tried not to listen to the words and just hold him back.

"I love you so much," he whispered, "I promise you, I love you so much ..."


	31. Chapter 31

Author's note: Special thanks to KittenCeez for beta reading for me!!!

* * *

"There's base housing," Lennox said, somewhat apologetically, as he led the way up to the two small trailers, "But it's a couple miles away from here, and the 'bots were pretty insistent that you live within shouting distance. I think you guys have officially been adopted into their family or something like that, maybe close to literally."

Sam was somewhat bemused by the fact that the Autobots had automatically, and without even discussing it with him, included his parents. And even more to his amusement, his folks had accepted the offer of employment -- and, more importantly, protection -- with the 'bots. His father, eyes gleaming, had said to him on the ride over, "A chance like this only comes along once in a lifetime, son. You _bet _I'll take a job working for the heroes."

His mom seemed more concerned about their safety. Also, she seemed eager to keep an eye on him. Sam wasn't entirely thrilled with that, but he figured he'd survive.

Mikaela had gone from openly crying to silence on the ride over. She was just so distraught. It hurt to watch. She was the strong one -- the girl who'd taken out two Decepticons, who fixed cars for a living, who had courage and heart to try to save the life of a dying Autobot while simultaneously burning her bare hands to a crisp. He had simply stood there helplessly, when she had been given the task of saving Sunstreaker's life, unsure of what to do. Mikaela had, with sheer bloody-minded determination, saved him. Mikaela was tough, and smart, and capable.

God, he loved her so very much.

It hurt. It hurt to see her cry out for Bee because he hadn't wanted Bumblebee to leave much either, at that moment. Bumblebee was safety, and protection, and their own personal guardian, and so much more. He had no words to describe how much it hurt to see her pain. He had no idea how Bee had found the strength to leave, though given Bee's responsibilities (including Optimus's safety!) he intellectually understood Bumblebee's logic.

The promised trailers were just that: two small house trailers. They were singlewides, and Lennox had said something about them being 'FEMA trailers' and promising that the air quality was within acceptable ranges, whatever what meant. Apparently, they were a sort of government surplus.

His mother laughed, looking at them, "Oh, God, Ron. Look at those things. They're pitiful."

"I'm missing my lawn already," his father grumbled. "Ah, well, it's not forever, right? And you can't beat the view."

"The view is of an airport runway," his mom said, sounding puzzled.

"Well, yeah." His father paused to watch as a pair of F-22s landed. "Like I said, awesome view. Hey Lennox, do you think we could build a deck out here?"

"That would probably be a good idea," Lennox said, "most of the 'bots won't be able to go inside your home anyway. If you've got a place outside to hang out, that would make things easier if they're coming over to visit, or talk shop. My wife and I spend a lot of time out on our porch when 'Hide or Ratchet are visiting."

"We'll be having Autobots _visiting_?" His mother squeaked.

Lennox's smile was tolerantly amused. "The funny thing about Autobots is, is that they're _friendly_. They're also curious as all hell about humans. So yeah, expect that they'll be social on a pretty regular basis. Some, more than others. Bluestreak's like an overgrown puppy."

Mikaela's chuckle was surprisingly strong. "A deck would be awesome."

"We'll see what we can do." Lennox gestured at the houses, then addressed the Witwickies, "Anyway, two homes. I didn't know if Sam wanted to stay with Mikaela or with you two, figured I'd let you guys figure it out."

"Oh, Sam needs to stay with Mikaela," his mom said, brightly, even as Sam felt his skin burn with sudden embarrassment. "They're old enough."

His father chuckled. "I suspect he'd be sneaking out every night, otherwise, and tiptoeing over there. Yeah, what the hell, you're only eighteen once."

His mom said brightly, "Just make sure you two use protection."

Sam groaned and covered his face with both hands, and said between his fingers, "You're killing me, here."

Lennox snorted. "Good advice."

"Aaaaaaaaugh. I'm dying, I'm dying." Sometimes he wished his mother was a prude, just to avoid moments of utter humiliation such as this.

Fortunately, they'd reached the metal steps up to the first trailer's door. Lennox handed him and Mikaela sets of keys after unlocking the door, then rammed his shoulder into it hard. The door seemed to stick a bit before popping open. Inside, the trailer smelled faintly of stale cigarettes, though an AC unit was pumping out ice cold air -- air conditioning being mandatory even in September in the Nevada desert.

It was, somewhat to Sam's secret dismay, a one bedroom unit. It had a bedroom, a small kitchen, and a big living room. Mikaela stuck her head in the single bathroom, then emerged with her nose wrinkled and said to Lennox, "I'm going to need something to clean that with. Whoever lived in this thing last did _not _believe in scrubbing the toilet."

"Eww," his mother concurred. Then she sighed. "We're going to move some furniture here from our house. How do we arrange getting clearance to get a moving van on base?"

Lennox said, "You talk to Magnus, who will borrow a trailer from us and help you move. He's already anticipated that you will need to move some stuff, and said he's made room in his schedule this afternoon."

"Magnus?" His mother said, blankly.

Sam grinned. "He's Optimus's brother. Same size. Slightly less prone to dramatic speeches."

"... Oh."

Sam decided having his parents around might actually be fun, if only because he got to hear his mom say 'oh' in exactly that tone of dumbfounded surprise.

"... They have _brothers_?"

* * *

Later, he was alone with Mikaela.

She was a bit scary, he decided, watching her. She was scrubbing the kitchen floor with focused intensity, attacking a spot of dirt as if it personally offended her. The stale cigarette smell had been replaced by the odors of carpet shampoo and Pinesol; the base had no shortage of cleaning supplies.

"Umm," he said, glancing at the living room furniture, and remembering Sedona. "Don't worry about sleeping arrangements, 'Kaela. I'll sleep on the couch."

When he looked back at her, she was staring at him with wide eyes. Then she looked sharply away, off at the fridge, then she turned her attention to the floor again. "Okay."

"Unless you want ..."

"Couch is fine."

"Mikaela, are you okay?"

"My shop burned down, so no, I'm not," she said, in a tone that indicated he was stupid for even asking.

"Okay." He stood uncertainly in the living room for a moment, then said, "What are we going to do for dinner?"

His folks had gone to get another load of furniture with Magnus, and Wheelie and Windy were sent along to help with the lifting and carrying. That mental image had amused him, but Magnus had made it orders, pulling Windy away from a round of weapons training with Ironhide, and waking Wheelie from a recharge cycle. This meant he was alone with Mikaela, and it was getting late. He thought it would be seven or eight PM by the time they got back.

She sat up, having eradicated the dirt and asked, "Do you have money?"

"A little." More, actually, than Mikaela had; his mom had given him a few hundred dollars a week in allowance for college expenses, and he had rarely spent it on anything other than food, movies, and the occasional t-shirt. Half his college career so far had been spent dodging Decepticons or playing hookey on various Autobot causes. The biggest expense had been the hotel room in Sedona. He thought it impolite to draw her attention to the fact that he had around five hundred dollars in the bank and she, despite having a job, only had two hundred and forty three. And some cents. She'd been precise about the cents.

She raked a hand through her hair, then said, "... Pizza, maybe?"

"I'll go get it."

"Who's our ride?" Mikaela asked. "And I'll go. I think I need ... I'm tired of cleaning."

"Let's both go." He consulted the schedule tacked to the fridge. Magnus had explained that the humans on the base -- currently, just the Witwickys and Mikaela -- would be assigned a mech at all times to escort them off base, if they needed to run errands. He made a face, when he saw the name scheduled, "Sideswipe."

"Sideswipe?" She looked over his shoulder at the list. "Why are they assigning us Sideswipe?"

Sam snorted. "Because he kicks ass in a fight, can be trusted not to embarrass the 'bots in public, but is _not _part of the Autobot Political Machine?"

"Meaning he's not busy. Right."

Sam peered out the windows. As the schedule indicated, there was a silver Corvette parked in front of the trailers. "Heh. We're trailer trash, but we're trailer trash with cool wheels. Let's go."

Mikaela flinched, and snapped, "I don't like that term, Sam."

"What?"

"Trailer trash. Just because you live in a trailer doesn't mean you're trash. I've lived in plenty in my life." She brushed past him, yanked the door open, and hurried down the steps. "Hey, Sides. Are you up for a run into town?"

"Certainly," his voice was a bit deeper than Bee's, and his pronunciation very precise.

"We're just going for food," Mikaela slid into the driver's seat. "Pizza."

"The food rides in the trunk," Sideswipe said, tone friendly but firm. "I do not want my interior to smell like pepperoni."

"We'll just eat inside," Mikaela started to rest her hands on the steering wheel, then thought better of it, put them in her lap.

Sam sighed quietly. Bumblebee, by contrast, often suggested they bring their meals out to him so he could share in the conversation. As Bumblebee noted on a fairly regular basis, he could always transform and hose off if anyone spilled anything. And what water couldn't clean his nanobots would eventually clear. Autobot pseudo-leather didn't stain, and Bee loved being part of the conversation.

Sam, with a few misgivings, buckled himself into the passenger seat, then grabbed for the arm rest as Sideswipe zoomed off. Sideswipe's driving style was crisp, with hard acceleration and sharp stops -- Bee only zipped around like that when he was agitated, and chose to give his human passengers an easier ride the rest of the time. He wasn't sure if the mech was showing off, was upset about something, or was just plain aggressive.

Halfway to the base gate, it began to rain hard. The rain was a glorious cap to a perfect day, Sam thought.

* * *

"You going to be okay out here?" It was still coming down hard when they got to the pizza place, a drenching downpour punctuated by thunder and lightning. Mikaela hesitated, even as Sideswipe popped the door open. She paused in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel, and concern written on her face.

"Your concern is misplaced," Sideswipe informed her, tone still friendly. "This is very minor weather. It is not, for example, freezing methane."

"Point taken," she patted him on the door frame, then ran for the restaurant's front door.

Sam paused to tell Sideswipe, "Honk if there's trouble, will you?"

"Shouting generally works as well," Sideswipe said.

"Yes, but it draws a little less attention if the Corvette _honks _versus screaming my name," Sam pointed out.

"Noted," Sideswipe paused, then added, "My duty shift ends in 1.375 hours. I have plans with Sunstreaker this evening. Please bear this in mind."

_Ouch_. Sam's misgivings about the mech heightened. On the one hand, Sideswipe was perfectly within his rights to remind them this was just an assignment for him, and that he wanted to do something with Sunny later. On the other hand, most of the mechs that Sam knew were eager to help the humans. On the third hand, Sunny and Sides were effectively a couple -- and probably didn't get nearly the time alone together that they desired. He understood that they'd been separated for thousands of years before circumstances had brought them back together.

"We'll be out in under an hour," he promised.

* * *

Mikaela ate her pizza in complete silence, first dipping it into a bowl of ranch dressing.

Sam picked a piece of pepperoni off the metal platter, then said, "'Kaela, seriously, are you going to be okay?"

"I'm fine." She sounded defensive when she said it.

He reached a hand out and covered her hand with his, and said, "It's okay. I'm here for you."

She glanced up at him. "Stop saying that. It's not okay."

"But it will be. You'll see."

"You don't know that ..."

"We're going to work hard and _make _it okay," he sighed, and folded his fingers around hers. "Me, Bee, the rest of the Autobots, my folks -- we're all going to work together and _make _it okay."

"Some things you just can't fix, Sam. No matter how hard you try."

At that moment, a horn sounded from outside. Sam listened for a second, realizing belatedly that he didn't know what Sideswipe sounded like. Bumblebee, now, had honked for him on just about a daily basis every morning before school. Sam had never moved fast enough for Bee's taste during the last year of his high school, and Bumblebee had not been shy about expressing his opinion when Sam dawdled.

"Is that Sides?" Mikaela looked at Sam questioningly.

Sam rose to peer out a window. The Corvette was sitting by himself in the lot in the middle of the pouring rain, having moved away from other cars. _Probably to prevent his paint getting scratched. Both Evil Twins are rather vain._

He couldn't tell which car was honking. However, nothing seemed immediately threatening ...

The Corvette transformed, standing up. A couple of people in the parking lot took one startled look, then ran splashing through the puddles for the refuge of the restaurant's front door.

"Uh-oh, something's up." Sam frowned.

And at that moment, a Ford Saleen Mustang rolled into the lot.

"Shit!" Mikaela recognized that maliciously nasty Decpeticon too. "I thought they had a truce."

"Bee didn't think the truce would last ... and I swear, that fucker has more lives than a cat." Sam started for the door.

Mikaela caught his arm, shook her head, and said, "Let's stay inside for now ..."

Explosions strafed across the parking lot, punctuated by a missile blast that sent Sideswipe tumbling. Sam swore, then hit the deck a second before a close explosion from another missile blew out the pizzeria's windows. Amid the screaming of other patrons he could hear Mikaela cursing, and he realized with absolute and utter dismay that Barricade had air support. "C'mon!" He grabbed her arm, yanked her to her feet, and ran, "We're sitting ducks in here! He hits the building with a missile and we're _all _dead!"

They ran through the kitchen and out a back door. If anything, the rain was coming harder. He couldn't see which Decepticon were aloft between the darkness and the storm, but he could hear the howling scream of jet engines as the mech came back around for another pass. Sideswipe zoomed past in protoform, and shouted what were certainly curses in Cybertronian at both enemies. His orders, "FIND COVER!" floated back to them even as Barricade, still untransformed, screamed around the corner of the building. Sideswipe spun around on his wheels with a flourish that reminded Sam of a skilled rollerblader, then crouched, caught Barricade by his grill, and sent him skidding across the wet asphalt and into a Dumpster.

The jet had come back, and Sideswipe turned the momentum from throwing Barricade into a scrambling lunge out of the way as the Seeker strafed the parking lot. Sam ran, not for the building (which he figured was very little protection and a very obvious target) but for the darkness on the far side of the parking lot. There was an empty field there, he thought, and if they just ran away from the fight as hard as they could ...

The sound of a second approaching aircraft made Mikaela curse, hesitate, and look up. "Run!" He hauled her along by the hand, "Run, run, run!"

The airplane appeared out of the darkness almost dead in front of them, and barely above the ground. It was enormous, propellers roaring and wing-mounted guns blasting at the jet with a deafening noise that was louder than the thunder of the storm. Sam and Mikaela flattened themselves into the mud even as the plane roared over their heads -- only belatedly would he realize that they'd been in no danger of being shot or run down, because twenty feet of clearance felt like inches when the plane in question was a Hercules.

"Silverbolt!" Mikaela shouted as soon as there was any chance he might hear her words, "That's Silverbolt!"

Apparently, 'not a good fighter' didn't mean 'defenseless' because Barricade dove for cover and the jet shot skyward. As Silverbolt pulled upwards to clear the Pizzeria's marquee (and he had literally only inches to spare!) the ramp at the back popped open and three Autobots came leaping out.

Sam saw two 'bots with bright yellow armor, and one a slightly paler color. _Ratchet, Sunstreaker, Bumblebee. _He identified all three by color alone, at the same time as Mikaela shouted, "Beeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Bumblebee landed tumbling, taking out somebody's sedan and coming to a crashing halt against the wall of the pizzeria, which cracked and bowed inwards. Sam winced, but Bee sprang to his feet almost instantly, and took off after Barricade with a scream in Cybertronian. Whatever he said must have been fighting words, because Barricade spun around and brought a cannon to bear on Bee. Bumblebee took a pulse cannon hit in the shoulder but it only slowed him down a bit, making him stagger. Barricade turned to run, and Bumblebee tackled and flattened him and discharged his own cannon into Barricade's chest in one smooth move.

It was the first time Sam had seen Bee fight, post-Matrix. That Bumblebee had a hell of a lot more power and better defenses now was obvious. The last time Bee and Barricade had tangled, the fight had been much more even.

Bumblebee scrambled back to his feet, strains of Queen's 'Another One Bites the Dust' playing triumphantly from his speakers.

Sam relaxed a bit at that. If Bee was confident enough to snark at enemies in song, the battle was _probably _going to go in the favor of the good guys. Behind him, Mikaela cheered, "Go, Bee!"

The jet was coming back, and this time, the Hercules was racing in front of it. Silverbolt was pouring on the power, engines screaming, weapons silenced in favor of using all power to escape. Mikaela stopped cheering, and Sam was afraid that Silverbolt was seriously outmatched if it came down to a dogfight with an alien F-22.

However, Silver again dropped so low to the ground that if he'd lowered his landing gear he could have touched down. The jet followed, guns blazing. Sam saw a flurry of motion to his right, turned to look, and saw Sideswipe cup both hands before him. Sunstreaker planted one wheeled foot in Sideswipe's grip, and Sideswipe _threw _his brother aloft, right into the path of the oncoming enemy.

The alien F-22 tried to dodge, but their timing was impeccable. Sunstreaker jammed one of his blades into the jet's engine, and the other deep into the body of the Decepticon. Then he kicked free. The Seeker spiraled into the ground a hundred yards from Sam's position. The impact shook the ground.

"Shit, he's good," Sam said, in disbelief.

"That's my Sunny," Sideswipe said, rolling up next to them. He was grinning, and he shouted into the storm, in the direction that Sunstreaker had fallen, "Hey, Sunny, how's the paint?"

"Oh, frag you!" Came the response, as Sunstreaker trudged across the muddy field toward them. He was a pale yellow shadow in the darkness as he approached.

Ratchet, looking bemused, joined them. "I don't know why I tagged along. I didn't even get to violate my oaths again on a Decepticon. Kids, you two okay?"

Mikaela ground out in response that question, "This was a perfect cap to a perfect day. Absolutely perfect."

Ratchet offered, "If it helps, Mikaela, I've personally had worse ones."

Mikaela laughed, then, and rested her forehead against Ratchet's knee. "Ratchet, I swear I love your sense of humor."

He peered down at her, and said, "I wasn't actually being funny."

"Sure, sure you weren't."

Ratchet let it go, though Sam had a sneaking suspicion that Ratchet was serious. There was truth in his words. Today could have been so much worse. Optimus dead, and his own face plastered across a billion television screens came to mind as a truly bad day. "So much for the truce," Ratchet said, to Sideswipe. "And here I thought I was busy already."

Thunder rumbled. Then, louder, twin _cracks _of a quantum engine teleportation a heartbeat apart made all four Autobots bristle in alarm. Mikaela didn't have to be told to scramble clear of Ratchet as he crouched defensively. He hissed, "Run, kids!"

They ran, knowing that where the Autobots were there would shortly be a firefight. The arriving Decepticons were two jets -- Thundercracker and Skywarp, Sam recognized as they landed in protoform nearby -- and both carried another mech with them. One mech was an absolutely enormous Constructicon, bigger than Skywarp. The other appeared to be Fangface himself.

Sideswipe, without preamble, launched a missile at Fang. Fang dodged, the missile blew someone's car up, and Fang shouted, "Hold your fire, you idiot! I'm not shooting back!"

"Hold it, Sideswipe," Ratchet said, raising a hand in Side's direction to encourage him to restrain himself. He added, "Sunny, if you discharge that pulse cannon I will _personally _remove it from you, and take the arm with it."

"Like to see you try," Sunstreaker snapped, but he didn't actually shoot. All four Autobots stared with quivering hostility at the four Decepticons, clearly ready and willing to fight.

Fangface eyed them for a moment, then headed on foot for the crashed jet. The Autobots followed. Sam and Mikaela trailed after them at what probably wasn't a safe distance, but Sam found he was compelled to see what was going on. It was mad, insane curiosity that could get them killed, but Fangface just didn't seem aggressive.

"Hnnh," Fang said, to Sunstreaker, as they walked, "nice move, Sunny. You realize you just took out Soundwave?"

"Didn't know who it was. Didn't care." Sunstreaker shrugged expressively. "He went after my brother."

"You're one crazy son-of-a-glitch, Sunny," Fangface frowned down at the Decepticon. Soundwave appeared to be conscious, and was trying to get up.

"Traitor ..." Soundwave hissed at Fangface.

"Yep," Fangface agreed, cheerfully. "Twice over, actually. Shame you didn't want to join me, Soundwave. You would have been most useful. But oh, well ... I don't like bugs, and you'd be scarier insane than you are now, and I can't trust you if I leave you free will. So I guess it's goodbye. Can't say as I'll actually miss you."

And Fang nodded to the Constructicon -- Deathwheels -- who was looming behind him. Deathwheels raised the largest pulse cannon that Sam had ever seen. Fangface said genially, to Sam and Mikaela, "Might want to cover your ears. This will be loud."

Even with his ears covered, the explosion from that pulse cannon left him half deafened. Soundwave was obliterated -- blown into little smoking bits. Deathwheels said, with evident satisfaction, "Don't think I'll miss him, either. He tried to make me into a cassette. I like being autonomous. And big."

Fang turned to the stunned Autobots, and explained, "I _said _the truce was through September 30th. I plan to keep the spirit of it, as well as the letter. They're Decepticons, they attacked you against my orders, and I consider that a capital crime."

Fangface paused, head tilted to one side, then added, "Though I think in Barricade's case, I'll let Optimus decide what to do with him. Do tell me if you figure out a way to debug a processor core that glitched with viruses."

"You ..." Bumblebee took a step forward. "Fang, _why_?"

Fangface inspected his claws for a moment, not looking at Bee. Then, in a surprisingly calm tone of voice, he said, "I've broken my word twice in my life. The first time I did not like doing so because I rather like Optimus, though I would make the same choice again. The second time, I will confess I found most satisfying. However, I have since made a promise to _myself _-- I will never again make an oath I cannot keep. I told Optimus we have a truce. My word is good."

Bumblebee and Fangface stared at each other for a moment. Some unspoken communication seemed to pass between them, because Bee suddenly relaxed, and _laughed. _"Fangface, with great knowledge comes great power, and with great power comes great responsibility, doesn't it?"

Fang snorted. "Maybe. But you sound like a comic hero when you say that."

Bee grinned. "A smart one."

Fang turned to the two Seekers, and said, "Let's go. The Autobots get the joy of dealing with the authorities, who are about to arrive ..."

"Oh, he _is _evil," Ratchet growled, after Fang and the rest of the Decepticons teleported out. Then, after a few muttered obscenities under his breath, he trudged off towards the Pizzeria. The arrival of Ratchet, followed by three more large alien robots, sent most of the people in the Pizzeria screaming into panicked flight.

Sam halfway expected to see the police pull up with guns drawn. However, the first cop car on the scene disgorged a familiar looking officer, who regarded the four Autobots from a cautious distance of fifty feet for a long minute.

"Hey," Sam said, drawing the Officer Davis's gaze downward, "we got rid of the bad guys ... these are the good guys!"

"We got rid of most of them, anyway," Ratchet said, as the ruin that was Barricade twitched and sent sparks showering across the parking lot. David jumped in surprise at the movement.

Bee said, sounding a bit reluctant to Sam's ears, "I'll dispose of him. For good, this time."

The cop said, in alarm, as Bumblebee took careful aim, "Hey, hold your fire!"

Bee paused, giving the officer a suspicious look. He explained, "We have no way of holding him prisoner, he's dangerous, and he's tried to kill humans on multiple occasions."

"... Oh." Sam could practically see Officer Davis twitching in confusion. The officer said, finally, "But that's _murder_. If you guys want to be treated the same as humans, you've got to follow our laws. That means you can't kill him."

Ratchet snorted, and sounded darkly amused when he said, "He has a point, Bumblebee."

"Oh, that's not helping, Ratchet," Sideswipe observed while Bee stood over Barricade. Bee's pulse cannon was glowing, and the rain hitting it was hissing and spitting as it burst into steam. But he didn't shoot. He had that distinctive 'I'm thinking about something' look on his faceplate. Since Sam was pretty sure that Bumblebee considered Barricade on his top-ten list of Decepticons in need of slagging, he wondered why Bee looked like he was thinking so hard.

"Hey, Ratchet, come here a second," Bumblebee abruptly lowered the cannon and sheathed it under his armor. He bent over and pried up Barricade's damaged chestplate with both hands, exposing his internal workings. Barricade hissed an inarticulate stream of consonants by way of protest. Clearly, he was badly injured. "Ratchet, I've got a weird question for you. What's Barricade doing with a processor core this size?"

Ratchet peered into the unconscious mech's chest. Suddenly, he dropped to one knee, unsheathed a saw, and cleared more ruined armor with swift, efficient strokes of the blade. Sparks flew wildly for a moment. Then he stopped, and quietly sat on his heels for a bit, then said to the others, "Oh, Primus. I know this core."

"One of us?" Bumblebee guessed, unhappily. "I've never seen a Decepticon scout with a core that size."

"Yes. And he's in bad shape." Ratchet's left hand transformed into an assortment of tools. With his other hand, he extracted a handful of clamps from a compartment on his leg, and started doing a bit of somewhat frantic looking field surgery. "Mikaela, I need your help here."

Mikaela, soaking wet and shivering, joined Ratchet beside the fallen Decepticon. Ratchet held a broken support aside with one hand, and pointed deep into Barricade's chest. "Clamp that coolant line off, will you? I can't get to it without pulling his pump."

"Ratchet?" Sam asked, "Who is it?"

It was Bumblebee who spoke, however, because Ratchet was completely occupied with saving the life of the Decepticon that they had been only too happy to kill just moments before. "Fang said something, didn't he, Sam? About Barricade being buggy?"

"Yeah."

"That's an old Decepticon trick -- there's a virus they have, it completely fragments a mech's memories and corrupts their processor core. Turns them savage, vicious. They also tend to be very unpredictable and dangerous even to their own side, so most mechs that are infected with it are simply used as shock troops. We strongly suspect that both the entire Devastator gestalt and Bonecrusher were former Autobots, but there's no going back once they're infected. Effectively, it's as if they have the Cybertronian equivalent of rabies. You can't cure it. However, I would guess that Barricade's processor is big enough that he can compensate for the damage somewhat." Bumblebee regarded the body lying on the pavement for a moment. "Though he's never been what I'd call rational. I always hated fighting Barricade, because he was so blasted crazy. He'd pick fights in public places when both our sides were trying to lie low, and he never had any regard for his own safety. Now I know why."

"So he is an Autobot?" Sam found that hard to believe.

Ratchet wiped a bit of grease off Barricade's Spark chamber, then rocked back on his heels and looked up at Bumblebee. He said, in a tone of absolutely stunned disbelief that left Sam and Mikaela both staring at him, "Bee, his creation date matches. His processor core design matches, and I'm sure as hell familiar with that -- I helped design his last upgrade. And he's got an old weld on his spinal strut that I am absolutely sure I did. You remember that time he got hit in the back by a Decepticon missile? That time."

Bumblebee said, in a choked whisper, "He's been in view of our optics all this time ..."

"Bee, I don't know if there's any point to this ..." Ratchet stood up, "... I've stabilized him. But I just don't know if there's anything we can do. You know Prime's policy."

"No ..." Bee shook his head. "We have to try again."

"We've never been successful."

"You _have to try again._" Bee took a step towards Ratchet, looking like he wanted to physically assault the medic. "Ratchet, we can't let him stay this way!"

"He wouldn't _want _to stay this way, and you know it." Ratchet spat an oath in Cybertronian. "You know I'll try. And Optimus just confirmed he wants us to try. But don't get your hopes up."

"Who is it?" Sideswipe asked.

Both Bee and Ratchet glanced at him, then at Sunny beside Sideswipe, then down at the three watching humans. Ratchet finally said, very slowly, "I believe we've found Prowl."

Sunstreaker said, "Well, _Pit_. That bites tailpipe."

"Indeed." Ratchet shuttered his optics briefly. "I do not know if I want to thank Fangface, or kill him on our next meeting. This is a dilemma I never wanted to face. If we cannot fix him, what do we do with him? It is _Prowl_."

* * *

Ratchet might have been contemplating ways to end the Decepticon leader's life but Bumblebee, by contrast, was simply perplexed. Fangface had no reason to give them Prowl back, and every reason to see he was utterly destroyed. He also knew Fang well enough to realize that the Predacon was not likely to give him a straight answer to a simple question. However, from past experience with Fang, he knew he was usually willing to respond to oblique inquiries with similarly obscure responses.

After considering the matter for a moment, Bumblebee sent an e-mail to Fang. The text of the e-mail was simply a question mark, and he attached an MP3 of Kansas's "Carry On, Wayward Son."

The response was almost immediate. And surprisingly candid, for all that he left much to be interpreted. Fangface responded to the Bumblebee's e-mail with a song by the same band: "The Wall."

Huh.

_I wish you luck, Fang, _Bumblebee thought, which was probably the very first time he'd ever bestowed that sentiment on any Decepticon. He didn't respond back. He just didn't know what to say. Fang was undoubtedly the enemy, and yet, if what Bee suspected was true, he might also be the greatest hope that the Autobots had known in millions of years.

* * *

Author's additional notes: Ffnet will not let me link directly to another site, but if you want to see the lyrics of any song I mention in the story just search for 'song name lyrics band name'. i.e., Googling 'Carry On, Wayward Son Kansas Lyrics' (without the quote marks!) should get you the lyrics in question.


	32. Chapter 32

Prowl.

Ratchet had long ago abandoned any fantasies of rescuing their lost tactician from Decepticon clutches alive and unharmed. He had hoped Prowl was dead, and his body simply taken for spare parts and whatever intelligence could be gleaned from it. In his darkest moments, however, he had feared that a day like this might come: Prowl returned to them, but not whole, or sane, or even repairable.

He sat on a chair in the darkened silence of the med bay, much later that night, regarding the silent form on the berth with considerable misgivings. His processor kept summoning images of Prowl as he had been once upon a time, and those memories were fond ones. It hurt to see him now.

When he had come to Earth a little over a year ago, Optimus's core team of mechs, the most trusted officers who he had relied upon again and again for missions in search of the Allspark, and the officers he had specifically selected for a mission to a world where there might be lost Primes, had numbered four: Jazz, Ironhide, Bee, and Ratchet. They were his communications officer, weapons specialist, scout, and medic. However, Ratchet was absolutely certain that had Prowl never been taken by the Decepticons he would have been number five of that tight-knit group. He had once been Optimus's second-in-command and his tactical expert, and for a very long time even by Cybertronian standards, it had been rare for Optimus to lead a mission _without _Prowl along.

And entirely aside from his importance to the Autobots, he had also been Ratchet's good friend.

Prowl had been a comparatively quiet mech when contrasted with the rowdiness of the rest of the officers, Ratchet recalled, and had not been prone to displays of humor, ill temper, or dramatic gestures. Some who reported to him claimed he had no emotions, but Ratchet suspected that Prowl had simply learned to set them aside in favor of cool logic. Emotions hurt too much, particularly for a mech who valued logic and who dealt, on a daily basis, with the very unreasonable situation of a vicious war. That logic had served him well. Time and time again, Prowl had found victory where others would only see defeat. Upon winning he had never gloated, nor even really celebrated. He had simply accepted the win, and set to planning the next one. Losses were handled with the same calm demeanor and lack of emotional response.

Ratchet reflected that the team had been well balanced. Ironhide's aggression and cynicism had been tempered by Bumblebee's heart and hope. His own black wit had been matched by Jazz's enthusiasm for life. Optimus had been the glue who held them together, and Prowl was the steady, calm rock at the center of the storm of the war that they all fell back upon when times were rough.

Losing Prowl had hurt more than anyone outside the inner circle of Optimus's officers could ever guess.

_And we still don't have him back_, Ratchet thought, bitterly.

The body on the berth wasn't Prowl. It had Prowl's spark, and that famed processor core was certainly Prowl's, but what was left of his memories was a garbled ruin. Ratchet had removed the virus in a few minutes with a datapad, but in the process he had confirmed that there was very severe damage.

Transformers saved memories as a multi-layered record of actual video and other sensory readings overlaid with their thoughts and impressions. Autobot sensory memory was normally permanent from the moment it was created, as well as very neatly organized. During every recharge cycle, recent memories were routinely defragged, sorted, categorized and unimportant data archived and stored in compressed format, though never deleted.

The virus quite simply trashed the mech's memory core. The damage was far beyond what even an extended, medically induced, defrag could fix. He had just verified that what was left of Prowl's life was a ghastly mish-mash of bits and pieces of his life. No segment of memory longer than five seconds remained intact. Everything prior to the onset of the infection was chopped up, mixed up, and reordered so that Prowl could not recall a complete, coherent event but rather saw jumbled and unrelated images. Time stamps were altered, so that previous memory order couldn't be determined to allow for a repair. Additionally, true memories were duplicated, corrupted or deleted, making it impossible for his own auto-repair routines to fix the damage by simply comparing each file and linking them sequentially end to matching end.

And then on top of that, the virus chopped up and reassigned the 'thoughts and impressions' part of each memory in a way that was distinctly not random.

That latter trick was what caused the severe psychosis associated with this virus. Good memories of happy things were attached to negative perceptions. Violence, bad experiences, and trauma had been assigned pleasant feelings. Prowl might recall brief snatch of a, say, some fun downtime with other Autobots. However, he would not have a complete context for that memory, because the memory wasn't complete. The virus would then assign an impression of terror or anger to what had been a pleasant experience. Likewise, he also had negative memories that had positive feelings now associated with them. Prowl could very well recall _enjoying _killing an enemy soldier, or reacting with glee rather than grief to the death of a friend.

And then to top it all off, the damn thing scrambled his processor core's programming so that violent actions directly triggered Prowl's pleasure center. He had been rewarded by the virus for antisocial behavior for thousands of years. Ratchet had removed _that _little routine with savage enthusiasm, but he knew that such connections tended to reestablish themselves if the mech wanted them there. Barricade had been receiving a direct hit to his pleasure centers for killing or torturing other mechs (and squishies!) for a very long time. It was entirely possible he would continue to enjoy doing so.

The damned virus was thorough, no one in the history of the war had ever managed to repair the damage it wrought, and all mechs infected with it were insane even after it was cleared from their processors. At best, they could reformat Prowl's memory core, and let his spark start over with a clean slate, but that would mean that Prowl would be gone.

"You're not Prowl _now_," Ratchet growled aloud in response to his own dark thoughts, at the body on the berth.

"Ratchet," Teletraan said, making the medic raise an optic ridge in surprise because he had overlooked the fact that ship was always listening, "Optimus just asked me if I had any suggestions."

"Do you?" Ratchet asked, lifting his head up. Teletraan was from another time, and had been the best among many good candidates for his position as ship's spark. His psych evaluation was phenomenal; Ratchet had never seen a spark test with more stability. And he had been given a processor with specs like none Ratchet had ever seen before. Optimus was correct in asking Teletraan if he had any ideas. Ratchet probably should have done that himself, but his processor had stuttered to a halt with horror at the realization that Barricade was Prowl, and that Prowl was very probably lost to them forever without actually being dead. Ratchet found he was having difficulty thinking beyond the present, and the past.

Perhaps he was too close to this issue to truly handle Prowl's care, but who else was there? Though processor core coding was one of Elita's specialties, he would not ask Elita to do this, as Elita had reported directly to Prowl for several thousand years, and it wouldn't be fair to her. As she had not shown up in his med bay demanding to help he suspected Hot Rod, probably by way of Magnus, had come to the same conclusion and made it a direct order. However, there was no one else alive he trusted who had the skills for the kind of work needed on the Autobot side. And Fangface had as much as said that the Decepticons did not have the repair abilities needed, either.

He leaned back in the chair and told Teletraan, "We generally offline mechs with this much damage, pending a cure, and we have no real hope of a cure until the war ends and we can dedicate some uninterrupted research time to the problem. Sometimes I think we should just let them die, and let their sparks rejoin Primus."

"A tough decision, certainly," Teletraan agreed.

"Do you have any ideas?" Ratchet said, willing to listen to anything. It was Prowl. He didn't want to overlook anything.

"I propose you reformat his new memory core," Teletraan replied, promptly, in an answer that made Ratchet cringe a bit. "And treat him as a new sparkling. Meanwhile, if it is approved, I would like to upload his memories and attempt to descramble them. I may not be able to sort them all out, but I have more processor power than the entire rest of the Autobot team combined. Currently, I'm using it to play Sudoku on the internet. It would be nice to actually have a task that would test my capabilities."

Ratchet grunted. "It's worth a try, I suppose, Teletraan. At worst we end up with a new mech, though I tell you, it will be difficult to look a sparkling in the eyes and know that Prowl's spark is in there somewhere, looking back."

"There is, however, an issue with confidentiality here," Teletraan pointed out. "I would be seeing his very life. Normally, only his partner would have access to this information, and I will need to delve far deeper than even most partners would go. I will eventually see everything he has ever done and hear all thoughts he has ever had, excluding those corrupted beyond comprehension."

Ratchet considered that. And sighed. Teletraan's point was a very good one, and an angle he would have thought of himself in a second. He was, however, utterly exhausted. "He would normally have to give consent for that. I am not entirely comfortable with allowing you to do that sort of work without his permission."

"Does he have a partner?" Teletraan asked, which was a logical question. If Prowl had a partner, the partner would be presumed to know his wishes, and could have given consent.

"Dead at the very outset of the war, in the battle of Tyger Pax," Ratchet said, remembering Prowl's understated but very real grief. "His mentors are all dead, as well. Prowl had us, and that was it. That's true for most Autobots: few of us have ties beyond our teams." This meant that the Autobot command was responsible for determining Prowl's fate.

It also occurred to him that Prowl's processors were full of highly sensitive information, though given the time that Barricade had been a Decepticon, Ratchet figured that the Decepticons had been able to extract everything that the virus hadn't completely scrambled. However, Prowl had been in charge of personnel issues and recruiting, back when they'd had enough mechs to actually need someone dedicated to that job. That meant Teletraan would see not just Prowl's memories, but private data about other Autobots: disciplinary records, official psych test results, classified history.

_Heh. He's got _my _psych test in there somewhere, which I wouldn't appreciate being shared with anyone _but _my immediate commanding officer. Which he was, when I completed that test. _Ratchet wasn't exactly a traditional medic, and it showed in his scores.

Another unpleasant thought occurred to Ratchet, one directly related to Prowl, _And he would find out about the Evil Twins' history, come to think of it. Not every Autobot would willingly accept a pair of gladiators from the Pit on the team, even after all this time. _Especially _after all this time, in the case of Sunstreaker. They were forged as creatures of violence, from stolen sparklings, and that heritage shows through often. Half the team thinks Sunny's insane, and sometimes I agree. It would be ten times worse if they knew the twins, as younglings, they were pitted against other mechs in fights to the death, and that they were renowned for their savagery and cunning in those blasted evil circles.  
_  
Prowl had been instrumental in bringing Sunny and Sideswipe to the Autobot side to serve Optimus after Optimus himself had broken up that gambling ring, and after Optimus had seen the leaders brought to justice. Prowl had sized up the two young brothers, ignored every warning the other officers gave, and declared that the two would be _his _soldiers. While both of them had tested Prowl's patience on a regular basis, Ratchet had to admit that Prowl had been right. Tactically speaking, they were very important to the team. Ratchet had also been stunned by how well both of them followed orders in a field of combat.

Prowl had explained, in a typical display of Prowl-logic, 'Ratchet, they didn't survive hundreds of fights in the Pits without being able to follow direction or cooperate with other fighters. If they had been unmanageable rogues, their handlers would have gotten rid of them as soon as a conveniently unequal deathmatch could be arranged. Therefore, I knew they would follow orders. Also, I would note that any mech that loves another mech like those two love one another is not beyond redemption.'

_And then being captured by Decepticons didn't help Sunstreaker any. He's ten times worse after they violated his memory cores._

It occurred to him that what Teletraan was proposing was a violation on a level worse than what Sunstreaker had gone through. On the other hand, the alternative was death. It was a tough decision.

"He's not sane enough to give consent right now," Teletraan said, drawing Ratchet's attention back to the subject of Prowl's slagged memory core, "and I expect you will need to discuss this offer with the other Primes. I believe I can help, but I do not know if you will want to accept my aid. I will be not be offended if you decide to say no."

"Mmm." Ratchet regarded the battered protoform for a long moment. In his memories, he could see Prowl as he had once been. Prowl's armor had been kept gleaming white except for a few black markings by preference, though he had fond memories of Prowl in brilliant red once, because Prowl's alt mode had dictated that color of armor. Those memories were classified as 'fond' because of Prowl's bemused reaction to the other's enthusiastic teasing about the bright colors. It was as if the thought had never occurred to him that he _could _wear colors that would turn heads. He simply chose white by preference because it was easiest.

There was always an elegant simplicity to his design, no matter what his alt mode was. Prowl had also routinely selected the form of a law enforcement vehicle if they were working undercover on an organic world, as he found it a tactically useful disguise. Perhaps Barricade's true identity should have been less of a surprise.

He would give his own bolts to have Prowl back, as himself, today, here, now. But Teletraan's point about the ethics involved was a good one. They could not act rashly. They had to weigh the morality as well as the desperate practical need and their strong emotional desires. It was not as simple as just _fixing _him.

_There's a reason why I far prefer welding struts to repairing damaged code. _

"If we give him a new memory core, he _still _couldn't legally give consent," Ratchet observed, feeling bone weary. "He legally would be a new person altogether."

The ship considered this for a long moment before offering, "Legally, yes, and we both know why those laws exist. However, what is the moral answer? Does the Spark itself have some claim and ownership of past memories, or do those only belong to Prowl -- or Barricade, as he became? He has lived several thousand years with a new identity, and those memories after he was infected are intact. Does Barricade get a say in the fate of Prowl's memories? Does he want to be fixed? And is he sane enough to make that decision for himself?"

Ratchet pressed two fingers to the ridge between his optics as he considered the question. "I don't know the answers. I'm a medic, not a philosopher."

"Mmm. You might convene a Council of Primes to decide what to do," Teletraan suggested. "A majority vote of living Primes would satisfy any Cybertronian legal requirements regarding his fate, no matter what decisions you made."

_Legal, not moral. I'm not so concerned about 'legalities' when Cybertronian government is essentially a figment of our imagination._

"Getting all six of us together in the same room at the same time in the near future will be a near impossibility," Ratchet objected, aloud, "And _Primus _I don't want the task of mentoring a sparkling."

Ratchet hesitated, as his processor choked on the idea. However, he said quietly, "I personally do not believe that it is ethically wrong to allow the spark that was Prowl start over. We have tried, many times, to repair the damage this virus causes in the past. We have never succeeded. It is mere sentimentality that makes me hesitate, and makes all of us seek a way to bring our friends back. But ... the choice is offlining until the end of the war and perhaps beyond that, termination, or a reformatted core and a new life. And I have recently met Manywinds, who does not seem unhappy ..."

He stopped, and wondered if Teletraan knew about Windy. Was he breaching Windy's confidentiality? But, of course, he realized, Teletraan had to know. He was always watching and listening to what went on within his walls unless he was specifically asked for privacy. Also, it was certain that the ship's computer had full access to the crew's medical records. _I'm probably worrying too much about Teletraan seeing Autobot records. He will almost certainly be discrete. Legally, he is required to be._

"You know about Windy?" Ratchet asked, just to make sure.

"I knew Manywinds twice," the ship replied.

"Before and after, hmm?"

"They are much the same, but they are not the same person." Teletraan didn't miss much, and this time he correctly guessed where Ratchet's thoughts had gone. "You are correct that Windy is happy with who he is. You should know that Manywinds was originally called by the short-form designation of Starknight."

Ratchet knew _that _designation from his medical academy training, and his head came up in shock at what Windy had once been. "No! He died in a Quintesson War!"

"Starknight died, legally, when his memory core was slagged," Teletraan pointed out, voice muted with something that sounded suspiciously like sorrow. "I was not _this _ship at the time, but I knew him."

"My records are telling me that he was the mech half of one of the first Headmasters gestalts. Is this correct??" Ratchet didn't need to refer to his Matrix's recorded memories to know that, though he sent a fast and furious query to it anyway. Confirmation came after a few nanoseconds, but he was only paying scant attention to that. Teletraan had definitely gotten his interest.

"Yes, and t'Grethi was his partner. Knight was the only mech I've ever known who did not hate his Nebulan half."

"Heh. I'm surprised there's even one who liked that role," Ratchet snorted. "If someone tried to do that to me, I'd simply have to frag them, and I wouldn't care who they were."

Teletraan's response was very dry, "I believe they selected mechs who would follow orders and submit to the procedures required."

"Probably."

The Nebulans had been initially afraid of Transformers, but had needed their protection from an aggressive alien race that was an enemy to both peoples. Their solution to that fear of Cybertronians was to partner Cybertronian warriors assigned to Nebulos with Nebulan soldiers. The Nebulan soldiers were literally datajacked in to the mech's processor core _and _memory core, via a complicated wetware interface, without firewalls and without the ability by the mech to withdraw from the link. Effectively, the Nebulan soldier could control his partner's body -- even his normally autonomic bodily functions -- any time he wished. And the Nebulans had often treated their Transformer partners with less than adequate respect. The _Nebulan _half of each partnership was able to maintain privacy at will, because organic minds did not work like mechanical ones, and the interface had not been fully two-way.

Ratchet wasn't sure what had possessed either the commanding officers of the mechs to allow it to happen, or the Nebulans to _do _such a barbaric experiment.

The theory was that the Nebulans would be able to control their Cybertronian partners if the partners went rogue. _Possibly_, Ratchet thought, the Cybertronian commanders had assumed there would be no need for control because there would be no rogues. And the Nebulans, new to their alliance with Cybertron, had not fully appreciated the sentience of the alien robots.

The reality of the experiment had been horrific. The Nebulans had been afraid of their Transformer partners. The justified anger and resentment of said mechs to Nebulan control had probably not helped that fear. The experiment had been terminated after only a few decades of ever-greater levels of disaster (up to and including a mech who suicided and killed his partner and a number of other Nebulans in the process). Afterwards, they had dreamed up better ideas for encouraging interspecies harmony. Nebulos and Cybertron had eventually become fairly good allies for several eons, until the Cybertronian empire had dissolved into civil war.

_And the Decepticons destroyed Nebulos. Everything the Nebulans feared came true, in the end, _Ratchet thought, well aware of the bitter irony. The Nebulans had sided with the Autobots. The Decepticons had retaliated, conquered, and destroyed their home world. There wasn't much left of Nebulos but a lifeless and radioactive cinder. Ratchet hadn't seen a living Nebulan in a hundred thousand years, though he understood that a few were eking out a living on a primitive colony world seven light years from their home. Maybe someday, if the war ended, Ratchet would seek them out. He had always liked Nebulans.

The Headmaster project was a footnote in Ratchet's medical manuals. It was generally mentioned in the context of 'what doesn't work' and 'bad ideas perpetrated by good people'. The names of the unfortunate mechs involved, some of whom were rendered insane and all of whom were presumed to have suffered greatly, were engraved on a memorial near the Iacon teaching hospital where Ratchet had learned his trade.

Teletraan explained, after a moment's pause, "Humans have a term I've discovered: soulmates. T'Grethi and Starknight did not start out friends, but ended up so close that Knight protested the end of the project. The Headmaster project was begun under the command of Stellar Prime, and Vermillion Prime succeeded him, and it was Vermillion who put an end to it. However, Vermillion did listen to and respect the wishes of each team, and in the case of Knight and t'Grethi he allowed them to remain a gestalt. They stayed on Nebulos for several millennia before Starknight was summoned off-planet due to the Second Quintesson War."

"Starknight died in that war, if my information is correct," Ratchet said.

"Yes, though not in combat. It was simply an accident. Such things do happen. His memory and processor core were slagged by hard radiation when a quantum jump went foul."

Teletraan's 'such things do happen' was delivered in a rather dry tone. Teletraan had just spent four million years alone because 'such a thing' had resulted in a destination error but not, fortunately, excessive radiation exposure for the crew. Ratchet gave the bulkhead where Teletraan's speaker was located a sharp look, but Teletraan made no further comment about his mistake. He simply continued with the story. "Knight had left a request in his will that his body be sent to t'Grethi, should he perish or be incapacitated, and he also specified that t'Grethi was his conservator in all medical affairs. After suitable legal wrangling ..."

Ratchet snorted. Legal wrangling indeed. Given the general opinion of Cybertronian society about the Headmaster experiment, sending one of the mechs in question back to his master would have been enormously controversial.

Teletraan politely paused in response to the rude noise Ratchet had just made, then continued, "... Starknight was shipped home to t'Grethi on board this ship. Ratchet, Knight was a million years old, and had been a Seeker for that entire time. He was stoic, and professional, and he did his job, but t'Grethi knew that Starknight was not happy in his past life. Therefore, t'Grethi designed Windy's new protoform shell with the express intent that Windy be everything and anything but a war machine. Based on t'Grethi's directions, we rebuilt Windy to be small and light and with his processor geared towards science and the arts."

Ratchet nodded. "A kindness, I suppose. Though I fear for his safety every time I look at him."

The ship chuckled, which was the first time that Ratchet had heard Teletraan actually laugh. "I had considerable misgivings, and protested t'Grethi's design plans to Kup and Vermillion both, and at great length. Ultimately, I was told that t'Grethi was Knight's conservator and t'Grethi's decisions were final when it came to his medical care, and that Windy could chose to upgrade if he did not like t'Grethi's design. And so Manywinds as you know him today was formed."

"He seems happy."

"He is very happy." Teletraan might have smiled, had he been a mech rather than a starship. Ratchet heard that note of pleasure in his voice. "I am happy that t'Grethi was right. t'Grethi not only knew him far better than any of us, he made a very good decision. Windy is far healthier emotionally as he is now, as a harmless scientist, than Starknight ever was as a Seeker."

"Mmm. Bee said that t'Grethi was Windy's partner? I take it that t'Grethi kept his datajack?"

Teletraan again chuckled. "t'Grethi resisted any relationship other than 'friend' with Windy for years. First Windy was so very young, and innocent, and t'Grethi was several thousand years old. He was understandably quite wary of starting a relationship with a youngling of our species even once Windy was no longer a child. Additionally, t'Grethi knew how unhappy Starknight had been as a Headmaster mech. Starknight loved t'Grethi very much, but he told me once that he would not have chosen to find his life's partner in that fashion. I believe t'Grethi thought Knight might find a better partner in his second lifetime."

"What changed their mind?"

"When he was about fifty Earth years old, Manywinds seemed to be striking up a relationship with someone else," Teletraan said, "and t'Grethi simply did not like the mech that Windy was being romanced by. When Windy would not listen to his warnings, t'Grethi presented himself as an alternative. Manywinds cussed him out for a good five minutes here at the ship, using the foulest language I have ever heard either Starknight or Windy utter, then he hauled him off to t'Grethi's private quarters in the city and made the relationship a true partnership that night."

Ratchet sat in silence for a moment, as Teletraan concluded his story. Finally, he started to state, "And your point in telling me this is because you believe ..."

The ship firmly interrupted Ratchet. He said, "... I tell you this to remind you that the sparkling created with Prowl's spark will not be Prowl. He will be a distinct person all his own. However, if _you _accept him as he is, you may find yourself a new friend and ally who will be much _like _Prowl, will have Prowl's spark as a strong influence on his personality, and will probably be just as compatible with your team now as Prowl was then. Additionally, there are only forty-one Autobots on Earth. I cannot conceive of you not being able to find a role for a forty-second."

Ratchet leaned back in the chair and regarded the ravaged form of Barricade for a long moment. There were so many issues to consider. _Was _Barricade legally competent to decide his own fate? He mulled it over, contemplating the level of damage the virus had done.

If he was sane, Optimus's policy was execution for captured Decepticons, and _particularly _for traitors. However, no one was claiming Barricade was responsible for his own actions. Not legally, not morally, and not practically speaking. Having known Prowl since his days in the Senate, Ratchet knew there was no way under Primus's stars that Prowl would betray the Autobots. Entirely aside from Prowl's real affection for the rest of the team, Prowl had believed in the orderly rule of law. His behavior as Barricade violated everything that Prowl had believed in. Therefore, it followed that Barricade was damaged to the point of true insanity, and was genuinely psychotic.

Grimly, Ratchet concluded that if Barricade was crazy enough not to be held responsible for his own actions one could also conclude that he was not capable of making informed decisions about his own health. This meant that the Autobot command got the responsibility of determining what to do. In cases like this the Chief Medical Officer, namely Ratchet, was generally responsible for making recommendations of care. Traditionally, a report would be sent to the other officers to verify they agreed. They had never questioned his choices in the past; this was _his _area of expertise.

He simply did not want this responsibility now.

The second question was, did they have a right to poke through the remnants of Prowl's mind? Ratchet knew he personally had secrets -- nightmares -- he didn't want anyone to know. Mistakes he'd made, mechs he'd killed, darkness he did not want to share. Grief, best left unspoken. Desires, best left unshared. And Prowl was far more private than Ratchet. Prowl's innermost secrets would be exposed to the view of at least one other person.

"Ratchet," Teletraan said, "I think the question you need to ask is: Would he prefer oblivion?"

Ratchet shuttered his optics and leaned back in the chair and groaned. "No. No, he would not. Very well, Teletraan. I'm going to make the recommendation to the other officers that we proceed with your plan. However, once the sparkling is to a stage where he is legally competent I will allow him input on the fate of Prowl's memories."

"Thank you," Teletraan said, "I look forward to the challenge and, perhaps, the pleasure of restoring your friend to you."

Ratchet rose from the chair, opened a door, and retrieved a small tool kit. It was almost three AM, but he knew he would not be able to settle into recharge until he had at least begun this project.

_Primus_, he thought, _We're going to effectively have a sparkling to care for. God help us all. _

Not entirely as an afterthought, he walked into the storeroom and selected a pair of blue optics. If Prowl's spark was going to be looking at him through the eyes of a child, he didn't want that gaze to be Decepticon red.

* * *

The trailer made little noises as it cooled: ticks and poppings, rattlings and sort groans. The air conditioning wheezed, and somewhere, a cricket chirped. The fridge hummed.

Sam lay awake on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. The couch was mildly uncomfortable, and the trailer a strange place, but what was really keeping him awake was his racing thoughts. They'd been attacked, again, but Fangface had decisively stopped the fight. Barricade was Prowl, and Prowl was apparently a mech that the entire Autobot team was rather deeply fond of. Bumblebee had been visibly shaken.

And Mikaela's shop had been blown up by humans.

A soft sound made him lift his head. A sigh, shaky and full of grief.

He rose, padding in boxers and an old t-shirt to the bedroom door. Mikaela had shut it, and he halfway expected to find it locked, but the knob turned with a slow creak. Mikaela was visible as a lump under the covers, curled into a tiny ball. He knew she was awake, because she was rocking back and forth.

"'Kaela?"

"I'm fine." She stopped moving.

There was a tapping at the window. He glanced over. A pair of glowing blue optics peered in. Bee's chirp of concern was audible through the glass.

Mikaela stuck her head out from under the covers. "Oh. Bee. Bee, I'm okay. Both of you need to go back to sleep."

Bumblebee shook his head, clearly not believing her. Sam realized Bumblebee must have been recharging right outside, and not with the other Autobots a few hundred feet away in the hangar. Since it was still a stormy night, he felt bad about that. However, Bumblebee was probably worried about them, and convincing Bumblebee to go inside was unlikely.

And it _was _comforting to have Bumblebee that close, separated from them by only one thin wall.

Mikaela was sniffling very quietly with every breath. Sam hesitated, then said, "I'm not making a move on you, honest, really, but ..." he trailed off, then sat down beside her on the bed. "'Kaela, I love you."

"I ... I know."

"Shh." He slid under the blanket with her, and, half afraid she would reject him, or go stiff and rigid, he put an arm around her.

Bee chirped at them. Mikaela turned towards Sam and clung to him. He held her close, rocking back and forth with her, until slowly her breathing steadied and she relaxed. She slept eventually, limbs going slack.

Sam was nowhere near sleepy himself, but he was a bit surprised when Bumblebee tapped on the window again, drawing his attention. It was a very slight ticking noise that could barely be heard over the sound of rain spattering the glass. When he lifted his head, Bumblebee made a summoning gesture with one finger, his hand visible only as a silhouette against the dimly visible runway lights. Sam very carefully disengaged himself from Mikaela's grip, grabbed his jeans off the living room floor, and slipped outside.

Bumblebee had transformed. He hurried into the passenger seat, hair and skin dampened by the steady downpour, and pulled the door shut. "What's up? Please tell me that there's not another crisis."

His friend said, "No, thank Primus. I heard her crying. I'm glad you woke and could comfort her."

"I can't believe ... Mikaela's so _strong_." He was shaken by her visible grief.

"She's embarrassed by her own emotions, too," Bumblebee observed. "In the morning, you would do best to act as if everything is normal. She will do the same."

"Everything's not normal. God."

"No, everything is not. Sam, I have been intending to speak to you privately, and I apologize for intruding on your sleeping time, but ..."

He interrupted quickly, "When was the last time _you _recharged, Bee? You need more sleep than I do."

Bumblebee's response was a tired chuckle. "I'm so tired my wheels are about to fall off, Sam. I should power down soon, as I have a meeting tomorrow at nine with the FBI regarding next week's event and it's almost four AM. However, this is important."

"Mikaela."

"Yes, Sam. Mikaela." Bumblebee was subtly reclining the seat, Sam realized, clearly trying to get him to relax.

He leaned back, eyes closing, and said, "She's hurting so much that I honestly don't know what to do."

"Be _you_." Bee's words were steady. "Sam, I have known mechs with a similar sort of life history of repeated loss and abandonment. Mikaela has never had a parent she could truly trust. She has no siblings. She has no adults who were close to her as a child that I am aware of: no teachers, no relatives, no neighbors who cared for her. I note she has no close friends among her peers, perhaps because her unstable home life made keeping friends difficult. She has mentioned she spent time in foster care, so I suspect that as a child she may have she perceived both that her family failed her and the authorities dictated her life to her. She was further betrayed by those in power when, as a child, they attempted to force her to testify against her father. I suspect her father is the single greatest source of love she ever knew, and he ... was imperfect."

Sam raked a hand through his hair, "But I'm _not _going to betray her!"

"Indeed. And I would also note that she has a wealth of self respect and great internal strength. I do not know how she has managed to weather the storm that has been her life to this point with so much courage and positive perception of self worth."

He blinked at the car's dash, lifting his head from the reclined seat. Bumblebee spoke steadily, without pause or hesitation. Clearly, this was something he had been thinking about.

"Mikaela is _strong_, Sam. Yet twice in the past weeks she has suffered a great loss and a life-changing event. Do not be surprised if she seems to fear everything else in her life may be taken away, as well." Bumblebee was quiet for a moment, then added, "Humans are enough like Transformers that I believe I am accurate in saying that fear may manifest in any combination of three ways. She will either cling to us, she will push us away, or she will try to control her environment. I suspect she is pushing you away at the same time she clings to me. Oh, and the cleaning binge yesterday was about control."

"She does clean a lot."

"Yes." Bumblebee said, "And it won't hurt the floor to be scrubbed repeatedly. However, what _will _hurt is if, in her grief, she manages to drive a wedge between you and I without ever meaning to. Sam, I care very much about both of you, and I know that Mikaela loves both of us, you as her boyfriend and I as a best friend."

"How would she ..."

"_Think _about it," Bumblebee commanded, sounding a bit more distressed than Sam was used to. "I'm going to hazard a guess here, Sam, and speculate that you are well aware I have spent time alone with Mikaela."

He grunted agreement.

"Were you jealous?"

Sam shook his head. "More puzzled than anything. You went out to a movie with her on Tuesday without saying anything to me."

"Yes, and that was an oversight on my part. I should have said something, but I've been so blasted busy." Bumblebee just sounded annoyed, now. "It only takes astroseconds for me to send an e-mail and I _forgot_."

Sam laughed, leaned forward, and patted the dashboard comfortingly. "It's okay, Bee, really. I trust it was _completely and totally _innocent. Skids seemed to think otherwise, but he's a moron."

"Sam?" Bumblebee said, voice completely without humor in it, "A request: Do not even joke about that sort of thing. I will never step between you two, ever, because I cannot conceive of hurting either of you. And I will have a few words with the Terrible Twins."

"Actually, to be fair, it was just one twin."

Bee made a staticky noise, then said, "It won't do Mudflap any harm to hear my lecture. Those two are sometimes unbearable."

"True." Sam suddenly played the conversation over in his head, backed it up, and said, "Woah, wait a second. You just basically implied you'd consider a relationship with a human, because you said you wouldn't come between us."

He actually felt Bumblebee sink down on his shocks and the hesitant note in his vvoice confirmed that was a a cringe of dismay. "Sam, that sort of relationship does happen sometimes with organic sentients and my people. Transformers are very social, by our very nature we are adaptable, and sometimes we find people among other races that we see as compatible life partners. My comment was meant innocently."

Sam scratched his head, "I don't even want to think about the mechanics of that, but ... wow."

Now Bee sounded annoyed when he said, "You've met Manywinds. You've seen pictures of t'Grethi. And as far as the mechanics go ..."

"... I so do not want to know. TMI, Bee. TMI." Sam held one hand up, "Alien robot," and held his other hand up and repeated, "Alien Nebulan." He clapped his hands together. "Two alien races. Two _not human _races. That is not the same thing as finding out my best friend the robot could get the hots for some human chick and ..."

"... Well, to be fair, it could just as easily be a human man."

Sam spluttered a laugh, "Okay, _now _you're screwing with me."

"A little. I am surprised you had not realized this before."

"So when Wheelie was humping Mikaela's foot ..."

Bee growled, "Wheelie was an idiot, and nothing more, and he is too young for any sort of a romantic relationship. He was merely mimicking behavior he had seen on the internet in an attempt to portray his affection for her. Also, he lacks the proper mods to gain any sort of satisfaction from ..."

Sam sat up and clapped his hands over his ears, "TMI!"

"Sam," Bee said, sounding amused, "Have you no curiosity at all? And as far as Mikaela and I and our night out together on Tuesday, we simply talked -- about you, about her, and about life -- for about an hour. She ate a fast food meal while we spoke. And then we saw a drive-in movie that I found annoying enough that I would like to purge it permanently from my processors, but which she seemed to enjoy."

"Chick flick?" Sam guessed.

"That would be the correct slang term, yes. I was hoping the male lead would die a horrible death fifteen minutes into the film. By thirty minutes, I was prepared to ensure that death myself. When he _did _die, it was all I could do not to laugh." Bee's sigh shook the whole car. "Then last night, Mikaela showed up here on her own, but I actually did not see her until Lennox woke me with the news about the fire and I was tasked with giving her that information."

"Shit, that had to be fun. I feel so bad for her."

"Sam, I want stress something: you will _never _have a reason to be jealous of my behavior towards Mikaela. It would be accurate to say that I love her as one of my dearest friends, but I am equally fond of you, and it would tear me apart if were to cause a rift between you. Do you understand this? I know that the most rational of humans sometimes have difficulty with their life partners having other close friends."

He leaned back in the seat again, and said softly, "No, I'm cool with it. Mikaela adores you. I couldn't even consider taking that away from her. And you would leave, wouldn't you? I know you, Bee. You'd _leave _if you thought your friendship was interfering with our relationship. I don't want that. I don't ever want to lose my best-friend-the-talking-car. Especially since I know it'd hurt you as much as it would hurt us if ... if you decided to leave."

"Then we are in agreement," Bumblebee said, sounding far more relieved than Sam would have expected.

"So what do we do to help Mikaela?" Sam leaned back in the seat again. The interior of the Camaro was comfortably cool, and the rain was beating down on the roof of the car with a steady thrum. He felt surprisingly relaxed, and not nearly as anxious as he would have expected given the subject.

Bee said, after a moment's clear thought on the matter, "Be consistent, Sam. Be there for her. Never make a promise to her that you cannot keep. Make sure that she understands that she does not have to choose between you and I. I will do the same. And _love _her. Love alone cannot cure everything, but it sure does help you get through the tough times."

"Bumblebee?" Sam asked, softly, "How did you get so wise?"

"Aside from tens of thousands of years of living?" His best friend said, with a laugh, "I have Optimus Prime for a commanding officer, and perfect memory. And on that note, I believe I can go into recharge with a few less worries to plague me, and I should do so."

He reached for the door, then hesitated. "Bee?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"You know you're the best two grand I ever spent."

"Good _night_, Sam," Bee said, firmly, but he could hear the laughter in Bumblebee's voice. "I will see you both at dinner time tomorrow."

"If it's a meal that doesn't feature Decepticons, you're on." He opened the door to pouring rain, and ran for the door. Once he reached the shelter of the trailer's entrance he turned back to look at Bee, and said in a voice too soft to wake Mikaela, but which he knew Bee would he\ar, "Love you, buddy."

Bumblebee flashed his headlights briefly in acknowledgement before his engine fell silent and all the lights on his dash dimmed and then went completely dark. Sam smiled, waved at the now-recharging Autobot, then carefully closed the door. Inside, he rested his head against the doorjamb for a moment, then walked across the living room to the couch and collapsed on it with a boneless flop.

He was asleep in moments.


	33. Chapter 33

The Secret Service agents, yesterday, had been frightened but had not shown it. Bumblebee had detected elevated stress chemicals coming from them, and heard their raised heart rates, but they had been completely professional. Bumblebee understood that they were effectively the elite personal guard of the President himself, and were therefore the best of the best. They had done their jobs well.

He anticipated the same from the FBI agents arriving today for yet another conference. The whole event had over forty different jurisdictions involved, ranging from the Secret Service to FEMA, to overlapping local law enforcement and right on down to the company hired to handle parking and the managers of the stadium that Optimus was going to give his speech from. The FBI, however, was mostly in charge (in a rather complicated relationship) of what Lennox termed the whole 'dog and pony' show. They were setting up a command center and investigating every possible threat they could identify, and orchestrating the human end of security for the whole affair.

Bee's task today was to finalize locations and the timing of events, plus familiarize agents in charge with the Autobots who would be going to Los Angeles in two days to start readying the scene. In addition, he intended to give them a tour of the base and a general introduction to his species, in ways that could not be conveyed over the phone or by e-mail. He had been talking to them for three days, but knew that auditory communication (or even video) just wasn't the same as a face to face meeting for humans.

He stood beside the runway, letting them have a good look at him from a safe distance. Their plane taxied towards what was being dubbed the 'Autobot Complex' these days, which included a growing stack of metal cargo containers, the Ark, two small house trailers, and a Hercules cargo plane. There were other mechs out and about as well, both in alt mode and protoform. He had not caught precisely what Skids and Mudflap had done to merit the punishment, but they were high up on the Ark's hull with power washers. Arcee was sparring with herself in front of the hangar. Magnus, Wheeljack and Hot Rod were working on the cargo-container barracks, all three armed with cutting torches.

Wheelie was ... walking Mojo.

Bee stared for a moment, bemused, as the little mech walked outside the houses with the dog on a leash. 

_:What?: _Wheelie said, sounding a trifle belligerent, when he saw that Bee was looking in his direction. _:I asked if I could help and Mrs. Witwicky told me to walk the dog. I picked up after Fangface for years. _This _is easy.:  
_  
Bumblebee snickered over the radio at him, and then turned his attention to one of the mechs in alt mode.

_Silverbolt saved our struts last night_, Bee thought, glancing in the direction of the plane. Silver had taken some damage, mostly cosmetic, and First Aid was currently welding a patch on his fuselage where he'd had a hole shot through his armor. When Sideswipe had raised the alert, Silver had taken off out of the hangar with the first three Autobots to dive into his cargo hold, and had launched aloft from the taxiway in about a quarter the distance a real Hercules would need. The base's air traffic controllers were supremely pissed. Bumblebee didn't care. A few moments more and he might have been burying his friends.

When a friendly ping to Silver's comlink brought no response Bee realized, _He's probably recharging while 'Aid works. Wish I could take a nap in the sun like that ... _He thought with fond longing of the Witwicky garage, and hours spent doing nothing more taxing than surfing the internet. _That _luxury had gone by the wayside shortly after Egypt.

At least yesterday's rain had been replaced with warm sunshine. It felt good on his armor, but wasn't helping his level of exhaustion any. Unlike humans, mechs did not have the option of 'coffee' to wake up, but, frustratingly, he _did _respond to a comfortable environment in a way that humans would find familiar. He shuttered his optics several times as he fought off his processor's increasingly persistent demands for a long recharge.

Bumblebee heard the tower give the pilot directions to park next to Silver. Hastily, he switched his comlink over to tower frequencies and requested that they stop on the other side of the Ark, away from Silverbolt. He didn't want them to wake Silver.

"Understood," the pilot said, sounding a bit nervous.

_Well, I did just tell him to park in the shadow of a very large alien starship, _Bee realized, with amusement.

The FBI agents disembarked from the plane slowly, and watched him with clear wariness. He had spoken to them on the phone frequently, often in conference calls with other agencies, but he knew there was a big difference between his perfect English over the phone, and the reality of sixteen feet of armored and heavily armed _alien_.

"Err, I'm Gordon Donelli, this is Tim Evans, and Andrew McDean..." the agent in charge introduced himself, speaking just a little too fast.

"As you may have guessed," Bee said, "I'm Bumblebee."

"You're big," Donelli said, then his mouth snapped shut. He spoke again, hesitantly. "I didn't mean offense with that ..."

Bumblebee said, in the calmest voice he could manage, "And none was taken. I _am _very tall by human standards. I should also note that I can tell you are afraid of me, and I find that distressing. I may be large, but I have absolutely no intention of harming you."

They blinked at him. He resisted the urge to sigh in vexation. Instead, he resorted to humor, "You know, I'm surprised they didn't assign us Mulder and Scully, given that we're aliens and it would seem to be their area of expertise ..."

No smiles.

"Umm," Donelli said, finally, "you do realize those are fictional characters?"

"I think he was trying to be funny," Andrews said, with a very nervous laugh.

"Oh. Umm." Donelli ran a hand over his face. "That's right. They keep saying you've got senses of humor."

Bee denied that statement, "We are mechs. Mechs cannot appreciate comedy. It is an impossibility."

And, Primus, they were _nodding_ agreement with that. Even though he'd made them laugh several times over the phone, that statement had just earned him three nods of complete understanding. Bee covered his face with a hand, briefly, and then said, "Please, allow me to retract that statement. You will find that Autobots have emotions very similar to human, and we tend to laugh at the same things." _Which was in the briefing we helped the military prepare on us._

Stares. Their only response was three matching stares.

Bee sighed. It appeared these three were going to be a tough audience. Well, maybe the tour would help them grow more comfortable. After a bit of discussion, they had decided that all visiting human dignitaries would be given a tour of the base. It was a good way for them to see multiple mechs doing ordinary things, along with a chance for casual conversation. He gestured at the ship, "Would you like to see our new starship? It's personally the largest starship I have ever seen, and we're incredibly lucky to have it here."

They exchanged looks. He saw fear on their faces, perhaps unsurprisingly, given the number of human movies that featured hostile alien ships. _There's a reason we keep comparing The Ark to the Starship Enterprise. Not only is it an apt analogy, the Enterprise is viewed positively by most humans! As opposed to, say, the ship in Independence Day, or the Death Star, or HAL. _

At that moment, Lennox came trotting down the closest entry ramp with Windy following after him. All three agents turned their attention to the major. Bee summoned them over with a wave, "This is Private Manywinds, one of our newcomers, and Major Lennox, who I believe you've met."

Lennox nodded at the FBI agents in greeting, then said, "Bee, are you going to give them a tour of the ship? Ratchet's in surgery right now on that Decepticon you guys ..."

"... he's _not _a Decepticon ..." Bumblebee said, startling himself by the firmness of his response.

Lennox shook his head. "Sorry. Right. He's in surgery with Prowl right now, so I would suggest staying away from the med bay."

"Thank you for the warning," Bee said, with genuine gratitude. Barricade, no, _Prowl_, had been stable, so he had thought Ratchet might recharge before starting his repairs. (And he ruefully realized he'd just done the same thing mentally that Lennox had done aloud: confuse the two names.) On the other hand, the ship was departing in ten days for Nieryl Six and his time with access to the ship's excellent med bay was very limited, so perhaps Ratchet had pushed ahead with the repairs. To the FBI agents, he said, "I trust you have seen the report of the fight last night?"

"Yes. Nobody was injured, but they could have been," Donelli said, sounding a bit concerned by that.

"We do _not _anticipate another Decepticon attack," Bumblebee replied, worried that they would think that the humans might be endangered next week. "And not even the Decepticons would be so foolish as to attack an event as heavily guarded as Optimus's speech will be. Sabot rounds can hurt us, and there will be large numbers of humans armed with them."

_And I do not think that the FBI agents could ever realize the level of trust it is taking us to send our leader into an event where he will be unarmed, and the humans will have guns that could kill him, _Bee thought, grimly. _Particularly given our past history with the government. This is an exercise in trust on both sides, and one that will hopefully lead to better relations all the way around, but Optimus is not simply our leader, he is beloved. _

"You say that with such certainty," Lennox snorted, regarding the Decepticon attack.

"If Megatron were still alive, my degree of confidence would be substantially lower," Bumblebee replied.

Windy had been regarding the agents with silent curiosity while everyone else had been speaking. Suddenly, during a brief break in the flow of the conversation after Bee's mention of Megatron, he said to Donelli, "I like your sunglasses."

Donelli turned his attention to Windy, and Bee could see his eyes widen behind said lenses. Windy tilted his head sideways and said, "I wonder if they'd fit on my head?"

The agent glanced up at Bumblebee uncertainly. Bee said, somewhat apologetically, "Windy's new to this world ..."

Donelli took his sunglasses off, revealing very blue eyes, and cautiously passed them to the smaller Autobot. Manywinds promptly tried them on, hooking the earpieces over a slight ridge above his audio receptors. He grinned. "How do I look?"

"Very, umm, stylish," Donelli said, but he was relaxing a bit.

Bee sent a quick video image to Windy of his appearance, and Windy laughed, and answered his own question, "Fairly ridiculous I guess. Sunglasses are better off left for humans."

"He was trying a t-shirt on earlier," Lennox murmured, just loud enough for the others to hear. "Epps got a picture."

Windy grinned and advised the humans, "I liked the color. It was purple. And before you ask how I made it fit, my wings come off. I've spent most of my life working around organics. Sometimes they're just plain in the way."

Donelli chuckled, obviously relaxing a bit, as Windy passed his sunglasses back. Bee, watching that, and noting that Donelli was more comfortable with Windy, made a snap decision. "Manywinds, you are far more familiar with the ship than I am. Would you like to lead our guests on a tour? I will be in the conference room on the second level in about an hour to start our official meeting."

"Tour? Sure!" Manywinds bounced on his toes. "C'mon, I can tell you all about the Ark. Hey! Teletraan! Guests!"

He ran up the steps, and the FBI agents followed. The humans had visibly relaxed, likely because their tour guide was not big enough to squish them simply by stepping on them.

Lennox said to Bee, "Are you sure that's a good idea? Windy's still not real up on human culture."

Bumblebee glanced down at Lennox. "Donelli was so scared of me that I was afraid for his health, and his staff members were following his lead. Windy may indeed make the occasional faux pas, but he means well. More importantly, he's not big enough to be truly frightening."

"Hnnh." Lennox was quiet, for a moment, then said, "Bee, did you catch the news about the riots in New York?"

"It was covered in my security notes, yes." Bee felt even more tired thinking about it. A march of about ten thousand people had turned violent. Two humans had died. _Primus_, he wished this contact could have been handled better. 'Better,' of course, would have been anything that didn't involve a battle that had destroyed half a city as humanity's very first contact with an alien race. _And then I went and manhandled Mikaela on video, and the anti-robot protestors are using that footage as proof of our violent tendencies. _

Sam's father had an expression, 'shoulda woulda coulda,' that he thought applied to _that _fiasco. He 'shoulda woulda coulda' handled that moment in the public eye better. However, there was nothing he could do about it now.

He said to Lennox, "We expected this sort of reaction when our presence on this world became known, though the Decepticons have not helped matters. We have met _many _organic races, and this is by far not the first time that we have made first contact. Generally, the initial reaction is hysterical fear by a segment of the population. Humans seem to be about midpoint on the spectrum of xenophobic reactions."

Lennox grunted. "I'm not sure if that's reassuring or not."

"It should be," Bumblebee said, "we generally end up on friendly terms with the native species, though sometimes it takes time and effort and consistency. Humans are fairly rational, as a whole, and will learn to accept us. It will simply take time and effort on our part."

"You have a lot more faith than I do."

Bumblebee let his faceplate scrunch up onto a smile. "Lennox, are you afraid of me?"

"What? No!"

"Were you, in the beginning?"

"Okay, I see your point, but Bee, have you _seen _human history?" Lennox shook his head vehemently, "I wish I had your faith, but -- God, it's full of genocide and war and persecution. And you're the scariest minority ever to walk the face of the planet. And you're _immigrants_, to boot."

"Cybertron has its own share of terrible things in its past."_ Such as Nebulos_, he thought, but did not say. The fate of Nebulos was classified for now, and filed under things that they did not want humans knowing about until humans knew the Autobots better.

Lennox shook his head, "And _that _is a wonderfully reassuring statement."

"I am well aware, perhaps more than most, of humanity's tendency towards violence and paranoia," Bumblebee pointed out. "I've _been _on an exam table, with humans discussing how best to cut me to pieces. And I would concede that Autobots are not perfect, by a very long shot. However, the future of both our species will be richer if we successfully forge a partnership. And, I would also point out, that we do come bearing gifts that should earn us substantial goodwill."

"The medical tech," Lennox said, and a tinge of hope touched his voice. "Right. That blue goop Doc's working on is amazing."

"We also have a lot of other knowledge that humans may find useful, and which is unrelated to war." Bee tilted his head, as Teletraan pinged him. _:Yeah, Teletraan?:_

_:Would you like to observe Windy as he gives the tour?:_

_:Oh, yes, thanks. Can you give me a feed?:_

The ship sent him a passkey to log in to a video stream. Bee kept an absent watch on Windy as he spoke to Lennox. Windy was animated, jumping up and down and waving his arms as he talked. _He's a bit like Bluestreak_, Bee thought, _only the energy level is natural, not nervous._

Windy was rather fun to watch. He quickly upped the percentage of his processor devoted to paying attention to Manywinds. Windy had taken them up to the observation deck (perhaps deliberately) and was chattering away about completely appropriate topics. "... During interstellar travel, this deck is generally closed off, but the Ark is designed for extended placement on a planetary surface. It's a flying base of operations, basically. We have crew quarters, a recreation hall, multiple holds, and basically everything else you'd find on the Starship Enterprise. Minus Spock, of course, and that's a shame, because I like him."

"Bee?" Lennox said, drawing his attention back to the conversation with the Major, "You're smiling?"

"Huh?" Bumblebee's response was not particularly articulate. Then he clarified, "My apologies, Lennox. Teletraan is allowing me access to a video feed of Windy talking to our guests, and I allowed myself to become distracted. You were saying ...?"

Lennox smirked and did not repeat the thread of the conversation that Bumblebee had lost. "See something you like, there?"

"What?" Bumblebee said, more than a bit surprised by that comment.

"What was it Mudflap was saying? 'Nice piece of a...'"

Bumblebee growled, annoyed at both Lennox and both twins, "Lennox, that is _not _funny, and if you have not learned this by now, Skids and Mudflap are insufferable, inappropriate, and intolerable. That also would be a completely inaccurate representation of what Cybetronians look for in partners. The twins have _warped _senses of humor."

Lennox just grinned at him, "You _do _like Windy."

"I think," Bee ground out, enunciating each word very carefully, "that I do not find this funny. Is that clear, Major?"

Lennox took a step back and held his hands up, correctly interpreting the sudden flattening of Bee's doorwings and the narrowing of his eyes as Cybertronian body language for 'pissed.' "Woah, Bee. I'm just hassling you. You know the 'not afraid of Autobots' bit we were just discussing? You're being kinda scary right now."

Bumblebee did two complete systems checks, the Autobot equivalent of taking deep breaths. Then, much less agitated, he said, "My apologies, Lennox. You are correct in that I find Manywinds appealing. However, as I have to work with the mech, and as I am specifically asking for Manywinds to be assigned to my command, I find there is a conflict of interest in pursuing any sort of relationship beyond friendship with him."

Lennox chuckled, "Well, I can understand that. But he won't be under your command for the rest of your life, right?"

Bumblebee did another systems check before responding. "I am _exhausted_, Lennox. I do not wish to discuss this now."

"Sure, Bee," Lennox said, surprisingly agreeably. "I'll see you later."

Bumblebee was well aware that Lennox stared after him as he climbed the ramp to the ship's entrance. He just didn't know what the human was thinking. He also couldn't figure out entirely _why _he had reacted with such hostility to the rather minor teasing.

* * * * *

"You have ... cave men?" Donelli said, in absolute disbelief, in the video feed. Bumblebee was both watching the tour and trying to figure out how to make coffee in the conference room at the same time. The coffee machine set-up seemed relatively easy, though Elita had handled it yesterday for the last batch of humans to arrive for a planning session.

_:How many scoops?: _He asked Elita while simultaneously watching Windy. He had successfully plugged the machine into a jury-rigged 115 volt outlet, poured a small amount of water in it, and figured out where to put the pleasant smelling grounds. The machine was on the table along with donuts and fruit. He would send somebody into town for an actual meal later; this promised to be a long session. He had learned that humans needed to eat about every three to four hours during their waking hours, with the odd snack in between.

_:Lennox says three per cup. There's a measure for the liquid on the side of the pot. They didn't complain yesterday, so I guess that's right. Stuff smells good, doesn't it?:_

_:Thanks. And yes, it does.: _For the aroma alone he would brew the coffee, even if these humans proved to be among the sizable percentage who disliked the beverage.

Watching Windy was much more interesting than watching the coffee percolate, so he focused more of his processor power on that while he scouted the room for anything out of place. He found only a few pieces of paper on the floor from yesterday, and dropped them neatly into a trash can he'd set aside for recyclables.

For the comfort of their human allies, the conference room had been modified to have two levels, with a table spanning the middle. One side of the room had a floor about two and a half feet from the tabletop. The other side dropped away in a twelve foot chasm at the moment, though that distance could be raised or lowered depending on the mechs in the room. This put his eyes roughly four feet above the level of the human side of the floor, which was eye level for seated adult humans.

In the video, Windy was leading the way down into the ship's middle hold. That level was best protected, and had the most exhaustive climate controls. It was suitable for transporting organic life, though they did tend to impose stasis on the entire deck on long hauls. Organic life was just so blasted _sensitive _to radiation. _And we haven't had the ability to create a stasis generator of this size for eons, _he knew. _We could take humans offworld with this vessel._

Windy informed Donelli, "I'd intended them to be a gift for Vermillion Prime, which is why I had so many. They called him Vermin, you know, because he had so many pets ..."

"Pets?" Donelli echoed, suddenly putting out immense levels of stress hormones, according to data transmitted to Bee along with the feed. His subordinates exchanged a long look. Bumblebee winced.

Manywinds slapped himself in the forehead after reviewing what he'd said, and likely running it through a 'as seen by humans' mental filter. The 'clonk' of his palm on his faceplate drew their attention. "Sorry. That probably sounded truly awful to human ears. We do _not _consider humans 'pets' and we do see you as people. The Australopithecus predate you guys, and we weren't even sure they'd ever evolve into anything more than clever monkeys. Though, they do have some of the important evolutionary traits necessary for tetrapods to develop recognizable sentience in a resource-sparse environment. Those traits are my area of specialty, for study ... Anyway. Humans keep monkeys as pets, right? I was being a bit sarcastic when I said 'pet'."

"... Right," Donelli said, hesitantly.

"Anyway, Vermillion was fascinated by organic life. He kept an enormous zoo on this oxygen world about ten light years from Cybertron. There were huge research complexes and vast compounds full of life from a hundred worlds. We were going to ship the specimens there. Vermin was about as fascinated by sub-sentient bipeds as I am."

They still looked dubious. Windy said, "They've got a brain capacity of about a third of human. That's about the same as a chimpanzee. Seriously, we would _not _keep truly intelligent life locked up. And our intention is to donate them to a human research facility, since ..." He hesitated, and Bumblebee knew what he was thinking. The sheer scale of the destruction of the civil war was staggering. That world he had mentioned was gone, not just dead but _gone_. There was only shattered rubble in orbit remaining. "... since Vermillion Prime is long dead. They are the last of their species, and I suspect humans will find them an invaluable resource for understanding your own origins."

Windy had descended the ramp to the middle hold, where the vast space within had been divided into individual cages. The Australopithecus had about half the hold to themselves in a large pen that had been landscaped with plant life up to and including small trees, and had been filled with toys and climbing structures. Bee had been down there a few times in his few spare moments, curiosity drawing him to have a look. The ape enclosure was the biggest by far, but other sections contained a sizable assortment of felines, plus a pair of truly enormous bears. Additionally, the crew had a botanist, and _her _collection filled several tens of thousands of cubic feet.

"... Wow." Donelli breathed, "... I wasn't expecting this. It looks like a very good zoo."

"We treat the animals humanely," Windy said, smiling, and clearly taking his surprise as praise.

Donelli walked up to the thick, transparent windows that separated the hall from the large enclosure. The 'cave men', seeing him, ran over. The males were just barely taller than his elbow, and the females a little above waist height, but they did walk upright with a graceful gait that looked remarkably human. That they were man's ancestors was very obvious. Not only did they have a build similar to humans but they had human-like hair and human-like eyes that were deep brown ringed with white sclera. Donelli touched the glass, and the boldest of the lot put a hand out, matching fingertips to fingertips. His hand was half the size of Donelli's. Bumblebee was struck by how small and frail the apes look compared even to their human descendents; they were the size of six or seven year old children.

"They're ... I'm really seeing living cave men."

Windy reached an arm over his shoulders and caught his wings with one hand. To Bumblebee's bemusement, Windy removed his fragile wings and hung them on a hook by the door that led into the ape enclosure. "They like to tug on them," Windy explained to the watching humans, "and it hurts. Wait here -- Shiny is my favorite, and she's really friendly."

Windy stepped through the door, and was immediately mobbed by apes. He took a moment to scratch a few mostly hairless backs and pat a few hairy heads, then bent over and picked up one of the females. She balanced comfortably on his hip like a human toddler, and he backed out of the door with her in his arms. Windy set her down, and the ape clung to his hand, peering shyly at the strangers through her bangs.

Donelli crouched down and said in fascination to the ape, "Hi."

"She doesn't understand much language, and what she does is in a pigeon form of Cybertronian. They're not capable of making most English speech sounds, though I confess I am fascinated by human experiments with the great apes and sign language -- I plan to try something similar with Shiny." Windy gave Shiny a little push, and the tiny female padded cautiously towards Donelli.

"Watch, she'll take your ..." Windy started to warn, as Shiny made a grab for them, "... sunglasses."

Donelli laughed as Shiny pulled them out of his shirt pocket, then he reclaimed them, and put them on the ape's face. She giggled, sounding very human, and then offered them back to him, putting them on _his _face. A sort of game resulted quickly, with Donelli putting the glasses on the ape, and the ape returning them. Bee made a point of recording that video. With the agent's permission, it was going on their Youtube page later.

Bee, observing all of this, smiled for a very different reason. Manywinds had succeeded in getting the FBI agents to calm down. They looked like they were a lot less frightened now. _Showing them the zoo would not have been how I would have done it, because I would fear they might think we would put humans in cages too. But I think Shiny's affection for Windy is disarming. _

Finally, Donelli stood up and said, "_Thank you _for showing me this. This was not what I expected when they said I was to meet with aliens on their own ship. You people are not what I expected at all."

Manywinds stroked Shiny's hairy head, causing the little ape to look up at him. Windy smiled. "You know that we have every reason to be as afraid of you as you are frightened of us? We few surviving mechs are vastly outnumbered, not invulnerable, and homeless. We are coming to humanity with our hands outstretched in peace, and praying to Primus that we are allowed to stay."

"Primus?" Donelli asked, reacting to the unfamiliar word in the context of 'prayer.'

"You would say God," Windy reached down and picked Shiny up. "I am not sure that the differences between 'God' and 'Primus' are anything but academic, on a basic level. We have different creation myths, but the meaning of 'Primus' is essentially the same."

Donelli gave him a very startled look. Windy shrugged with one shoulder, as the other was currently weighed down by his armful of ape. Donelli said, "You ... have religion?"

"Yes, we do, and I do not believe you will find a mech who does not believe to the core of his being in a higher power." Windy walked to the door and turned the little ape loose to run back into her enclosure. "We can prove absolutely beyond a shadow of any doubt that we have sparks, which are what you would call souls."

Bumblebee, observing, thought, _Careful, Windy, some humans do not react well to religious discussion with us ..._

But Donelli simply seemed intrigued. Manywinds and the FBI Agent quickly fell into a discussion of the topic, comparing and contrasting beliefs, as Windy led them up a level to the main hold (currently empty) and then up another ramp to the observation deck. Teletraan followed, changing Bee's video feed as they moved, and Bumblebee paid close attention.

Bee mused that Windy was going to be a real asset to his nascent team of ... well, _diplomats _wasn't quite right, but he was somehow ending up in a role something close to that, rather than the strict PR he'd done in the past. His role was shaping up to be equal parts public relations, event organizing, and legal research. The latter was giving him nervous fits, because it was not his area of expertise. Prowl and Jazz had been the ones to deal with that sort of thing in the past, on other worlds, but now their traditional work was being split with Elita. He was good at relating to other people, and public relations was a natural fit. Legal wasn't.

There was just so much they needed to learn, and so quickly. He had found out just this morning that they couldn't simply pay their human staff a wage and be done with it. They had to satisfy the requirements of everything from the IRS to Workman's Compensation, and _nobody _knew exactly how to handle alien robots as employers. Including said alien robots themselves.

_We need to get a Taxpayer ID numbers, _Bee thought, mind wandering to that practical issue. The US President was set to sign paperwork after Optimus's speech next week. They would legally be recognized as people, and the base would become an embassy, and it was all very complicated, and somehow the IRS had to be kept happy. And that meant registering themselves with the IRS. Somehow.

Light human footsteps in the hall outside made Bumblebee look up. Mikaela started to walk past, glancing through the towering open doorway as she did, and then stopped. "Bee!"

"Hello, Mikaela," he said, not at all unhappy to see her. He had a few unexpected minutes of freedom and this was perfect timing. He sat down on the floor, back to a bulkhead, as she hurried up to him.

"I didn't think I'd see you until tonight," she said, as she climbed up to stand on his leg armor. That put her at close to his eye level, and she rested a hand lightly on his shoulder for balance. He _loved _how fearlessly she moved into his personal space these days; the utter trust both she and Sam had in him brightened his day whenever he saw them. "How are you doing? Sam said you aren't getting much sleep."

"I'm exhausted," he said, candidly, shuttering his optics and resting his head against the wall behind him. "I will be so glad when this event is over."

She leaned back against his bumper. That couldn't be comfortable for her, but he knew humans liked and needed physical contact. And he certainly didn't mind. It felt so very good to have people trust him so very completely.

She said, "I just came from the med bay. Ratchet says that Barricade ... err, Prowl, ... can be brought online as soon as a good time arrives. He said something about somebody needing to connect to his processors?"

"Yes. They're going to download his memory data to Teletraan for whatever defragging Teletraan can do, then do a reformat of the core. And to be thorough, they'll reformat his processor core as well, because otherwise, you'll end up with a sparkling with tons of battle modules ... which isn't a good thing. Prowl will come online without anything but the most basic subroutines, and scared to death. Imagine how easily frightened human infants are when they are born? It is the same thing with our race. We react with fear to that which we do not understand, and a sparkling newly online has much it does not understand. Someone will need to jack in and upload a bunch of data. Typically, the mech who does that becomes a mentor to the sparkling, in a relationship akin to a parent. And Primus, it'd be weird to be Prowl's mentor."

And that was a job he didn't want himself. He felt totally unprepared to mentor anyone, never mind a mech with Prowl's potential.

"Who will do it?"

"We need to discuss it," Bumblebee said, optics still darkened. He really did need a recharge. He could feel little cumulative processing errors and fragmented files slowing his thoughts. The problem wasn't critical yet, and he judged he could push things another day or two, but _Primus _he was tired. Shutting off his optic feeds helped a bit; it meant he needed to handle less data. However, Optimus had to be worse off, so he almost felt guilty about complaining. "I honestly don't know. Optimus, maybe, or Magnus. Both of them knew Prowl really well. Alternately, we may decide to have someone who didn't know him at all mentor him. I would suggest Kup, in that case. He's raised an awful lot of younglings in his life."

"Bumblebee," Teletraan said, making both of them jump. "I am sorry to intrude, but I noted you stopped watching my feed."

"Do I need to observe it?" He had been feeling fairly confident about Windy's handling of the humans.

"I judge there is nothing alarming, but they are about to enter the room."

Mikaela started to pull away, but he put a hand up to stop her. In a low tone that was almost a whisper he said, "Stay, Mikaela. Not leaning against me, because I do not wish them to misinterpret our relationship, but will you sit down beside me? These humans are afraid of me, and they are influential, with power in the FBI. Let them see that you are not frightened."

He felt her hesitation for a moment, then she nodded, hopped off his leg, and sat down cross-legged on the floor beside him with her back to to the wall. A second later the agents entered, with Windy trailing after him.

Bee stood up, and Mikaela took the cue to rise as well. All three agents stared at her, obviously curious. Bee said in as casual a tone as he could summon, "This is Mikaela Banes. I am sure your briefings will have mentioned her. She is a friend."

"Oh, yes." Donelli's eyes registered recognition of her name. He glanced up at Bee, and then down at Mikaela, who was practically standing in Bee's shadow.

Bumblebee said calmly to Mikaela, "I'll see you and Sam at your dinner time."

"Yep. Later, Bee." She took the cue to head for the door, waving casually as she went.

"And Windy, thank you for leading the tour. Will you do me a favor and track Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky down and see if they need anything from the store? If they do, make sure they know that Bluestreak is going into town later to drop Doc off, and he could take them as well."

Windy's grin lit his whole face up. "Sure, Bee."

Donelli stared out the door for a second, after Manywinds was gone, then said, "I am curious: dinner?"

Bumblebee said by way of explanation, because this subject came up every time he met new humans, "Autobots do not eat, we refuel with a very highly refined product best translated as 'energon'. It is their meal I spoke of. I'm just tagging along because I enjoy their company. I invite the three of you out for a meal somewhere, but I understand your plane is scheduled to leave at three PM."

Donelli rubbed the bridge of his nose, and said, "Yes, and we have a lot to do between now and then. We should get started. Thank you for arranging the tour of the ship, however -- I was not expecting it to be so large, or so ..." he hesitated, "... so very much like a science fiction novel."

Bee grinned, taking that as a compliment. "We had some Navy personnel visiting yesterday who claimed they felt like they'd been shrunk to twelve inches tall and turned loose on an aircraft carrier, so it can't be _that _alien. We simply need to build to a scale to support mechs as big as Silverbolt."

"The size is a bit intimidating," Donelli gazed up at the table, which was high above his head, then he clearly registered the stairs up to the human side of the room, because comprehension of what he was seeing lit his face. "Do we go up there?"

"Unless you would prefer to talk to my knees," Bee said, and _this _time his joke earned a smile from all three agents. He added candidly, "In some ways, life would be much easier if I were shorter, wouldn't it? I envy Manywinds in that respect. He doesn't scare humans."

Donelli chuckled, and headed for the stairs.

* * *

Donelli frowned at the map that Bumblebee had created on the table with a 'holo-matter' projector. It was three dimensional, and appeared solid until he actually touched it. The stadium where Optimus Prime was to speak was faithfully recreated, as were surrounding roads, parking lots, and buildings.

"Where'd you get the data for this?" He asked, a bit suspiciously. It was hard not to be cautious. They were _aliens._

"Google Earth," the alien robot said, glancing up from the map. "Why?"

Donelli shook his head, and sipped his coffee. "Never mind." The coffee was Starbucks, supposedly, and he had seen the bag for proof. It tasted like Starbucks, and was matched with some very good donuts and a bowl of fresh fruit. The idea of a vast conference room in an alien starship being equipped with a _coffee _machine had seemed preposterous until he'd noticed that they'd had to wire in 115 volt outlet for it, and the outlet was duct-taped to one leg of the table, with wires disappearing into a floor plate. The thought of alien robots making a run to Home Depot to modify their starship with a power outlet for a human coffee machine made him want to snicker.

_They actually went to the effort of providing coffee for us. This is absolutely not what I was expecting. They don't even eat, yet they are considerate enough to provide for us._

Bumblebee said quietly, returning to the discussion at hand, "I believe the Secret Service recommended that Optimus enter the stadium from this direction ..." he traced a large finger down a road, "as closing these roads ..." he tapped several intersections, "... will create the least amount of interruption to normal traffic flows in the city."

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Donelli agreed. The FBI's job was to coordinate everything, so he was well aware of the plans already, but it was good to go over them. "We're going to put a couple black and whites at each intersection to stop traffic. God forbid some nut try to crash a big vehicle into your leader on his way to the stadium."

Bee's chuckle was very dry, "If they used an Earth vehicle, there would be far more damage to it than to Optimus."

"Well," Donelli said, "yes, if the videos I've seen are accurate, but we don't want to piss him off."

"Who, Optimus?" Bumblebee seemed genuinely surprised. Wide, glowing blue eyes regarded Donelli for a moment. "Well, I can't say as he'd be all that happy with whoever ran into him, assuming they survived the impact, because it would certainly hurt. But if you're concerned about an intergalactic incident stemming from a traffic accident, don't be. The worst he would do would be to catch the culprit and hand him over to the appropriate authorities. He would not further injury him, though there might be a messy problem with the human leaking dietary waste products before Optimus remanded him to the police."

_I believe the alien just said his leader would make an attempted assassin shit himself. _

Donelli stared at Bee.

Bumblebee gave him an utterly innocent look. Too innocent. Given the alien's very good command of English, he didn't think that turn of phrase was due to poor understanding of colloquial English. The creature was being funny. He found himself smiling in response, because it was simply hard not to.

_Heh. The Sec Def said to watch out for this one, _Donelli thought, _because he's got a wicked sense of humor and a really good grasp of human culture. I thought the Secretary was being sarcastic, but he wasn't kidding._

Donelli said, "Perhaps that's true, but it would still be a media nightmare."

_That _prompted a laugh from both of his assistants. McDean added, "And we'd never live it down."

The alien nodded. "I understand. Now, here's one of _our _concerns ..." he tapped the table, fingers disappearing into the image, then pulled his hand across the table. The stadium enlarged in response. He blew the image up a couple more times, then pointed something out. "... See this?"

The alien was indicating a side entrance to the stadium, probably meant for service vehicles to drive in.

"I don't understand."

"This is very poorly defended. There's a loading dock under here that is directly below stadium seating."

"There's usually a guard, I think, on all the entrances," Donelli said, though he saw exactly what the robot was getting at, and his eyebrows rose when he glanced over at McDean. The mechs clearly knew their business; he had pointed out a fairly major security flaw. "But you've got a point. Someone could take the guard out and drive right in. It's a long way from the stage, however."

"But not a long way from people." Bee enlarged the image further. "Agent Donelli, our first priority for this event is to ensure that no humans get hurt. Second priority is Optimus's safety. Third is that of the rest of us. Optimus, note, will try to turn that priority around and place himself third and us second. Don't let him do that, please; he is as important to our people as your President is to Americans."

Donelli grunted, "We could put some more guards on that entrance ..."

"We won't need the entrance after the stage is built," Bee said, "which should be completed by next Wednesday. My proposal is to block it off, perhaps with some concrete road barriers."

"Can't, probably. Fire code. There's probably emergency exits that leave through it." McDean experimentally pulled his finger through the image and succeeded in making it even larger.

"It's a concrete stadium. No chance of fire," Bumblebee pointed out, sounding a bit perplexed.

Donelli realized that was the first time Bee had shown any real lack of knowledge of humans. "'Fire Code' is shorthand for emergencies, Bumblebee. People tend to panic when they're frightened, and if they can't get out an exit, they may pile up and crush each other. It might be something other than a fire that causes a stampede; it could be anything from an earthquake to a terrorist attack."

"I understand." Bee held a hand up, "In that case, let us _not _block any exits. Perhaps ..." he tilted his head sideways, and fell silent for a moment. "Ah. Ironhide agrees. If you have no objections, we will place Sideswipe and Sunstreaker there. The two of them can adequately defend the entrance without the use of ranged weapons. Grimlock, additionally, can be stationed nearby to back them up."

Donelli knew that the Autobots had strenuously objected to the government's stipulation that all of their people go unarmed. Bumblebee had previously made it very clear that he was mildly worried about Decepticon attacks on the event, though he also had baldly stated that they would never use their guns on humans. However, Donelli's superiors had been flatly unwilling to bend on that point. If the Autobots and politicians wanted to have a huge public event, as unwise as everyone in the know felt it might be, that was fine. However, letting the aliens walk around with guns that legitimately merited the term 'cannon' simply was not happening.

A compromise had been finally been reached: Their ranged weapons would be stored under the guardianship of their medics _and _a National Guard troop, a mile away. (_Why medics,_ Donelli wondered?) However, they could not go armed with guns or anything similar while in public at the event. Nightmares of 'War of the World' type scenarios had gone through Donelli's head at that idea, particularly since he'd seen plenty of surveillance video from Mission City and Paris as part of his briefing. If the aliens wanted to kill lots of humans, they could very, very easily do so.

On the other hand, he had seen the videos from Mission City. The robot in front of him? Was one of the good guys from that fight. He'd also helped save the world, or so the reports said, quite _literally_, three weeks ago. Allowing the Autobots access to their weapons in case of Decepticon attack seemed a reasonable compromise. (And a tiny little voice in his head wondered if they'd be able to get to the trailer with the weapons in time, in such a case.)

"Grimlock is the ..." McDean consulted his notes, "... Tyrannosaurus Rex?"

Bee covered his face with one hand, in an expression of what looked like very human-like embarrassment. "Grimlock saw a monster truck rally and transcanned a robotic dinosaur at the event."

Donelli asked, "Can't you get him to change to something a little more subtle?"

Bumblebee made a sighing sound somewhere deep in his chest, followed by a rush of static. "Trust me, we've all tried. Grim likes being a dinosaur."

"My understanding was that you have a very military social structure," Donelli said, curious, "I hope you don't find this question offensive, but why can't your Prime just give him an order to pick something more suited to blending in?"

Bee grinned, or at least, Donelli _thought _that expression was a grin. The mech didn't really have a mouth, but the part of his faceplate analogous to cheekbones lifted up and his eyes narrowed. It looked like a smile. He hoped he was correct. The humor that followed in Bee's voice told him he'd been right in interpreting that expression as amusement. "Grimlock is now a Prime. Optimus outranks him in a military capacity, but not a cultural one. It's a grey area. Additionally, I believe that the human term 'chose your battles' applies to Grimlock. If it's truly necessary, he would chose another form. Until then, convincing him to change is not a fight I personally want to wage."

Donelli nodded understanding.

McDean said, "I would honestly like to _see _a walking, talking robotic Tyrannosaurs Rex ... and my kid would freak out with joy."

Bee smiled again. "He's around here somewhere, though would I warn you that he's bigger than I am and he cleans my clock every time we spar."

Donelli found he was staring at the Autobot, who was in turn giving his approximation of a grin to McDean. There was a distinct teasing lilt in that voice, too. The alien knew damn well that all three of them had reacted with 'oh, shit, he's _huge_!' upon first meeting with him. While his efforts to put them at ease were both earnest and blatantly obvious, he apparently wasn't above teasing them about it now that they'd stopped hyperventilating. (Was he _really _going to dinner with two human kids? Donelli found that rather hard to believe, and suspected the robot was doing so to help his image, with logic that he didn't entirely find alien. Why would an alien have any interest in two teenagers?)

Bumblebee added, "Major Lennox has a little girl who just turned two years old. Every time she sees Grimlock she screams his name and runs to him. Agent McDean, your reaction of 'I want to see the dinosaur' is quite common among humans of all ages and we are well aware of it. And Grimlock, for all he aggravates the rest of us, _likes _people. Additionally, he is not shy about his affection for younglings -- children -- and most of them seem to love him, size and all. You will find that a common denominator, really; we love children, perhaps because we have always had so precious few of our own."

"Why so few?" Donelli asked. "We are aware you can't make more of your race now, because the Allspark was destroyed, but what about before?"

"Barring accident or malice," Bumblebee explained with a mechanical sigh, "my people can live millions of years. We simply repair or replace any body part that breaks or wears out. However, planetary resources are always limited. Therefore, we traditionally only created younglings when other mechs had died, often with the intention that the youngling be a direct replacement, or when we had a new colony world to populate or an allied world that had agreed to host some of our people. I'm personally tens of thousands of years old, and have only known a handful of true younglings, though that is partly because we have not been able to create any for millenia. The younglings we have now were kept in stasis for one reason or another, and most are not particularly _young _anymore. This war saps the youth from them."

_Oh_. Donelli tried to picture a world largely without children. It felt empty. But surely, Autobot children were not like human children ...

"There's something special about watching a being learn about the world for the very first time," Bee said, thoughtfully, "new experiences, new sights, new knowledge, all innocently enjoyed, without any awareness of the darkness that exists in the universe. Younglings are special, to both our races, Donelli -- but I digress, I think."

Donelli nodded thoughtfully. "I never thought about robots having children."

"Mechs," the Autobot said, gently. "Please, call us mechs. Your robots are what we would call," here, he said something full of unpronounceable tonalities in his own language, then continued, "The best, most accurate, translation would be 'drones', I believe, in that we would mean devices that have rudimentary artificial intelligence but are without a spark. We use the word 'mech' to describe us, as it is a handy contraction of 'mechanical' that sounds something like 'men' to human ears."

"I didn't mean offense ..." he said, concerned that the alien might be feeling insulted. The Sec Def had also mentioned that the robots, no, _mechs_, were fairly good at concealing their emotions if they were hurt. There had been a few incidents with wounded feelings early on with the N.E.S.T. team on the part of the Autobots, usually having to do with Autobots being inadverdently excluded from the human soldier's social activities. The mechs had said nothing, however, but apparently Optimus had brought the issue to the attention of the human soldiers' commanding officer.

_Something about a team picnic, and the mechs not being invited, if I recall right ... not deliberately excluded, just not _invited_._

Bumblebee eyed him for a moment, then said, voice as calm as still water, "Donelli, I will take insult when insult is truly intended. This is _not _the first time I have worked under Optimus when we have made first contact with an alien race. It is the twelfth time we have been in this position. I am not a particularly patient nor tolerant mech; Optimus says suffering fools gladly is simply not a part of my spark. However, you have yet to do anything that I would even begin to consider offensive."

He blinked at the alien.

Bumblebee smiled, though not so noticeably as before. Just a quick bunching of his faceplate. "We have a policy of speaking plainly, early on in this sort of relationship. It's something Optimus taught me. We assume nothing, and you will note that I will communicate my feelings on matters to you immediately, very clearly, and very honestly. This helps avoid unfortunate misunderstandings. Also, none of us who are officers will take offense if you need to _ask _us to clarify ourselves. I will additionally note that, in my case," and here he gestured at his facial features or lack thereof with one enormous hand, "I'm a bit handicapped in my ability to convey emotions. Those who know me learn to read me accurately, but humans do communicate quite a bit of nonverbal language with the positioning of their mouth parts, and it's a bit of a challenge at times to work around that."

"I ... see." Donelli had been trying not to visibly notice, much less stare, at Bumblebee's 'mouth,' which was basically just a speaker. What was he supposed to say, 'I'm sorry?' The data he'd seen indicated this mech had been very badly damaged at one point in his life, and his cranial structure had been rebuilt, but the repair was imperfect even now. Until very recently he'd had trouble even speaking and had often communicated with recorded clips of music and movie dialog. That was hard to believe, given his smooth, cultured voice now.

Bee shrugged. "And that is one of the reasons I am not doing _public _speaking, and leaving it to the others. That, and the thought of getting up in front of a crowd like Optimus does makes my processor short-circuit in terror."

Donelli laughed. He couldn't help it. Bumblebee's tone was so very bland, but the mech's eyes were dancing with amusement. He was laughing at himself.

* * *

The human agents were finally relaxing and focusing on their job. Bumblebee had decided McDean was definitely warming up to him, though Donelli seemed to be over-cautious. He suspected that Donelli was a bit paranoid by nature, not necessarily a bad thing in someone who had a security related job, but something Bee needed to keep in mind. And convey to the others. They would need to be doubly careful not to give Donelli reason to suspect the Autobots of having ulterior motives.

The reception after the speech was giving them fits, however. They had five basic requirements for the building, (1) that it was big enough to house an estimated 200 humans and twelve Autobots, (2) that it had a ceiling high enough for Optimus to stand upright, (3) That it had a door they could enter through at least in alt mode and (4) that it be secure and close to the stadium and (5) that it be available that night.

There was a convention center only blocks from the stadium, but it was already booked by a very science fiction convention and said convention attendees were apparently expected to be heavily in attendance at the speech. Bumblebee would not have put it past Optimus to have deliberately scheduled his speech to coincide with the convention. Optimus was canny enough to do something like that without _ever _letting on about his intent. It was probably reasonable to assume that this would give them a friendlier audience than might otherwise be expected.

(Bee was sorely tempted to crash the science fiction convention the day after the reception. He wanted to meet the creators of some of his favorite stories and human movies, and they would be in attendance. But that would probably not be a good idea, even if he suspected that said creators would be thrilled to meet him right back.)

They still had left the problem of where to have the reception. The best option appeared to be the lobby of a hotel close to the stadium, but the FBI agents and the Secret Service were both leery. There were numerous buildings around the hotel, and it had vast expanses of glass windows and flat landscaping that would allow a vehicle to approach right up to the building. While they could reduce the problem of snipers by covering the windows, nothing would solve the issue of 'explosives' at that venue.

Somebody had blown up Mikaela's home simply because she was friends with the Autobots. Nobody was discounting the possibility of a car bomb.

Bumblebee ran a hand over his face, shuttered his optics for a moment, then said, "Is there anything farther out from the stadium that we're overlooking?"

"There's a shopping mall ..." McDean said, dubiously, "but I'm not sure about the ambience that it would have. Plus, it has a lot of entrances and exits to cover."

"Yeah, that won't work," Donelli shook his head.

"May I make a suggestion?" Teletraan spoke up, making all three humans jump.

Bee gestured in the general direction of the walls around them. "Gentleman, may I introduce you to Teletraan, who is our ship's spark. He's every bit as aware and sentient as I am and he's always listening in unless we ask for privacy. Go ahead, Teletraan. What did you turn up?"

"Not necessarily turn up in regards to a location, but another option I would like to propose. My understanding is you need a large space for a party, with sufficient headroom for the larger mechs, and sufficient security measures to prevent unfortunate terrorist incidents, correct?"

"That's right," Bee said.

"What about my upper hold?" Teletraan said. "It's certainly spacious enough, it is empty, and the security could not be beat."

Donelli said, "The event is in Los Angeles."

Teletraan sounded smug when he said, "And I could be, with about two hours of flight time. I _am _portable."

"Well, that would solve the 'security' aspect," Bee snickered at Donelli's expression, then asked the agents, "What do you think? You've seen his upper hold."

Donelli pinched the bridge of his nose and regarded the enormous conference room thoughtfully. "I think we have no other real options. I also think it'll be a nightmare getting FAA clearance, but we could probably manage it within a week, given how high up the chain of command you guys have support. Err, Teletraan, do you have any specific requirements for a landing site?"

"Firm ground, and sufficient room. My footprint is six hundred nine feet by seven hundred fifty two feet, plus an additional one hundred and four feet in each direction for solar wings if an extended stay is required. I am one hundred and twelve feet tall, and I can land with an accuracy of four inches if a pinpoint landing is needed." The ship sounded distinctly smug about the latter fact.

Donelli stared in the direction of the concealed speaker, then pulled his finger across the table, dragging the map towards him. He tapped it to select a portion, and enlarged the area around the stadium. "Err, Teletraan, there's a huge vacant lot, here, that might meet the needs. I don't know who owns it, but I imagine we could find out, and see if they'd rent us the land for a few days. Parking might be a problem, though ... I'm not sure how the ship's footprint would compare to the lot."

"It will be tight, but I would fit there," Teletraan said, "And I do come with my own covered parking."

"Huh?"

"He means they could park underneath the ship. He can extend his landing legs several yards to account for uneven ground, or just to make more room below the ship. We would definitely need to screen vehicles as they arrived, but that's doable," Bee said, feeling a bit brighter. "Donelli, actually, that gives me an idea: what if we were to extend our stay for a few days in LA and give tours of the ship? The Ark is not due to depart for ten days, and most of that has to do with repairs to a damaged engine. Those could be done anywhere."

Donelli gave Bee a long, measured, and somewhat dismayed look. "You have got to be kidding. I thought I was going to get to go home Friday night."

"I'm sorry," Bee said, and shrugged. "But the Ark may not be back for several weeks, or longer, depending on how the mission goes. It would be a good opportunity for us to do some heavy duty public relations."

"Gotta admit," McDean said, "There's a huge segment of the public that would go apeshit for a chance to have a tour of a real live alien starship ..."

* * * * *

Sam hurried from the Autobot hangar to the ship, on a mission to deliver some sort of tool to Socket from Arcee. Halfway there, Doc zoomed up next to him in alt mode.

"Need a ride, kiddo?" Doc said.

"Umm ..." he said, "Sure."

After Doc took off towards the ship, he said over the noise of his own engine, "I need your permission for something, Sam."

"Permission?"

"I'm working on a medical project that requires some donations of human cells," the Autobot doctor said, "it has to do with cellular regeneration and duplication."

"Umm?" He blinked down at his ride. "You're wanting what?"

"Mikaela and your parents have already given samples, but I would like more examples of human cells."

"What do you need to do, draw blood?" He _hated _needles.

"Just a cheek swab. We are developing medical technology that will help all of mankind."

"Oh. Okay, I guess. Though, you're not going to clone me, are you?" He said the latter teasingly, though he was pretty sure the Autobots wouldn't do something like that. No ... correction, he could see them doing it, given their rather unfussy attitude towards their own shells and their clear belief that 'body' and 'soul' were two separate things, but they would not do it without gaining his full permission.

"Oh, no, not the way I believe you mean. Though we will cause the cells to reproduce in a matrix," at Sam's surprised look he specified, "_Not _that kind of Matrix, and your language gives me fits, our language has no synonyms! One of the projects we are working on is organ replacement, using one's own genetic material to create new organs. We would, for example, be able to grow a new heart. Humans are already experimenting with these concepts but Autobots have far more data on how other races have accomplished the same thing. Much of the technology does appear to be cross compatible as carbon based organic life using DNA to regular reproduction is very common."

Sam shrugged. "I guess I don't see why not ..."

* * *

Optimus had found himself with a few rare moments of downtime, and was using it to work on his all-important speech when Wheeljack pinged him, asking for a private connection over their comlinks. He looked up to see the engineer roll through the hangar doors in alt mode. _:Yes, 'Jack?:_

_:Do you have a moment? I've been elected the one to speak to you.: _Jack's voice held a wealth of mischief. _:Ratchet and Doc and I have an idea we need your stamp of approval on.:_  
_  
:If you're planning on kidnapping me for repairs, I'm busy.: _In contrast to Wheeljack's tone, Optimus couldn't keep the resignation out of his own words.  
_  
:That's actually scheduled for later today.: _Wheeljack, still sounding vastly amused, transformed. He stood up and padded closer to Optimus, moving very quietly. Optimus was awake, but Elita was in recharge next to him. Their schedules were so hectic that they were taking naps whenever time was available.  
_  
:I thought so.: _Optimus allowed himself a smile. _:Ratchet has ceased to demand my time, so I concluded that an intervention was being planned.:_

_:Are you going to go peacefully?: _Wheeljack sounded curious.

_:I will assume that my schedule has been carefully rearranged behind my back, as per usual, and that Ratchet is fully prepared to pull rank on me, so yes, I will go. What time will they come for me?: _Optimus wasn't delighted by the idea, because he thought his repairs could wait until after the speech (and the damage could be hidden behind freshly painted armor) but had long ago resigned himself to letting Ratchet win on matters such as this. Besides, repairs meant an extended and guilt-free recharge period. Maybe the words for the speech would flow smoother after a long rest.  
_  
:Eight PM, from my understanding.: _Wheeljack grinned. _:What I wish to speak to you about has to do with is a problem Bee is experiencing, however.:_

_:Yes?: _Optimus couldn't keep the concern from his voice.

_:Nothing _wrong _with Bumblebee, but it's simply a psychological issue that humans have with our height. Sir, I want you to watch something that illustrates my point.:_

The video that Wheeljack transmitted to him was of Bumblebee interacting with the FBI agents. They'd been visibly disconcerted by Bee, and Optimus felt a bit of distress, watching that. He did not want the agents, their allies next week in the task of keeping the public safe, to be afraid of Autobots. Then, to his bemusement, Windy showed up. It was very clear that Manywinds, at a scant six feet of height, and with a frail build, was less threatening to the humans. Even the presence of unconcealed weapons on Windy's wrists did not bother the men nearly as much as Bee's sheer mass.

_:Good thing they were talking to Bumblebee and not you,: _Wheeljack observed.

_:Hmm. What is your proposed solution?: _The behavior of the humans was nothing that surprised him at all. He had seen it many times. However, Wheeljack wouldn't be here if 'Jack didn't have an idea to fix the problem. It also didn't escape Optimus's notice that the three of them _were _seeking permission. That meant it was a significant project, _and _one they thought he would say yes to. Also, while Doc was generally good about getting Optimus's okay on work, Wheeljack had a tendency to forget and Ratchet simply didn't care what Optimus (or anyone else) thought if the issue was even remotely related to Autobot medicine. This meant Doc was heavily involved, and that definitely got his interest.  
_  
:It is something we have been working on for a couple days. If you will greenlight some further research into it, I suspect we can ease Bee's job greatly.: _Wheeljack sounded, if not exactly nervous, somewhat wary and evasive.

Optimus could not help teasing Wheeljack just a little bit. _:Should I be worried?:_

_:When the three of us get together on something? _Always_ worry, sir. However, I promise this is not explosive.: _Wheeljack's voice was merry again. Then he transmitted the outlines of a project that definitely had the distinctive stamp of all three of them on it: medic, inventor, and organic-life medical researcher.

Had Optimus been in protoform his optic ridges would have both lifted high. As it was, he fell silent, studying the proposal in full detail. The documentation appeared to be Wheeljack's work, which was unsurprising as Ratchet was insanely busy and Doc only slightly less so. Wheeljack had been helping with repairs to Teletraan, but those were mostly minor. However, Ratchet's pragmatic influence was obvious in the lists of ship's inventories cross-referenced with a supply list for Wheeljack's little project. Ratchet had made sure the ship had everything they needed. And _Doc _had provided notes from his lab, showing that the organic side of the project was easily feasible.

_:This is a very ambitious plan,: _Optimus said, _:Are you certain you can make it work?:_

_:Maybe.: _Wheeljack knew better than to exaggerate the truth to Optimus, and gave a fairly honest response. _:If we can pull it together, the result will be the most complicated protoform made in the last several million years. If not for the supplies on board the Ark, I would not even dream of attempting this. However, we three all believe it can be done.:_

_:I give my approval as commander. Your idea has merit, Wheeljack, and if this works it will definitely give Bumblebee a few advantages. Of course, Bumblebee will need to accept your idea.: _

_:Why would he turn us down?:_

Optimus successfully fought the urge to chastise Wheeljack for that question. _:Please ask him, Jack, before you begin your work. Or, better yet, have _Doc _ask him.:_

Ratchet had no tact. Wheeljack was clueless, as his question had indicated. Doc, at least, would approach the subject cautiously, and obliquely, with the sensitivity the matter required. 

_:Sure, boss.: _Wheeljack waved jauntily, then headed back towards the ship. _:And enjoy your long recharge tonight.:_

* * *


	34. Chapter 34

Windy stretched on his tip-toes, watering can in hand, to reach the ferns hanging from pots next to his berth. He was feeding them growth hormones with their water, encouraging them to grow prior to sending some samples to earth botanists. Botany was _not _his area of expertise, that was Flora's interest, but he liked the plants. He had also discovered that both the ferns and the orchids were long extinct in this world, genetic drift and a few extinction events having rendered them lost to time.

Out of curiosity, he had posted pictures of the orchids on an internet bulletin board devoted to plant propagation. The response had been electric, including sizable offers of money to buy some specimens from him. He had been vastly amused by this. If they reacted in such a fashion to _orchids _what were they going to do when word got out about the rest of the collection, including Shiny and her kin?

An unexpected ping from Teletraan made Windy jump. Teletraan usually just spoke up when he had something to say, often without warning. Even the rest of the crew sometimes forgot that he was always listening, and his processors were enormous enough that he could track and participate in dozens of conversations simultaneously. However, for him to _ping _Windy meant he was asking for an encrypted conversation. That was unusual, and likely meant Teletraan didn't want to risk being overheard.

_:Yeah, big guy?:_

:Windy, do you like Bee?:

Teletraan's question was blunt. Teletraan was always to the point. He didn't waste time with casual chatter and he rarely hesitated when he had something on his mind, so Windy assumed this was more than just a bit of gossip. He answered candidly,_ :Yeah, I do. He's a nice guy.:_

:Are you interested in pursuing anything with him?:

:Maybe,: Windy said, then hesitated, and added a bit shyly, _:He's really rather special, isn't he? He's nothing like t'Grethi, but maybe that's a good thing. I love the way he cares about his friends.:_

:Good answer, Manywinds. I've been watching him and I believe you would suit each other. Many of the crew, including some of the other Primes, have been commenting on the matter, and most of them see the pairing favorably. They think you are compatible with him, and they wish to see him find a partner. And, in that vein, you should see this video.:

Teletraan sent Manywinds a brief clip of Bee speaking with apparent annoyance to the human soldier Lennox. Bee stated, his doorwings held at an uncharacteristically tight angle, "My apologies, Lennox. You are correct in that I find Manywinds appealing. However, as I have to work with the mech, and as I am specifically asking for Manywinds to be assigned to my command, I find there is a conflict of interest in pursuing any sort of relationship beyond friendship with him."

Manywinds laughed, pleased beyond words. _:Oh, so that's how it is, huh? He _does _like me.:_

:I thought you would appreciate confirmation.: Teletraan sounded smug.  
_  
:Thanks for the tip. I think I'm feeling an affinity with Ratchet, all at once.:_

:I can drop a few words to the other Primes and ensure that you are not_ put on Bumblebee's staff when they finalize the rosters. I suspect they will be happy to help with this conspiracy.:_

He snickered. _:You're meddling. You're shameless. Thank you.:_

:Of course.: Teletraan was completely unapologetic. _:I'm tired of seeing you throw yourself at pretty young soldiers who _aren't _interested.:_

:I do not 'throw' myself at anyone.:

:I believe the human term is 'have a crush,' and you are as predictable as a pulsar when it comes to your attraction to mechs who are youthful officers.: Before Windy could come up with a retort to that, Teletraan added, _:However, might I suggest Rodimus Prime rather than Ratchet as a commanding officer?:_

:Why?:

:Because Ratchet will draft you into his med bay sooner or later if you're on his team, and you would prefer to pursue your own research. Am I correct in that analysis?:

:Yeah, probably.: Windy considered the subject. _:Though Roddy's pretty attractive too.:_

:Rodimus has shown zero interest in you beyond professional. Bee smiles every time your name is mentioned. I would suggest pursuing Bumblebee. I calculate the odds of success are much greater.:

Windy laughed, _:Yeah, yeah. Anyway, Rodimus is far too much of a paladin for my tastes. I'll take the one with the snarky sense of humor, thanks. Did you _hear _the song he played at Grimlock yesterday?:_

:'Jurassic Park', yes, I heard. It was very amusing.:

Windy finished watering his plants and said aloud, "Thanks, Teletraan."

"You're welcome."

* * *

Sam scowled at the e-mails stacking up in his laptop. He had been put to work almost immediately by Elita as a point-of-contact for people seeking tickets to the reception. The requests for tickets numbered in the thousands, _after _the bots had purged the vast majority of the e-mails and had sent him only those belonging to 'influential' people. It seemed the Autobots had a perfectly pragmatic desire to meet the rich and famous, because the rich and famous could sway public opinion in their favor. _One would almost forget that Optimus was a politician long before he was a warrior, until he comes up with schemes like this. He plays towin __, _Sam thought, with both amusement and frustration.

The volume of communications astounded him. When word had leaked out yesterday about the plans for a party after the speech, Bee had set up an e-mail box for requests that night. The demand for tickets had surpassed anything Sam ever would have expected. Everyone from a well known astronomer to multiple famous rock stars thought they should be in attendance, and he'd only viewed a fraction of the e-mails.

And yet, despite that response, public opinion polls indicated that a significant chunk of the general public was at best skeptical and at worst terrified of the Autobots. People were either wildly curious and fascinated, or frightened. There seemed to be no mid point; 'Autobot' was a polarizing word these days.

Mikaela appeared first, a plastic bag in one hand, stepping through the open blast doors onto the Ark's observation deck. It was late afternoon, with the sun casting long shadows across the base and shining warmly through the deck's railing. Sam sat cross-legged on the metal deck plating in the shade cast by a communications array. It had been hot today, and was still a little too toasty for comfort, he was glad to be outside. He also agreed with his father that the view of the planes taking off and landing was enjoyable, particularly when the plane in question was Silverbolt.

Silverbolt was practicing a maneuver that involved a controlled stall, a mid-air transformation, and a bipedal landing. He had fallen a few times, but not recently. The enormous mech had been practicing for hours, and he had the whole south runway to himself. Sam wished he had more time to watch Silver, but the work he had been assigned was both tedious and important.

"Who'd you get a lift into town with?" he asked, curiously, as Mikaela approached with food. He had been kept busy on various errands but Mikaela had finally managed to escape the clutches of the Autobots and fetch dinner.

"Bluestreak," Mikaela said, with a rather fond smile. "He's such a sweetie, isn't he?"

"Yeah, he is. It's hard to believe he's their best sniper and assassin," Sam agreed, glad for a break from reading e-mails. He was dividing them into three groups. 'Hell no' and 'maybe' and 'hell yes.' 'Hell no' included a politician currently on trial for corruption. He put a couple senators and their wives in the 'hell yes' category, though most of the attending politicians already had Bee's contact information and were going through him. Bumblebee had sent him a list of about fifty names that would receive two tickets each. Since they were planning for about four hundred attendees, that left him three hundred tickets to parcel out.

Never in his wildest dreams had he thought that 'getting in the car' a little over a year ago would lead to a situation like this now. How in the world did he chose between, say, the CEO of a major medical research firm, and an A-list rock star who'd promised to record and release a song about the 'bots if they would just let him attend? Optimus had been very clear to him that the point of the party was to introduce the 'bots to those with influence in the world.

_Why me? _He thought, a bit desperately. He had not even recognized half the names, and had needed to research the people in question on the internet. He had questioned Elita about why they were putting this enormous responsibility on his shoulders, and she had explained, simply, 'We trust you to make decisions in good faith on our behalf. Strangers might have an agenda that does not match our goals. And _we _do not know these people any more than you do.'

Mikaela sighed, and gave Sam a _look _in reaction to his words about Bluestreak. "It's war, Sam. I suspect all the mechs have done things we would find repugnant. I like Bluestreak."

"Didn't say I didn't like him. I'm just observing that he's not entirely the overgrown puppy, or sixteen foot tall little boy, that all of us humans seem to see when we talk to him." Sam shrugged, closed the laptop, and set it aside. He definitely needed a break.

Mikaela didn't precisely respond to that, just gave him another significant look, and then sat down cross-legged on the deck and pulled out two savory-smelling cardboard boxes from the plastic bag, then a third container of rice, two plates, chopsticks, and two bottled sodas. "Your moo goo gai pan," she said, handing him one container, "and my sweet and sour chicken."

"Gaaaaaaarlic," he breathed, exaggerating a breath in her direction.

She laughed. "Are you _twelve_?"

"Oh, can I be again?" He said, giving her puppy dog eyes. "Twelve was fun."

"Oh, God. I _hated _twelve. It was the year I got these things." She gestured at her chest with her chopsticks.

"I noticed them," he said, with an exaggerated chest-level leer, trying to make her laugh. "You were in my math class that year, two rows over."

She had spent more time than not in the same school as he had attended, because her family lived in the area and so had her foster parents. He had fond memories of her going back to first grade. On her part, she claimed she had never even noticed him. He'd chosen to find that funny, though it _did _sting a bit when he thought too much about it. She'd been so oblivious of his feelings for her. _Bee would say that she was more focused on her own wounds, _Sam realized, with sudden electric clarity. _She didn't notice me, but I'm willing to bet she didn't notice _most _of us. She'd be enrolled for a month or two, then shuttled off somewhere else, then back again. No consistency, no stability, and no assurance she'd ever come back to see us. No wonder she didn't pay much attention to me. I just wasn't relevant._

She rolled her eyes at him, oblivious to his stunned epiphany. "Yeah, and the entire rest of the boys in the school suddenly started paying attention to me too."

"Oh, the perils of being popular." Teasing was required for that comment, and his words _did _make her smile. It was true that she had been popular. With her looks, and her ability to charm the boys (and the fact that she was known for putting out, unfortunately) the jocks had loved her. She was past that, he hoped. He stuck a fork in his garlic-heavy dinner and came up with a piece of pork and bit into it.

"Better the perils of being popular than the perils of being a complete _dork_," she grinned brightly at him as she said this.

"That's me," he said, after swallowing, "your very own complete dork. And you know you love me for it."

"Mmm, _maybe_." She smiled teasingly.

At that moment, the heavy tread of Autobot feet announced Bee's arrival. Both looked up as he approached the open blast doors. Sam had time to think, _Damn, he looks tired, _just as Bee walked through the exit and clipped one of his doorwings hard on the frame. He winced and made a sharp, startled, chirping noise of pain, and Mikaela jumped to her feet in instant reaction, with Sam scrambling up a second after she did.

Bee held up a hand and said, "I'm fine."

"And there's our other dork," Mikaela, hands on her hips, surveyed Bee critically. Sam, seeing that look, winced. She'd given him the exact same glare the time he'd tried to go out to dinner with her when he had the flu. In a sharp, no-nonsense tone of voice Mikaela said to Bumblebee, "You're shutting down some of your directional processors to save on RAM use, because you're experiencing coding errors due to lack of recharge, aren't you?"

Bee gave her an abashed look, "You've been talking to Ratchet. You even _sound _like him."

"I talk to him about Autobot medicine every chance I get. You guys are fascinating. And you, buddy, need to recharge, if you're so bad off you're walking into walls." She folded her arms and met his gaze with a direct stare, as if daring to deny her assessment.

"You're right," he admitted, honestly, with a candor that Sam had come to expect from Bumblebee, though when Bee had started being so damned _honest _with them, he couldn't actually say, "but I wanted to at least see you two before I do. I did say I'd meet you for dinner." Bee padded over to them, metal feet clicking on the deck.

"When's your next meeting?" Mikaela demanded. She sounded almost angry at him.

"Four hours," he replied, "at ten PM, a conference call with some Japanese businessmen who are flying in on Friday, and Doc. Optimus wants me on the call because he's going to be in the med bay then, and he wants an officer listening in."

"Down." She pointed peremptorily at the deck. "Right here."

"Mikaela ..." Bee tried to protest.

"_Down_. Or I'll call Ratchet right now and tell him what I just saw." Mikaela held her cell phone up threateningly. "Nap. Now."

He still looked like he wanted to argue. She flipped the phone open. He held up both hands and said, "Okay, okay."

Mikaela's expression softened from firm resolve to sympathy now that he'd caved in to her demands. She asked, "Have you been running nonstop since Tuesday?"

"All of us have," Bee sprawled out in protoform on the deck on his stomach, resting his head on his hands, faceplate turned towards them. "We are insane to try to pull this off with so little time to plan, but we do not wish to lose momentum. Have you seen anything on the 'Nobot' movement? They are getting quite a bit of press, and have some influential people involved. We wish to appeal to the public before the tide of public sentiment turns against us."

"You can worry about crazy anti-Autobot protestors _later_." Mikaela sat down next to him, ignoring his fretful concerns for now. "Bee, send a message out to the team that you're going to take a few hours of recharge. Then let your comlink go over to voicemail, or whatever it is you do -- I _know _they can override that if it's an emergency, right? We'll keep guard and make sure you _do _get four hours."

Sam thought, acidly, _'Nobot' has to be the second dumbest name for a protest movement I've ever heard in my life. 'Teabagger' is first, and I swear there's a demographic overlap between the two groups. _

"I can spare time for three point seven five hours of recharge," Bumblebee said, with a sigh. He reached one of his hands out and touched her fingers with one of his own digits, a brief and fleeting contact. "Thank you, Mikaela."

"You're welcome," Mikaela wrapped her hand around Bee's finger for a moment with an affectionate squeeze.

Bumblebee's sheer lack of argument told Sam that Bee was every bit as exhausted as his accident with the door had indicated. He had _never _seen Bee run into anything, and particularly not with one of his doorwings. He thought back, and realized Bumblebee had probably not slept at all the night he'd discovered the ship, or the next night. And he hadn't had much chance for the two days after that, either; he'd had a rude and early awakening when Mikaela's shop had been bombed, and had only gotten a few hours at most last night.

"Thank you," Bee repeated. His eyes went dim, then dark, as he almost instantly shut down and slipped into the Autobot equivalent of sleep.

Mikaela exchanged a look with Sam. "Damn, but if I don't want to kidnap him for a few days just so he can get some rest."

"We tried that," Sam said, ruefully. "Didn't work. He just dug up a source of _more _work."

Mikaela sighed, then settled down to sit with her back against Bee's hip. Sam picked up his laptop and moved so he was leaning against Bee's chest plates. It felt _safe _there, and emotionally comfortable. It was not, however, physically comfortable and he shifted restlessly. There was some sort of access hatch cut into the armor that he was leaning against, and it was bumpy. After a moment, though, he found a position that seemed like it would not result in bruises, and he then picked up the laptop and idly opened yet another e-mail. This one was from an Oscar-award winning movie star's personal assistant, begging for twelve tickets for the star, his wife, and their entourage including bodyguards.

Mikaela just closed her eyes, leaned her head back against Bee's armor, and seemed to be drifting off to sleep herself.

The sheer tide of requests was just overwhelming. He rubbed his forehead for a moment, then sent a quick message to Optimus asking if Optimus would be comfortable with a lottery system. Optimus's reply came swiftly, "That is acceptable, Sam, provided you screen the applicants first. Please send Magnus a list of those who you feel are acceptable and he will do a random selection with two tickets per name drawn. I will be offline tonight."

_Optimus, you're killing me_, Sam thought, but started plowing through the e-mails in earnest. Three hours later it was long past dark, Mikaela was snoring, and he'd slapped together a list of around a thousand names. He sent that list to Magnus, who responded less than thirty seconds later with one hundred and fifty winners and one hundred alternates. Additionally, there was a note, "I have already sent a personal invitation to the guests. Your next task is to arrange for musical entertainment. Please consult with Mikaela and any other humans you feel might provide good input. I will leave the choice of bands to your discretion."

Attached was a neat spreadsheet of about twenty bands whose publicists had contacted the 'bots. Sam's eyebrows rose. Many of the bands were _very _well known. _Hnnh. Country western or rock and roll? Easy choice, rock and roll, but which band? _He didn't exactly have a problem with country, but he also had a hard time picturing a country band as the entertainment at a party featuring alien robots as the main draw. Rock fit the theme _much _better.

He sent a polite note declining the offers of all of the country western acts and six lesser known rock bands, which left him with the six really well known rock bands. He had no idea how to chose, so he sent an e-mail to both Bee and Elita and Magnus asking their opinion. Bumblebee could respond when he woke up.

Mikaela stirred fitfully. Sam further googled the six bands on the internet, then eliminated one of them because the lead singer had not shown up for two recent concerts, badly disappointing fans. He was famous, but apparently had become a bit flaky. He sent that update via e-mail, sighed, and leaned back against Bee's armor. The bumpy hatch embedded in the plate was digging into his back again, but he just didn't want to move. It felt so good just to _sit _and he didn't want to get up.

_IMPACT._

Something hit him so hard that all he registered was crushing force. Sam didn't even have time to yell, much less register what had happened.

Mikaela was screaming.

_Shit, shit, what happened ..._

It _hurt_. One minute he'd been leaning against Bee. And now he was twenty feet away, up against the railing, and shocked, confused, and _hurt._

He tried to sit up, and his arm flopped uselessly. And with that flop came explosive pain. "My arm's broken," he informed them, stunned, looking around for the others. He saw Bumblebee first, and Bee's battle-mask was down and every weapon visible. Belatedly frightened he demanded, "What happened?!"

It was painful when he breathed, too, but mostly it was his arm, his elbow, that hurt so badly. He looked at it, and could see that it was very obviously broken. He had hit the wall elbow first, and shattered it. It hurt. It really hurt. _A bomb_? He wondered fuzzily.

Bumblebee's mask snapped back up and he looked wildly about.

Belatedly, he realized they might be under attack, and started to get up again. Running might be required. His legs seemed okay, and he made it halfway up to a standing position before Mikaela said, "STAY DOWN!" in a tone of absolute and incontrovertible command. He sat down, and the movement jarred his arm, and the pain brought tears to his eyes. He clutched it to his chest. His elbow was very definitely broken, no doubt about it. He could see the outline of a jagged bony edge under the skin, something that should have disgusted him but simply seemed fascinating. His arm wasn't supposed to look that way.

"Sam," Bee whispered, as his weapons abruptly disappeared, "I'm sorry."

Bee was creeping towards him, slowly, one hand extended towards him as if he was afraid Sam would flinch away. Why was Bee acting as if Sam would be afraid of him? That made no sense.

"What happened?" Mikaela asked.

"I don't know ..." Sam shook his head, trying to think. It had happened so fast. Bee had been asleep, and then, suddenly, he had hit the railing so hard he'd broken his arm.

"I'm sorry," Bee repeated, crouching. "Sam, I'm _sorry_."

"What happened?" Sam said, confused. "What hit me?"

Bee crouched, and said, "Can I pick you up?"

"Y-yeah." He didn't understand why Bumblebee was being so careful. Bee looked scared.

"I've already called Doc. He'll meet us at the med bay. Sam, I am _so _sorry."

"You ..." Sam felt no fear as Bee very gently lifted him up, and cradled him in his hands. "What hit me?"

"I did," Bee said, voice audibly shaken. "I hit you, Sam. I'm so sorry."

"Why?" He couldn't figure it out. Why would Bee hit him?

Bee hurried through the blast doors at what felt like a high rate of speed. "Sam, you were leaning against my dataport. I woke from recharge and mistook the situation. I'm _sorry._"

"Mistook the ..." he _still _couldn't figure it out. He was dizzy, and his heart seemed to be pounding in his chest.

"I'm sorry," Bee repeated.

"It's just my arm," he said, though he seemed to be getting a little fuzzy. "Typing's going to be a pain ..."

"Stay with me, Sam," Bee said, urgently.

Stay? Why was Bumblebee asking him to stay? Bee's voice seemed very far away, and his hands were rocking up and down. He could hear a mech running, or maybe it was Bee's feet, but why would Bumblebee be running? He wished Bee would stop shaking him; he felt nauseous and his arm hurt, and the bouncing wasn't helping.

"Sam, I'm sorry ..."

The world seemed to be spinning around him. Had the Ark launched? It hadn't spun like this the last time it launched. He mumbled, "Don't want to go to LA yet. Not ready. Too much to do ..."

"Sam!" Bee said, "Sam, no! Stay with me!"

But Bumblebee's voice seemed to be coming from very far away. Why had Bee left him? He felt safe in Bumblebee's hands.

It was so _dark. _"Hey, Teletraan, what's with the lights out ..." he tried to say, but the vague thought flittered away.


	35. Chapter 35

* * *

By the time that Bumblebee ran flat out to the med bay, which was several hundred yards and two levels away, Sam was limp in his hands. He ran through the med bay entrance so fast that he hit his doorwings for the second time that day, this time because he didn't allow time for the door to open fully.

Doc wasn't there yet. Doc was a couple of minutes away in his office, with probably more minutes to gather supplies. Ratchet was there, though, and Bee had never been happier to see a medic of _any _description.

"What happened?" Ratchet said, tersely, crossing the room in long strides to meet Bee halfway. Bee had been screaming for help over the comlink during his entire run from the observation deck down to med bay, but he had not been particularly coherent.

Behind Ratchet, Bee saw bright lights, and a long form on a tablet. First Aid was busily welding on someone, and with shock, Bee realized Optimus was in the early stages of surgery to repair the battle and missile damage from several days earlier. _Slag it! _He thought, wildly.

"Bee!" Ratchet's voice made Bumblebee jump. "What happened!"

"I hit him. I _hit _him." Bee held the still, motionless body of Sam out to Ratchet. He could only repeat by way of utterly truthful explanation, "I _hit _him."

"With what?" Ratchet demanded, taking Sam in careful hands and carrying him to the scanners.

"My hand," Bee trailed helplessly after the medic. Sam was so _still _and his face so white. Hating the very words, Bumblebee told Ratchet, "I hit him with my hand."

"Were you fighting?" Ratchet's voice was a low and menacing growl. He did not look at Bumblebee. Bee had heard Ratchet speak using that tone to other mechs occasionally, but he'd never heard it aimed his way before.

"_No_!" They had trusted him, Bee thought wildly. Sam had been sitting next to him, leaning against his armor, with utter and absolute and complete trust. He couldn't imagine fighting with Sam over anything major, much less striking him in anger.

"Never mind the explanations, we'll save it for later. He's got internal injuries. Get _out_." Ratchet pointed at the door.

"I'm going to go find Mikaela ..." Bee replied, feeling utterly helpless. He suspected she was running after him. It was a long way for a human to run flat out, but she would try.

Ratchet said sharply, "Go to my med bay. Do _not _get Mikaela. Do not speak to anyone. Wait for further orders. You are relieved of all duties effective immediately. _Go_."

"I didn't _mean _it ..." Bee said, but that couldn't change the fact that Sam was lying so still, so broken, and scarcely breathing on the table.

"_GET_!"

He ran, passing Mikaela in the hall (who screamed his name after him, and who he ignored). Sam. He had hurt _Sam_. The guilt threatened to consume him.

His internal cell phone rang. The Japanese businessmen. Bee swiftly created a voice-mail message that announced that that he was unavailable due to an emergency, and let the call roll over to it. Then he sent Elita a note asking her respond to whatever message they left, and his password to access his voice mailbox. He couldn't bring himself to speak to them, and probably shouldn't. Ratchet's orders were crystal clear. He had just been taken off active duty. It was the first time in his very long life that anyone had seen the need to do that.

_I was so stupid_, Bee thought, as he reached the old med bay hangar. He slumped in a corner in the dark, and said a few prayers to Primus that Sam would be okay. For the moment, there was nothing else he could do.

_Do not speak to anyone_, Ratchet had said. That meant he couldn't even ping Doc and ask how Sam was doing, as the minutes ticked by and turned into an hour. He wanted to know with desperate terror, but h_e _was not even allowed to ask.

His e-mail box sent him a message indicating that it had one hundred and twenty two new messages, one of which was flagged as 'friend'. He glanced at it, hoping it was from someone kind enough to tell him Sam's status. It was, instead, from Sam himself, and for a nanosecond his hopes soared because if Sam could send e-mail he was surely not that badly hurt. However, the message had been sent earlier that evening during Bee's recharge.

Sam wanted to know Bee's opinion on the bands.

It was technically defying orders to respond to the email, but Bee sent a quick response anyway, since it was _Sam_ who had asked. He prayed to everything he considered holy as he composed the message that Sam would be able to read it very soon. His suggestion was the band whose music had the most rhythmic beat. "My vote would be this one, Sam. Because people will dance to the music. I hope you'll be able to dance on Friday. I pray I did not hurt you too badly. I am so sorry."

As he was sending his response someone entered the hangar. He looked up, hoping it was _not _a medic. Good news was given by comlink, and bad news face to face. That was a very well understood tradition, and so completely expected that sometimes medics didn't even need to speak when they came to talk to the friends of the injured. However, to his immense relief the arriving mechs were Sunstreaker, with Sideswipe close on his heels.

"I'm not supposed to talk to anyone," Bee said, hunching further. "You heard about Sam, right?"

"Sorry, Bee." Sideswipe held up a datapad and cable. "Ratchet sent us."

_Oh._

"It was an accident," Bee said quietly to both of them, but he stood up from his position on the floor and headed for one of the berths.

Their mission was easy to guess, though it frightened him to the core of his spark. Ratchet had sent the Evil Twins because he was afraid Bumblebee would fight them. While Bee was a reasonably effective fighter, the twins were way out of his league. If they wanted him offline, they could accomplish it. The fact that he had a little extra power and speed these days due to the Matrix would simply delay the inevitable. Anger filled Bee, for a moment, and while he did not consider fighting them, he did snap off an angry comment, encrypted, at Ratchet, "Sending the twins was utterly unnecessary."

He closed comlink off completely before Ratchet could respond. That action was incredibly rude, but he wasn't in a pleasant mood, and he frankly didn't care what Ratchet thought.

Sideswipe could not have heard that comment, but he'd certainly detected the transmission. "Bumblebee," he said, "_sir. _Ratchet needs to verify that you are not compromised either with a glitch or a virus. Because it is so improbable that you would hurt the human, there is a high suspicion that you have some sort of processor impairment."

"There is nothing wrong with me," Bee said, and the worst part was, he knew that was the truth. "I understand why I reacted the way I did. There was no external influence or internal damage causing my actions."

"Tell it to Ratchet, after he has a peek at what's really lurking in your mind," Sunstreaker said, sounding a bit belligerent, "Get your arm up, or we'll do this the hard way. Don't think we won't do it."

_Primus. Ratchet is going to jack in and check for core damage. _

His first impulse was to fight. The thought of anyone messing around in his mind was frankly terrifying. He'd never had another mech past his firewalls in his adult life. The last time he'd lowered them he had only been weeks old, an innocent and naive youngling who had utterly trusted his mentor. This would be very, very different. Ratchet would see him as he _really _was, and that terrified him on a level beyond anything he had ever known. _What if he decides I'm not competent for my position? I am so _afraid _sometimes. He is the CMO. He could find me wanting, unqualified and inadequate, and reject me utterly._

However, he also realized the utter logic of Ratchet's orders. They had to know the root cause of his actions, beyond any shadow of a doubt. _Ratchet will not like what he sees_, he feared. _I am not as loyal as they believe, I hate this war and I am angered it. I may not ever wake from this. I am not who they think I am._

However, it was _orders_. He had no doubt that Optimus would agree with Ratchet, if they woke him. Orders were orders, and these orders were ones he could logically agree with. He knew they would find nothing malignant: no virus, no physical damage to his processors. However, they had to be sure. Other mechs might have tried to flee, or fight, or at least argue, but he quite simply had too much loyalty and respect for his commanding officers to make this more difficult for them. And in this case, Ratchet indisputably outranked him.

Bumblebee shuttered his optics, lifted his arm, and popped the dataport open. He tried not to flinch as Sunstreaker coldly plugged the datapad in. The pad was a simple, crude, device that was just intended to interface with his autonomic reflexes and subconscious processor routines. He felt it making connections and, at Sunny's direction, the beginnings of a rapid shut-down process of his cores. However, for just a moment, despite his real desire to obey orders, he fought it by throwing up temporary firewalls in the path of the datapad's commands. Bumblebee then sent one more rapid comlink transmission to Ratchet. _:If you're going to hack me, I'll make it _easy_.:_

He shot an encryption key across the comlink at Ratchet, one that would give Ratchet easy access through his memory core's firewalls. It would be far simpler for Ratchet to access him that way than the blunt force method of using medic's codes to bludgeon his way into Bumblebee's very mind. Ratchet could break down Bee's firewalls regardless of Bee's wishes, but at least this made it feel like he had some control. Plus, Ratchet was just so blasted busy. This would save him time, and effort.

The last thing he heard was a startled oath from Ratchet, who had clearly been expecting anything but that sort of cooperation. Likely, Ratchet had been planning on a colossal fight from Bee, since he _had _sent the Evil Twins to do his bidding. Ratchet snapped, _:Pit, Bee!:_

_I just hope you let me wake u-- _The datapad found a way around his firewalls and cut power to his processor. Oblivion claimed him in an instant.

* * *

Sam woke to a funny taste in his mouth, and the awareness that somebody was holding both of his hands. He jerked, pulling one hand free. The other was gripped by someone with a lot more strength, because his reaction barely budged their fingers.

"Sam?" Mikaela's voice was close. He opened his eyes, and realized she was leaning over him.

"What ..." the last thing he could remember was working on the laptop with his back to Bee's chest. "... what happened?"

He reached to run a hand over his face, and felt an uncomfortable pinch. When he looked at his hand he realized he had an IV in it, and red fluid flowed through the clear tubing. "Blood?"

"You lost quite a bit," a smooth, cultured voice said. It took Sam a moment to recognize Doc's voice, however. It turned out that Doc was gripping his hand, and when Sam looked over, he realized he had an IV in his other arm too, and Doc was in the process of injecting something into it.

"What?" He tried to pull away, but Doc's grip was impossible to break. "What are you doing?"

"You would have been dead before you got to a hospital," Doc said, quietly, as he pushed the syringe into the IV's little rubber stopper. "Bumblebee hit you so hard that he ruptured some of your internal organs. You would have bled out."

"Bee," Sam said, confused. "Where's Bee? Bee wouldn't hit me."

Whatever Doc was putting into his veins seemed to be a sedative. He slipped back unconscious before he heard an answer to his question.

* * *

Bumblebee was not hyper in the same sense that Bluestreak was, but Ratchet was used to him being animated. Bee had rhythm and energy, a sense of humor that included physical comedy, and a playful outlook on life. He was not often still except when something was very wrong.

"Set him down there," Ratchet said, to Grimlock, who had the scout in his arms. Grimlock grunted and laid Bee down on a berth in the Ark's med bay. Bee was as still as death, and it was disconcerting to Ratchet, who had seen too many dead mechs in his life. Bee was not supposed to be motionless. Bumblebee wasn't supposed to nearly kill Sam, either.

"Out," he shooed Grimlock out the door. "This may take awhile."

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker followed Grimlock into the hall. The door slid shut. That left him alone with two offline mechs, Bee and Prowl, and Elita.

"Are you sure you do not want me to do this?" Elita asked, as she walked over to Bumblebee. "Ratchet, if he is infected and it is hiding, it could spread to you."

"I trust your work." She had already searched for viruses, before they had brought him to the ship. That left a few other options, all of which were going to need a bit of deep probing to verify. "And do not discount your own worth, Elita."

"You're a Prime." Her words were flat, and a bit challenging.

Ratchet agreed, "That I am."

Elita seemed as if she wanted to dispute this subject further, but when he picked up a datajack cable she simply grabbed a chair, and sat down where she could supervise. "I'll spot you. And Ratchet, be _careful._"

"Mmm." He shoved the dead weight of Bee's arm out of the way and pried his dataport open with his fingers. Ratchet then paused for a moment to check the condition of the port. He had never actually had reason to access Bee's cores in the entire time he'd known the scout, which was a long time. To his knowledge, Bee had _never _had what mechs would describe as psychiatric issues; he had always seemed very resilient. He also had no partner, and never had, despite quite a few offers over the years. People liked Bumblebee, and some had wanted more than just friendship with him. _Jazz even asked, unless I miss my guess entirely._ Bee was perfectly happy to be friends with nearly everyone he met, but like many soldiers who fought on the front lines, he had always turned down offers for anything more. He had also never been captured by Decepticons, and the only time anyone had tried to hack him had been the humans, a year ago.

The only times that Ratchet had accessed Bee's datajack had been with a simple datapad, plugged quickly in to take him offline before surgery or to run diagnostics after he had taken battle damage. Datapads only accessed autonomic functions.

_The humans may have done some damage that is only manifesting now_, Ratchet thought, considering the matter before going further. The dataport was untouched from the last time he had seen it, as he had expected, with minimal signs of wear. There was a type of illegal device that could access a mech's pleasure centers through the port, and had an effect similar to the human drugs called amphetamines, but he would have been astounded to find that Bee had ever used one. He was smarter than that, and would have been too wary of the very real possibility of processor damage from such a thing. As Ratchet had expected, there were only a scant handful of nearly microscopic scratches on the port's surface. Repeated use of anything illicit, or a partner that Ratchet didn't know about, and he would have seen more signs of wear.

He had not expected to find anything amiss, but he had been surprised by mechs before. He'd been a medic for a long, long time; long enough to have no illusions about the stupid things his patients might do. He also would never have expected Bee to harm Sam, and that highly out of character behavior made him automatically suspicious and readily willing to recheck his assumptions about Bumblebee.

The datajack with an extra long lead slid into place easily, clicking home. Ratchet walked over to the next berth, hitched himself up on it, and laid down flat before hooking the cable up to his own port.

The first few times he had done this had been with anonymous mechs brought to the teaching hospital where he had learned his trade. Every medic received at least the basics of training on this process, and Ratchet was no exception. He had disliked it from the beginning, and that distaste for seeing other's most private thoughts had only intensified when the needs of the war had caused a loss of anonymity in his patients. Rather than strangers he would never see again, sometimes he had to do this for mechs he worked with on a daily basis.

Mechs presented a face to the world that was often far different than what was in their spark. He had received some unpleasantly rude surprises over the years, including learning that a mech he thought was his friend _hated _him, but was being nice because it was simply to his advantage. He really could have done without knowing a junior medical officer he trusted and liked only engaged in recreational activities with him because the other medic wanted a promotion. He had never suspected a thing until the day the other medic had been badly damaged in battle and needed external help rebooting.

He had medically interfaced with dozens of other mechs on the Autobot team. His reaction to what he had seen had ranged from frank fear to outright pity.

Sunstreaker had terrified Ratchet, though it was more fear _for _Sunny than _of _him. In some ways, Sunny was more stable than Ratchet had expected, but the mech's perception of the world and the motives and behavior of others was not exactly accurate. The only reason Sunstreaker was able to function at all, Ratchet suspected, was that the clear rules and regulations of a military organization gave him a framework to work within that he could understand. And Sideswipe was acting as a reality check for him, or if Sideswipe was not around, then Sunstreaker's commanding officers filled the same role. Ratchet had made very, very, very sure that whoever had Sunstreaker on their staff understood the need to give him crystal clear, unambiguous orders and then make sure he followed them.

It was possible that Sunstreaker could be 'fixed' with by a medic who specialized in psychiatric issues, via repeated medical interface sessions to teach Sunny how better to understand others. Ratchet didn't have the skills to do that, however. _I am not a shrink, _Ratchet had told Optimus savagely the last time they'd discussed Sunny. Besides, Sunstreaker hated interfacing with anyone who wasn't his brother. Convincing him to have a weekly firewall-free chat with an Autobot shrink wasn't likely to happen.

Bluestreak, by contrast, had left Ratchet grieving. Bluestreak had been so shattered and broken. Sunstreaker had been angry beyond all measure, but Blue was just _damaged_. Ratchet figured Bluestreak would either self destruct, or find solace with love from another. He so desperately wanted approval from others, in a way that wasn't entirely healthy, because his self worth was tied up in how he thought others perceived him.

Bumblebee, Ratchet reflected, had fought in the war since the beginning. He had signed on early, inspired by a sense of moral outrage, and had quickly worked his way up through the ranks because those both above and below him liked and trusted him. It had been Prowl who had identified that Bee had real potential as officer material, but Optimus himself who had brought young officer into his inner circle. Bee had fit into their command structure like a missing puzzle piece.

Bee he had fought. He had done terrible things. Terrible things had been done to him.

Ratchet hesitated before initiating the script that would access Bee's cores. _What am I going to find here? Clearly, something is very wrong ..._

Well, he was a medic, and this was one of his duties. He needed to do this, much as he did not want to.

Bee's processor core was still offline. Ratchet hacked into his memories, first. Autobots recorded memories of events in a format of 'sensory input+thought+emotion' all neatly organized by date, with an overlaying database structure that could be searched by keywords. If Ratchet wanted to pull up every single memory he ever had of 'humans' or 'Optimus Prime' or 'optic design schematics' he could do so with a thought. The actual keywords and searches were far more complicated than that (and he could search solely based on sensory input) but that was the explanation he gave to humans who asked.

Nothing in Bee's memory core seemed amiss. He ran a few benign searches, verifying that Bee's database wasn't corrupted. If, say, a search for 'Sam Witwicky' had turned up 'Megatron attacking' it might have explained why Bee had struck him in a panic on waking.

Ratchet had reviewed the video, provided by Teletraan, multiple times. Both humans had been leaning against Bee's torso, with Mikaela apparently asleep and Sam working away on something on his laptop. Bee had abruptly woken from recharge and had batted Sam away so fast and violently that Sam could not have registered what had hit him. If Bee had struck Sam at even a slightly different angle, the boy would have died instantly.

_At least it wasn't an argument that got out of hand, which was my first fear when he said he hit Sam. If he'd hit Sam in anger with that much force, Optimus would order him deactivated. __I just don't understand what he was reacting to, however._

Before pulling up the memories of that instant, Ratchet viewed later files. Bee had given him an encryption key so he could get though his firewalls without a fight. That action alone told Ratchet that Bee was probably sane; Bumblebee had made this task much easier for Ratchet.

He reviewed Bee's encounter with the twins, sent to take him offline. Ratchet had truly been expecting Bumblebee to fight. However, Bee's memories were overlaid with, first, real fear for Sam and guilt over what he had done, and secondly, a startlingly strong concern that Ratchet might not like what he saw in Bee's mind.

_Oh-hoh, we have some issues with self worth, do we? _Ratchet wasn't surprised by that. Bee was actually worried that Ratchet would find him incompetent and unstable and leave him offline permanently, after this.

_I reactivated Sunstreaker, buddy, _Ratchet thought, with a little irritation. _Short of Megatron-level psychosis, you're going to wake up to face the fallout of your actions. _

He delved deeper, going to the hours before the incident. He wanted to have the whole picture.

Bee, thinking only about how very tired he was, and how much he wanted to see his friends, cracked a doorwing against the frame for the observation deck's blast doors hard enough to cause some minor circuit damage. Ratchet jumped at that, nearly breaking the link. The memory of pain was uncomfortable, and unexpected. Elita, observing, started to rise. He heard her shift position and he waved a hand at her without lighting his optics. "I'm fine, Elita," he said, aloud.

"Be careful," she murmured."

He returned to the memories. Mikaela's reaction to Bee's accident, and Bee's response, was actually amusing, though he was certainly not in a mood to laugh. Mikaela lit into Bee for lack of time in recharge. Bee, in sheepish response, had allowed himself to be bullied into lying down and taking three and three quarters hours of recharge time. Ratchet thought it was so very much like Bee to allow himself to be bossed around by his friends. Additionally, those memories were clearly tinged with frank exhaustion. Bumblebee had not even _wanted _to argue with Mikaela. His last conscious thought, to Ratchet's bemusement, was that Mikaela reminded him of Ratchet.

Bumblebee went into recharge, and Ratchet scanned rapidly forward through the files. For the next 3.75 hours of recorded time there was only a distant, steady input from sensors. He could detect Mikaela's very light weight against Bee's hip, and Sam shifting back and forth against ...

_Oh_. Comprehension dawned.

Sam was leaning up against the cover to Bumblebee's dataport, which Ratchet normally would not have expected to be a problem. Bee's trust of the two humans was complete, and it would not have been any different than Sam deciding to curl up against Bee's doorwings or his arm. He had seen both Sam and Mikaela take a casual seat on one of Bee's legs when Bumblebee was sitting down on the ground, and Bee put both of them up on his shoulders routinely, which put them dangerously close to sensitive sensory arrays. He was not shy about having them in his personal space, and the dataport wasn't exactly a critical part given how little Bumblebee used it.

_What are the humans going to do, stick a finger in it and say, 'Talk to me, Bee?'_

However, perhaps something had gone wrong as Bee came online. With a theory now in mind, Ratchet ran a quick query into Bee's past memories. Bee had said that the government scientists had tried to hack him, but had not been successful at getting past his firewalls. Ratchet had taken that at face value, because he seriously doubted humans had the processing power to crack an Autobot's firewall by the brute force method. Still, even an attempted forceful hacking was an incredible violation of one's self. Ratchet had _killed _the first mech who had tried to do that to him, and had thoroughly violated his medical oaths in the process.

He found the memories of that incident under Hoover Dam easily enough, and noted grimly that those files had been repeatedly archived and frequently accessed during sleep periods. Bee's subconscious subroutines kept pulling the memories up and flagging them as 'important' during recharge. That was the mech equivalent of a repeating nightmare. Ratchet also found considerable evidence that Bee was frustrated by the fact that he couldn't get his mind to leave the files alone, and he truly wanted to put that experience behind him.

Ratchet watched as Bee came online from his recharge to an extra-urgent flag of that memory, triggered by Sam's position against the dataport. Basically, his subroutines screamed at him, "Somebody might be trying to hack you like they did under the dam!"

Bee's memories showed him running a frantic scan, and detecting a human touching his dataport. He reacted in blind terror, swiping at the threat without identifying which human it was, first. He had not been fully conscious and Bee was a war machine, designed for lightning reflexes and killing strength. Grimly, Ratchet observed as Bee, every battle routine on full alert, mask down, weapons charging, had launched upright. He had very nearly hit Sam with a pulse cannon blast and only the fact that his processors had come fully online before the cannon's capacitors were charged saved the human.

Horror flooded Bee's memories. As Ratchet observed, Bee replayed his own actions, realized what he had done, scooped Sam up, and ran for the med bay. The depths of Bee's emotions were nearly overwhelming.

Ratchet almost broke the connection at that point. He had established what had happened to his satisfaction. There would be cause for discipline, because Bumblebee had been careless. Due to his frequent proximity with humans he needed to have subroutines in place to stop such a response. Bee likely had never considered that he might not recognize Sam and strike him in a moment of panic. Bee's auditory sensors alone were keen enough that he could identify Sam at a hundred yards simply by the pattern of his footfalls, and at fifty feet by the distinct sound of his heartbeat. However, Bumblebee had reacted without conscious thought, before his pattern recognition software had a chance to initialize and then report a familiar person to Bee's processor. The battle modules had quite simply come online first and reacted as they were designed to do.  
_  
Well, _Ratchet thought, _we can fix it so this never happens again._

He hesitated, however. He could simply write the necessary code, set medically restricted permissions on it so Bumblebee could not reorder his own boot sequence, and be done. As medical interface sessions went, this one was almost painless.

However, Bumblebee had been frankly terrified of the session. Additionally, he'd blown up at that meeting several days ago, and voiced some harsh opinions. That made Ratchet suspicious. Bee's psych profile was stable, almost unusually so, but that was based on observed behavior and Bee's answers to questions during a psych evaluation tens of millennia ago. He decided he was obligated to look a little deeper to ensure that no surprises lurked in the darker recesses of Bee's mind. They could _not _afford to have a Prime who was unstable; history had multiple examples of how disastrous that could be.

He could, of course, do a deeper scan of Bumblebee's memories. That, however, was very invasive. He hoped to satisfy his concerns with less trauma and loss of privacy. It was also time consuming. And, ultimately, boring. The last time he'd had to do a full scan of a memory core it had taken several days to do, and he did _not _have time for that, even if he had the desire.

He concluded it would be easier just to wake Bee up while they were interfaced, and have a nice little chat with him. Bee could hardly hide his thoughts or feelings with Ratchet inside his firewalls, and that would give Ratchet an excellent idea of just what Bumblebee's mental state really was. He initialized a few routines and powered up Bee's processor core, while simultaneously cutting Bumblebee's access to his motor functions. The latter was a practical necessity; it was rather common for mechs to come up fighting during a procedure like this.

It took about a fraction of a second for Bee's systems to boot up enough modules for Bee to reach conscious awareness. _:What?: _His first thought was very confused as he discovered he couldn't move.

_:Easy.: _Ratchet made his presence known, causing Bee to react with real instinctual fear. Someone was in his head who wasn't supposed to be there, and he was paralyzed. _:It's me, Bumblebee. Calm down.:_

_:Ratchet.: _Bee recognized, and his terror dialed back several notches. He still wasn't happy, but he wasn't in a howling panic, either. _:How's Sam?:_

That, Ratchet thought, was a good response. Bumblebee was scared, but he was still thinking, and his primary concern was Sam's health. There was almost instinctive trust of Ratchet in that answer, too; despite his fear, he knew Ratchet, had worked with him for ages, and liked him. (Ratchet was glad to verify that; he really had been fond of the mech who had only been using him.) Ratchet replied, _:Alive. He'll heal. He's very lucky. You could have killed him.:_

_:That,: _Bumblebee growled, _:Was what I was trying to do. You've seen what happened? -- Ah, yes, you have.: _Bee had located time stamps on audit trails in his memories that showed Ratchet had accessed them. Ratchet could have concealed his tracks, but that would have been unethical.

After a moment, Bee added, sounding rather surprised, _:You didn't look at much.:_

_:I saw enough. I did not need to pry farther. I have some code I want you to implement to prevent this sort of issue in the future.: _Ratchet transmitted the scripts to Bee, who examined them thoughtfully.

Bumblebee was _definitely _relaxing. Ratchet was surprised by that; he'd known mechs to fight him every inch of the way. The sense he was getting from Bee was of an incredibly deep well of personal strength. This was somewhat unexpected. It was the sort of sense of presence he would expect from Optimus, not the little yellow scout. On the other hand, a Matrix had accepted Bee. So perhaps he should not be surprised.

_:This will reduce my personal defense capabilities a fraction of a percentage point,: _Bee decided, _:But will make it much safer for my humans to be around me when I am coming out of recharge. That is assuming that they are willing to continue any sort of a friendship with me. How could they trust me after this?.:_

_:You will need to let them make that decision,: _Ratchet replied, as Bee installed the new routines. His battle modules now booted _after _the rest of his processor. Which, Ratchet thought, was the way it should be. However, the vast majority of soldiers put 'fighting routines' as one of the earliest things to initialize when leaving recharge. He could understand that, given the lives they led, but did not condone it.

_:I'm going to lock them in place for now, Bee,: _Ratchet said, even as he password protected the code. _:If you need to change anything let me know, and we'll talk. I can make changes with a datapad. It won't require another interface session.:_

Bee's emotions registered as unhappy misery at the idea of giving up control over his own boot sector, but he didn't argue. After an incident like this, it was protocol that the changes to Bee's operating system be medically locked for a period of time. However, by letting him install the code himself, Ratchet figured he had given an illusion of control back to Bumblebee. That was important, as he didn't want Bee any more traumatized than he likely was.

_:Bee,: _Ratchet said, knowing he needed more answers, _:You were scared I would not bring you back online. Why?:_

_:I hate this war,: _Bee said, bitterly, _:If you had but looked a little farther, you would see. I'm surprised you didn't view the memories of the meeting last week. I hate it. It is unnecessary and evil. I am not the loyal soldier everyone thinks I--"_

:_Oh, Primus_. _This is what had your struts in a knot?: _Ratchet wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh at Bee, or grieve with him. The bitter anger and exhausted, furious, helpless rage that came through with his words, glimpses of Bee's innermost emotions, all carried the same note of generalized anger and resentment of the whole situation. Far from wanting to offline him for it, Ratchet was tempted to lower his own firewalls and share a few of his own private feelings. That, however, would be highly unprofessional. Also, he was finding he liked Bee even more now than before, and he did _not _want to initiate anything on a personal level with the scout. It would beyond improper.

Ratchet's own emotional response finally settled on irritation after he cycled through amusement and grief. It was his default state anyway. He let his annoyance transmit with his words as he said, _:Bee, if you enjoyed this war I would tell you that you were fighting for the wrong side. Idiot. Do you think _any _of us like this fight? We are Autobots because we do not share the Decepticon ideals of power via death and destruction :_

_:I do not want to be a soldier. I swore allegiance to this cause, but I want to _quit_. I so desperately just want to walk away, Ratchet. I'm tired. I'm so tired. I want another life. I want to _be _someone else. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of killing. I'm tired of people I love dying. Our race is _dying, Ratchet. _We have clung to our ideals for so long and so fiercely that we are _dying _as a people. We fight for the other peoples of the universe, to prevent the Decepticons from destroying other worlds in a ceaseless search for resources, but what of _us_? What about _our _people? Death is death, Ratchet, regardless of the species and ...:_

Ratchet put a stop to Bee's somewhat rambling and frantic thoughts, _:Easy, Bee. Calm down. You sound remarkably sane to me.:_

_:But ...:_

_:But what? Welcome to the club, Bee. I've hated this war since before it began.: _Ratchet sat up on his berth, though he did not disengage the cable. He also released his hold on Bumblebee's motor functions, and when Bee realized he could move he rolled onto his side and fixed Ratchet with a keen blue gaze. Ratchet continued, gently, _:Bee, I've always thought I fought for the lesser of two evils. My logic is that it is better that no one win this war than the Decepticons succeed and wreak havoc across the universe. You _know _what they did to Nebulos! Also, Optimus remains our best chance of seeing an end to the war ... someday. I despair, often, however. You are not alone in these dark thoughts.:_

Bee sat up as well, and glanced down at the cable connecting them. Unbidden, his thoughts went to the humans. _:I could never have this sort of connection with them,: _Bee thought, sorrowfully, as he reached up to disconnect the plug from his dataport.

Ratchet reached out and caught Bumblebee's hand. Across the connection, he asked, _:May I ask you something, not as your medic, but as your friend?:_

Bumblebee hesitated, likely because Ratchet's request was hugely personal. But then he nodded. 

_:What is your interest in Mikaela and Sam?:_

Bee pulled his fingers free, shock widening his optics. Then anger came in a rushing flood. There was anger at Ratchet, for asking in such a manner, and self-directed rage because Bumblebee wanted to stop feeling the way he did, and couldn't. Anger at Primus filled Bee's thoughts, too, for the unfairness of fate. And this was followed by a rush of desperate loneliness, and sorrow, and frustration.

But above it all, shining bright and clear and pure, untainted by the fury and stronger than anything else, was _love_.

Ratchet sighed. "Bee," he said, aloud, as he disconnected the cable from his own port. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. It was wrong of me."

_But damned if it didn't answer a few questions I've had._

Bee wouldn't meet his eyes. "It doesn't matter, Ratchet."

"Doesn't matter?" Ratchet would have given his medic's chevron to have a mech with a spark like Bee's feel that way about him. He couldn't keep the growl out of his voice. "I will assume you haven't told them."

Bumblebee slid off the berth, and asked, quietly, "Am I free to go, or still relieved of duty?"

"You're free. Tell me if you have any problems with that code. I'll talk to Optimus about what happened, but I personally don't think punishment is appropriate. It was an accident, Bee. You'll be far more careful of your behavioral coding in the future."

"Yes," Bee sighed.

"And _why _would you say it doesn't matter?" Ratchet just could not drop it, even though Bumblebee clearly didn't want to discuss the matter.

Bee held both hands out, palms up, in a gesture of helpless despair that was very Cybetronian. _I am without weapons _was the literal meaning of that motion, but figuratively it meant, _I have no options. _He explained, "What I truly feel does not matter because I cannot have them as anything but friends. Sam has no interest in me beyond that. I am his best friend, and nothing more. I do not believe he could be persuaded to see me as anything beyond a 'best friend' though his feelings are quite strong in their own right. Mikaela might be ... intrigued ... if I am reading her right, but I am deliberately deflecting that interest back to Sam. It would devastate Sam to lose her, and for me to be the source of that loss would cause him great pain. So, my own interest in both of them must remain as nothing more than that of a friend."

Ratchet ran a hand over his faceplate. "Bee, you get in the worst messes sometimes."

"I've been thinking of ..." Bumblebee sighed. "... Love is not finite. I should seek another. I _cannot _have them, and I know this."

Ratchet eyed Bee suspiciously, wishing he was still connected to Bee's processors. There was so much pain there, and he wasn't sure that Bumblebee's response was honest.

Bee said, in a very soft tone of voice, "And after yesterday, I do not even know if they will wish to continue our friendship ... it's bad enough when strangers are afraid of me. Now my two best friends have real cause for fear."

Ratchet made a fist and thumped Bee on the top of his head.

"Owe! What was that for?"

"Your punishment for being stupid. And I can't help you beyond giving you a smack when you need it; your problems with Mikaela and Sam are your own to solve. However, I have a suggestion for you, regarding the generalized problem of getting humans in general to accept you. We were going to have Doc talk to you, but you're here, and I'm in a mood to be nice." Ratchet smiled at Bee, because Bumblebee was looking wounded.

"You just hit me," Bee pointed out.

Ratchet lifted an optic ridge at him. Bee smiled faintly, and corrected, "You hit me ... nicely."

"This is an idea that that Doc, Wheeljack, and I have been working on. This actually started out as a contest between us, to see who could create schematics for the realistically human protoform, with the intent that it be used as a less threatening liaison ..."

"_What_?" Bee literally took a step back. Both his expression and tone of voice indicated he thought Ratchet had gone totally crazy. "I have _absolutely _no desire to shrink. I'm short enough for a warrior as it is."

Ratchet smirked at him. "Bee? One word for you: Arcee."

Bumblebee stared. It actually seemed to take him a minute to figure out what Ratchet was talking about, but when he did, his optics widened.

Ratchet shot the data files at him. _:Here. Have some schematics. Think about it. The protoform won't be indistinguishably human, and that's deliberate. Humans have a real fear of aliens hiding among them. But it will _seem _human, in appealing ways. Your choice.: _

Bee said, aloud, "You guys got in a contest. To make it seem human. _When _did you have _time_?"

Ratchet gave him a literal answer, "We were just playing with the idea until the ship arrived and it became actually possible to do. Since then, I have spent one hour every day on it for the last three days, during my daily recreational break. My contribution is in the upgrades and mods to your current protoform necessary to support a second protoform with a split spark. Doc found that the project intersected conveniently with his research into cellular growth, and was an interesting experimental application of some theories he is working on. Wheeljack, of course, designed the structural modifications to the smallest protoform shell in the ship's stores."

"Wheeljack." Bee rolled his optics. They'd all had experiences, some better than others, with the engineer's inventions. "It's not going to blow up, is it?"

Ratchet smirked at him. "We are concerned about an occasional methane problem, but otherwise, no. I've vetted his work, and so did Doc. He is not pushing any design tolerances beyond reasonable levels."

Bee shuttered his optics briefly, then said, "I will review this more thoroughly and think about it ... and thank you."

"Mmm. Go see Sam. He's next door in the recovery room. Doc just pinged me and told me he's awake." Ratchet gave Bee a shove towards the exam room's exit. "Mikaela's there too. And his parents."

Bee gave Ratchet a wide-eyed, frankly terrified look. Ratchet gave him another shove. "Go on. You've got to face the music sooner or later, buddy. Or in your case, possibly _sing _it ..."


	36. Chapter 36

* * *

"My baby! They said you were awake!" His mother burst into the room with Mikaela close on her heels about ten minutes after Sam actually woke up to a clear head that was free of drugs or pain.

"I'm fine, Mom," Sam insisted, and it felt true. He had dim memories of awakening a few times in a fair amount of agony, but nothing hurt now. The oxygen tubing in front of his nose was driving him nuts, however, and he had another complaint. He lifted his arm, which was wrapped in some sort of metallic cast, and told Doc, "My arm itches."

"It's healing quickly," Doc said, "I am sorry about the itching, but your arm must be immobilized to prevent a misalignment of the bones."

His mother turned an angry glare on Doc, and Sam thought Doc had done nothing to deserve that look. Sam winced, even as his mother demanded, "What did you _do _to him? We need to get him out of here and to a real hospital!"

Sam figured the med bay _was _a real hospital, though most of the hospital beds were several feet above the level of his head and the oxygen tank beside his cot appeared to have come from engineering by the glyphs on it. He had actually started recognizing some of the more common Cybertronian symbols. Doc, at a minimum and probably Ratchet too, had a very good grasp of human medicine and he wasn't worried about the care they would give him. Besides, he didn't have health insurance. This was undoubtedly cheaper than the emergency room.

Doc stood his ground, peering at Judy Witwicky with what looked like bemusement. Doc wasn't much taller than his mother, but he did mass a lot more, and Sam, too, was a little amused when his mother stomped up to the small Autobot. Doc explained patiently, "Mrs. Witwicky, what we did was save his life. Sam would not have survived the trip to a human hospital. He was bleeding very severely internally."

"Mom," Sam repeated, trying to reassure her, "_I'm _fine. Doc, where's Bee?"

"He _hit _you!" Mikaela's words were horrified, and surprised Sam. Doc had told him what had happened a minute earlier: that Bumblebee had suffered some sort of internal error and had lashed out at Sam. Doc had also reassured him that Bee's problem had already been corrected and would not happen again. He was still trying to wrap his brain around what had happened, but he was pretty sure that he didn't even need to forgive Bee, because he wasn't mad to begin with. If anything, Sam was worried about Bumblebee, who probably wasn't very happy with himself at the moment.

"I don't want you anywhere near that thing! I thought it was safe!" His mother was working up to a fine frenzy. "I thought we would be safe here! And they hurt you! And you!" She turned back to Doc, "What did you _do _to him?"

Doc padded closer to him, metal feet clicking on the deck plating, and calmly reached for Sam's good arm. Sam let him take his hand without resistance, though his mom sucked in a surprised and worried breath. Doc spoke in that emotionless voice many of the mechs seemed to use when they were _not _as calm as they wanted to seem. "I used a nanotech compound to repair the internal damage to his vascular system and bone structures, while providing supportive care in the form of plasma and blood donated by human staff here at the base. I have also used oxygen and some fairly standard antibiotics synthesized in our lab, and standard intravenous IV fluids."

"A nanotech compound," she repeated, picking that phrase out.

"It would probably be best if the medical establishment does not become aware of the depth of my involvement in his care. They may react badly, and that could delay the testing of the compound in proper human trials, as per the laws of this country. I do not wish to see the compound I used delayed, as it is quite effective and will save many lives," Doc said, as he examined the IV in the back of Sam's hand, then pinched Sam's finger between two of his. Doc's fingers glowed red for a moment, and Sam stared in fascination, wondering what he was doing. "Sam, your oxygen saturation is up to 98%. I believe you will be fine with room air now."

Sam eagerly clawed the tubing away from his nose, even as his mother was screeching, "You used him as a _guinea pig_?"

"Where's Bee?" Sam repeated. "Talk to me, Doc."

"He hit you!" Mikaela yelled at Sam.

"Better a live rodent than a dead man," Doc told his mother, one optic ridge arching very high. He was ignoring Sam's question. Mikaela was on one side of Doc, his mom on the other, and the Autobot still managed to look coolly dignified despite two very irate humans on either side of him and one nearly frantic one in the bed before him. Given Doc's _too _controlled voice and body language, Sam suspected he wasn't anywhere near as collected as he appeared, but you had to really know Autobots to understand the distinction between 'relaxed mech' and 'mech using knowledge of human behavior to project a desired image.'

"Doc, where's BEE?" Sam demanded, "Damnit! Where is he?"

And at that moment, with a three-way argument threatening to erupt in the room, Bumblebee stepped through the open doorway. "Here, Sam."

"Bumblebee," he said, in relief, holding his good hand out towards his best friend. Bee's arrival shut Mikaela up, and stopped his mother from interrogating Doc further. "Come here a minute."

Bee stopped uncertainly halfway across the room. Both women, and Doc, all stared at him. He said, to Doc, "Ratchet released me, and cleared me to return to duty."

Doc said shortly, "_That _surprises me. May I speak to Ratchet?"

"You may," Bee said, "he will confirm it."

"He didn't hit me! He wouldn't!" Sam sat up, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Ignoring warning twinges in his ribs he tried to stand, but Doc moved faster than he would have believed, and blocked him from rising with a hand on his shoulder.

"Do not get up. The nanotech repairs are not complete. You do not want to rupture a partially healed injury, Sam." Doc pushed him back, "Also, you have an IV in your hand and it is attached to a bag that is hanging on a hook on the wall."

"Bee!" Sam made two fists. One hand was blocked by the cast, but he managed a good approximation around it. "Bee, tell them."

Bumblebee made a low, miserable keening noise and padded closer. He slumped to the ground beside Sam's cot with a clatter of metal armor, and would not meet Sam's eyes. "Your faith in me is utterly overwhelming, Sam," he said, even as his mother started to scream something he didn't quite catch, "but what they say is true. I am so very sorry."

"What?" Sam reached out. He could barely touch Bee's face from his position seated on the bed. He tried to get Bumblebee to turn his head towards him but Bee resisted. "Bee, look at me. What happened?"

"Get that thing away from him!" His mother stood a few feet from Bee, fists balled, looking like she was ready to attack Bee herself. Mikaela, mouth set in an unhappy line, was neither trying to stop his mom, nor speaking up in Bee's defense. "Get away from him!"

"That 'thing' is my best friend," Sam reminded his mother.

"Mrs. Witwicky," Bee said, quietly, "I will not hurt him. What happened was an accident."

"You _hit _him! I've seen the surveillance video!" She clearly wasn't letting it drop. "Get away!"

She took a step towards Bumblebee. Bee rose and retreated, backing away from his mother's fury. His mom was angrier than Sam had ever remembered seeing. Unfortunately, Sam could also tell quite a bit about Bee's mental state from his stance. His mom might not be able to read it, but Sam could. Bee was about two seconds from spinning around and fleeing. There was utter and complete sorrow and misery written in the droop of his door wings, and the slackness of his hands. Sam wanted to do something to ease Bee's grief, and his mom was making that very difficult.

"What is it you aliens say?" His mother proved she had actually been paying more attention to the Autobots than he would have believed when she ground out, "In your terms, Bumblebee, _Blast you to the Pit _for what you did to my son!"

"Mom, stop it!" Sam _did _stand up then, dodging Doc's attempt to grab him, and stumbling forward two steps in his bare feet. The IV ripped out of the back of his hand with a sharp pain, but he ignored that. "Mom, stop!"

"Get out of here!" Judy screamed at Bee, who took a step backwards and averted his gaze. His doorwings pinned flat to his back and his optics went dark. Sam had never seen that specific reaction from an Autobot before, but figured it meant Bee was really upset.

"NO!" Sam managed to get between her and Bee. "Everyone shut up! Damnit!"

Bumblebee still had his optics turned off and he whispered, "I made a mistake coming in here. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry! He says he's sorry!" His mom shouted, voice mocking and enraged.

"Sam, you are bleeding," Doc said, behind Sam.

"Mom! He's my best friend! Shut up for a minute!" Sam yelled at her, in a tone which he'd frankly never used towards his mother before. He was frustrated, his ribs were beginning to hurt, he was feeling lightheaded, and Bumblebee was headed for the door with the clear intention of slinking back out the way he'd come. "Bee! Stop! I want you here!"

Bee, who had his back to Sam now, froze in place. His doorwings lifted wide, however, and Sam saw a certain lessening of tension in his stance. He turned, slowly, looking back at Sam. His optics were wide, and he hesitated.

"Please. Stay. Everyone was screaming before you arrived, anyway, you didn't cause the fighting," Sam made a beckoning gesture with his good hand. His skin was slick with blood, he realized, and Doc caught his fingers in mid-air and slapped a wad of gauze over the wound left by the IV needle.

"Most of your blood is currently a gift from others, Sam," Doc said, chidingly, and with more than a little humor, "It would be rude to waste it."

"Please go back to your berth, Sam," Bee said, quietly, without moving from his position across the room. "I will not go far."

"He _hurt _you!" His mother screeched.

"Bee, will you please tell me what happened?" Sam demanded. "Nobody's talking to me. They just keep saying you hit me. And I don't believe it. You're my friend!"

Bumblebee looked over at the wall rather than Sam, and Doc guided Sam back to his army-cot bed. Since they'd stopped screaming, Sam cooperated with Doc, laid down, and let the Autobot medic drape a blanket over him and then tend to his hand.

Bee didn't say anything, but a monitor sprang to life where he was looking. The screen was nearly ten feet off the ground and so large it brought a Weird Al Yankovich song about a big-screen TV to mind. A video began to play, and Sam watched with sudden horror. He was working on his laptop, and without warning, Bee woke from recharge and just _nailed _him. He could not believe what he was seeing. The image repeated twice. He had no memory of it, but clearly Bumblebee had hit him so hard it was a wonder he wasn't dead.

"That's enough, Teletraan," Doc said, voice grim. "Bee, you didn't have to show him that way."

"He needs to know," Bumblebee finally met Sam's eyes. "It was a glitch, of sorts, and Ratchet has given me code to prevent it in the future. But I nearly killed you, Sam, and I will understand if you wish to avoid me --"

"Bee!" Sam managed to hit a note of frantic fear that surprised even himself. Everyone stared at him, including Bee himself. "Bumblebee. Get your ass -- aft -- over here, before I have to get up again."

Bee crept closer, after a wary look at Sam's mother. Judy glared, but she had finally stopped yelling. Sam pulled his bandaged hand out of Doc's fingers and pointed at the ground. "Get down here so I'm not yelling up at you."

His best friend, whose bearing was currently showing a rather close resemblance to that of a kicked puppy, crouched beside him. "I am so very so--"

"Shut up," Sam said, and reached out, and touched the back of one of Bee's enormous hands with shaking fingers. Bee's optics snapped off in reaction, and his wings pinned flat again. Sam wondered if he wasn't seeing the Autobot version of tears. Very softly he asked, "A glitch, you said?"

He suddenly understood why 'glitch' was just about the worst thing you could call an Autobot, because not all glitches were benign, annoying things. When you were dealing with living war machines, glitches could be deadly.

Bumblebee sighed very heavily, and bowed his head, and said, "Of sorts. I was careless. It will _never _happen again."

"Good, because I think my mother would take you apart bolt by bolt if it did," Sam said, casting her a glance. She didn't see his look initially, as she still had Bee fixed with a deadly stare. However, his words made her glance in his direction, and Sam added, "Mom, please! He's my best friend. Chill for a moment."

Uncertainly, Judy said, "... but he hurt you."

Mikaela said quietly, to Bumblebee, "So it was a programming glitch of some kind?"

Mikaela was calming down, Sam noted thankfully.

"Of some kind," Bee agreed. He heaved an enormous sigh that seemed to come from deep within his torso, then said, "Sam, I was careless in how I had my boot sector sequences laid out. The problem has been corrected. However, I will understand if--"

"Bee," Sam interrupted, "Stop. Just, stop."

His mother's voice made him flinch when she shrieked, "Samuel James Witwicky, that thing nearly killed--!"

"What," an annoyed voice demanded from the doorway at a thunderous volume far greater than anyone human could ever manage, "is going on here?"

Ratchet's loud and angry presence effectively short-circuited his mother's rant. She stared up at the very large, heavily armored and very angry looking mech as he stalked into the room and loomed over everyone else. Only Doc seemed unruffled; Sam wildly wondered if the calm way that Doc was regarding Ratchet was still acting or if Doc really was that unafraid of the Autobot's CMO. Ratchet said, with real irritation, "Clearly, my assumptions that there would be tender apologies from Bee and heartfelt acceptance from Sam and friends and family were not correct. _Everyone out of my med bay_. _Now_."

His voice was megaphone loud, but the acoustics were perfect. Sam was impressed.

"Hey!" Sam protested, "I'm not yelling! Can I have a moment with Bee, _please_?"

Ratchet glowered. Doc said, at a normal volume, "He's been trying to talk to Bumblebee since Bee walked in the door, Ratch. His mother won't let him."

Bumblebee added in a voice that was distinctly quieter than typical, "Mrs. Witwicky, I _swear _I will not hurt your son. Will you please give us just a minute?"

"Mom, _please_!"

Uncertainly, she looked from Bumblebee to Sam and back, and then to Mikaela, who shrugged. And then to Ratchet, who glowered in a manner that sent grown Autobot warriors running. "You," Ratchet said to his mother, "will get out of my medical bay _now_. You may return after your lunch period."

"You can't order me out!"

"I can physically remove you," Ratchet advised her. "Or you can respect your son's wishes to talk to his friend -- and I assure you, they are _friends_ -- and leave on your own."

Doc's voice a soft counterpoint to Ratchet's, "Judy, I would prefer that your son not be stressed right now. The healing tissue is somewhat fragile and he could start bleeding again if his blood pressure rises. I can hear his heartbeat, and it slowed significantly when Bumblebee entered. It keeps spiking when you yell. However justifiably angry you are at Bee, and by extension the rest of us, please bear your son's welfare in mind."

"I ..." she looked at Sam, then up at Bee, and declared, "If you hurt him again, I will personally dismantle you. Don't think I won't do it, buster."

"Yes, ma'am." Bee blinked his optics at her. Sam hoped Bee was taking that threat as seriously as his mother intended it. He also made a mental note to keep the sabot rounds away from her.

After she stalked out, Doc said in a somewhat awed tone of voice, "Sam, I am rather glad your mother is only five foot seven inches. If she were any bigger, she would be dangerous."

"Oh, trust me," Sam rolled his eyes. "That was minor. When I was seven, this older kid beat me up for my lunch money. She went to talk the boy's parents, that didn't go well, she got in a fight with his dad, and _she won_."

"I," Mikaela had remained behind after his mom had left, "... I'll let you two be. Sam, I'm glad you're awake and okay."

"Stay," Bumblebee said to her. "I'm certain Sam doesn't want you to go. And I owe both of you an apology for hurting you, Sam. Plus, I have something I want to show you both."

"That was pretty scary, Bee," Mikaela sounded uncertain and shaken. She sat down on the edge of Sam's cot and said, "Can't we just have one day without drama?"

Bee slumped to the ground beside them, and Sam didn't think Bee missed the way that Sam flinched a little at the sudden movement. He tried not to, but that video had been awful. He sorta thought he could remember a bit of the incident, too, now that he'd seen the recording: a flash of yellow coming at him blinding fast, and _impact_. Bumblebee tactfully didn't comment on his reaction, however. Instead he said to Mikaela, "It would be nice, wouldn't it?"

Sam, resolving not to be afraid, reached his hand out towards Bee and Bumblebee obligingly moved closer, so Sam could put his hand on Bee's forearm. Sam said sturdily, "Bumblebee, it was an accident. You wouldn't hurt me deliberately."

"Never." Bee sighed again. "Sam, your mother's terrified of me. And Mikaela, I think you're a little worried, too."

Mikaela said, "It was a glitch."

Sam wondered if Mikaela was trying as hard as he was to not be afraid.

When Sam had been small, his grandmother had owned a couple horses. He'd loved the horses and had petted them whenever he got a chance. However, one day he'd gotten kicked by accident; the horse had been aiming at one of the farm dogs, and the gelding had inadvertently nailed him in the thigh hard enough to knock him tumbling. It had hurt like hell, left a bruise the size of the palm of his hand, and it had been a long time before he could stand next to any horse, even horses that were being completely friendly, without being deeply afraid of getting kicked.

This felt the same. It was nearly an instinctual fear. Even though he knew Bee had not meant it.

Bee said in a steady, unruffled tone of voice that was probably hiding a good deal of angst, "I do not blame you for being afraid I might have another glitch."

"Busted," Mikaela said, looking a trifle embarrassed. "But you gotta admit, big guy, that there is that possibility."

"No," Bee said, and _now _Sam heard a note of the self-recrimination that he had strongly suspected Bee was feeling, "I will not have the same sort of error. That's fixed. It was an _easy _fix, slag it. Primus, I was so stupid. If I'd reacted that way to another Autobot, I might have given them a dent, but it could have saved my aft if we were attacked. I needed to rewrite some things to account for human design tolerances, and I didn't. It didn't even occur to me."

"I'm going to be okay," Sam said, tugging at Bee's arm. Bee moved his hand closer, and Sam transferred his grip to one of Bee's fingers, the closest he could come to holding his hand. He _did _remember that hand hitting him, he was sure of it, and he forced himself to grip that long digit now. He was worried about Bumblebee, and asked directly, "And you're going to be okay too, right?"

"Yes. I will be okay, as long as you two are."

"Fifteen minutes, you three. Then I want everyone out. This is a med bay, not a rec room," Ratchet said, then left the room, heading back into the surgery. Doc also moved across the vast chamber, giving them the illusion of privacy. However, both mechs were not so discretely supervising.

Sam said, quietly, "Don't beat yourself up, Bee."

Bumblebee fell quiet, for a moment, then said, "I am so very large, and you two are so very fragile. I have a possible solution to that problem. Here, look."

There was a click somewhere in Bumblebee's body and his holo-emitter activated. Sam sat up in surprise, and Mikaela said, "What ... who? A new hologram?"

Bee had cast an image of a young man next to him. "Not a hologram. Well, yes, you're looking at a hologram. It's a rendering of a project that Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Doc are working on. It's a very sophisticated protoform, and not something we could do without the labs on this ship."

"You mean a protoform for you?" Sam shook his head vigorously, horrified by the implications. "Bee, _no_. You'd be defenseless. You can't!"

"It would be something like Arcee's protoforms, actually," Bumblebee explained, "My spark would be split between two forms. If anything, that would make me harder to kill. They would have to take both of me out to make it permanent."

The two humans exchanged a long look between them. Sam said quietly, in an awed tone of voice, "You would do this for us ...?"

Bee made a snorting noise. "I believe the idea is to give me an avatar that won't terrify half the humans on this planet. I am generally the mech given the task of PR in a situation like this, and humans are so blasted tiny ..." he made a fist with what looked like real frustration, "However, the fact that I could interact with you two on a very different level is a part of my calculations when I consider this option."

"Bumblebee!" Mikaela interrupted and actually seemed angry, "You don't need to change who you are for us to be your friends!"

Bee replied, "This isn't just about your friendship with me, Mikaela. In fact, this is not the sort of modification that Optimus would ever authorize for personal reasons. However, we _have _to gain acceptance on this world. We desperately need to establish a base of operations where we are welcomed and supported by the native population. Optimus is quite serious when he says that we will leave if human governments ask us to. We currently live here at the whim of elected United States officials, and we are well aware that they must cater to the desires of their people. In order to stay here, long term, we _must _gain acceptance. And it is very hard for us to forge bonds with humans when the humans hyperventilate when they see us." He pointed at the hologram. "That thing isn't going to scare nearly as many people as my current form does."

They both studied the hologram of the project for a moment. Mikaela gave Bee a slow, searching look, then walked over to it. The protoform was a few inches taller than Mikaela (which meant it was about the same height as Sam). It -- he -- was strikingly human in appearance, and was even dressed in a pair of jeans and a plain white t-shirt. The only really noticeable feature that made it clearly 'not human' were a set of glowing blue optics where human eyes should have been.

"It was deliberately designed to be appealing to humans," Doc said, from across the room. He sounded curious. "Did we succeed?"

"The eyes are creepy," Mikaela objected, shaking her head.

"We wanted something to distinguish it as 'not human'," Doc explained.

Mikaela tilted her head, and said, "What, to avoid people thinking of Terminator?"

"Yes. We are not trying to hide our identity as aliens." Doc shrugged. "And humans seem to be genuinely afraid of monsters taking the form of humans, and living undetected among you. Not just science fiction creatures but fantasy and magic as well, and there are examples dating back throughout human history. I could name a hundred easily: tricksters and sidhe, Greek Gods and vampires, those would be just a few. We do _not _wish to trigger those instinctual fears."

"Hmm. Can you do some patches of metal on his arms and legs or something? That would be less disturbing." Mikaela folded her arms. "Those eyes are just ... ooooh, freaky."

Bumblebee tilted his head sideways for a moment. "Do you find my eyes in this form unsettling?"

"No!" She glanced up at him. "It's a human thing, though. Animals and people with glowing eyes are seen as, I dunno, demonic? Robots can have glowing eyes. That is not _nearly _as scary."

"That is not a robot," Bee, like most of the mechs, shared a distaste for the term 'robot' as applied to Autobots. But he was smiling, a little, when he spoke. He added, "However, I think that non-glowing optics could be achieved, right Doc?"

"Easily," the medic replied. He padded back over, taking his inclusion in the conversation as an invitation to join them. He and Bee shared a look, and Sam suspected a transfer of data, and then the hologram changed. "In fact, what Mikaela suggested will give us a handy place to put a dataport and even weapon mounts."

Now it had armored forearms in gleaming silver, though its hands remained human-like. The eyes changed to a non-glowing blue so vivid it was definitely not natural.

"Anything else?" Doc asked, pleasantly. "And if absolutely need be, Bumblebee, you can attach weapons to armor I just exposed on the forearms. I'll modify it a bit for weapons mounts. Might as well, on the off chance you need them."

Mikaela considered the question, and said, "Bee, do you want people to see you as very macho, or with a bit of a gentler side?"

"Gentler, of course," Bumblebee said, and ducked his head with what looked like minor embarrassment. "I'm a warrior when I have to be. I'd rather humans not be afraid, though. You both know that."

"Hmm. Doc, can you make his cheekbones a little higher, and lengthen the hair? Make it come down to his mid back." Mikaela studied the effect that was created, then added, "And the jaw less strong. He looks like a linebacker right now."

The change was swiftly made, and the result was an androgynous young man, beardless, slim. Mikaela gestured with her hands behind her head, indicating that his hair should be pulled back into a tail. When they'd made that change, she nodded thoughtfully. "It doesn't really look like you, Bee, but it will work if you want to appeal to people. Honestly, I'm not sure what _would _look like you."

Sam said, with a frown, "He looks like a model or a movie star."

Bee chuckled, then stated, "Those looks are deliberate, Sam. I'm not exactly playing the role of a politician. That's Optimus's role, and probably Magnus and Rodimus. I'm the one who gets to be charismatic and appealing to the public."

"He's going to get hit on by lots of men." Sam scowled. The protoform was just too much a 'pretty boy' for his tastes. He found it vaguely disturbing.

"He exaggerates," Mikaela laughed.

Bee shrugged, clearly unimpressed by Sam's concerns. "And why would that be a problem?"

"Don't worry, Sam, I'll defend him," Mikaela said. "Though if they think he's straight, it'll be the _women _he's beating off with a stick ..."

Sam snickered, despite his misgivings. "True, and even if they think he's gay, from what I've observed."

"And if they realize I'm neither?" Bee sounded just a hair annoyed by the direction the discussion had gone. "I _am _an alien."

"Sorry, Bee, human assumptions don't work that way." Sam rolled his eyes. "I know the truth and I still default to thinking of you as a guy."

Mikaela sat down on the edge of the cot and regarded Bumblebee with a thoughtful expression. She said, "Bee, this mod is a big deal, right? Are you sure you want to do it?"

"The pros outweigh the cons, I believe," Bumblebee replied, though to Sam's ears he sounded uncertain. "It will ... change me. There will be _two of me_. That's a profound change, any way you look at it."

"How does that actually work?" Mikaela asked. She'd gone from pissed-off angry mad to curious, and Sam smiled when she wasn't looking in his direction. The key to calming Mikaela down was to distract her, something Bee had pointed out to him a long time ago. He wondered if this revelation from Bee wasn't a distraction in and of itself, too, meant to calm both of them by turning their focus away from Bee's malfunction and his injuries. Mikaela added, as if her meaning wasn't clear, "I mean, technically."

Bee held up two fingers. "Two memory cores, two processors, and part of my spark in each body. But there's also a quantum level link between the cores, and what is written to one affects the other immediately. It's a very sophisticated technology even by our standards, and actually has some parallels to how our starship engines work. Due to the quantum link the encryption level is so high as to be effectively unhackable, and the communication range between bodies is not limited by space, it's limited by time."

"Time?" Sam said, blankly. Disturbingly photographic images of a certain astronomy textbook popped up in his memory. They weren't helpful. He knew Autobot astrophysics were far, far more advanced than human.

"Time flows at different rates, affected by gravitational fields and the like," Doc spoke up with what Sam suspected was a very simplistic explanation. "It can be a problem if the cores get out of sync with each other, either because of proximity to a strong gravitational field, or by starship travel. You can't leave one half on a planet and send the other to Cybertron, because it would break the quantum bond."

"... Oh." Sam thought he understood.

"That would not necessarily kill him, but it would be dangerous, painful, and very undesirable. Arcee was split four ways and one of her protoforms was destroyed. She nearly died from the shock, and took a very long time to recover emotionally. However, for practical purposes he'll have unlimited range planet wide."

"So that's how Arcee was able to communicate with herself when we were in Egypt," Sam mused. "I'd wondered."

Doc nodded, "You know, we once used this technology a lot, for long-distance communications purposes, but with the war we have lost much of our manufacturing ability." Doc trailed off, eyes going distant, then continued. "The Primes carry within them the all the knowledge we require to restart our civilization, if we can ever end this war."

Bee made a soft noise, not quite a chirp, and he didn't sound happy. Sam thought it was the word 'Matrix' and he was proven right when Doc glanced up at him and said, "The Matrix would stay with your original protoform, but both forms would have access to the data. We can't split that, and I'm not even sure how to convince it to move if we had to transfer your cores to a new shell. Ratchet -- or Wheeljack -- might have more of an idea how that would work. It's not my area of expertise. I'm just designing the organic structures."

Mikaela then asked a question Sam wouldn't even have thought of (he was going, 'Organic?' and remembering Doc taking a swab of his cheek the day before) when she said, "What about spare parts, then? Sounds like you're using stuff from the ship's stores, but when they're gone ..."

"The quantum tech bits are solid state," Doc said, "and the estimated lifespan of the parts we'll use is measured in the tens of thousands of years. They'll be placed within his spark chambers, so any battle damage that destroys them would have offlined him permanently anyway. By the time he needs replacement parts either we will have established an economic and technological platform able to manufacture them, or, one hopes, humanity will be more accepting of us and we won't need him to have a humanoid avatar. Alternately, he will no longer be on this world, rendering a humanoid protoform a bit of a moot point."

He nodded at the hologram. "The cores will be durable, but the protoform itself is going to be a good bit more fragile, and will need regular maintenance. At some point, we may have to do a core transplant into something else, or reverse the procedure. It is reversible, by the way, Bee. I don't know if you caught that from the notes."

"I saw," Bumblebee said, thoughtfully. "Which is one of the reasons I'm considering this."

Doc added, a bit teasingly, "And if you ever go civilian on us, be aware that this is going to be _very _expensive technology to repair or upgrade no matter where it's built."

Bee snorted. "I'm a Prime. I don't think 'civilian' is in my near future."

"True," Doc grinned at him. "I don't think you'll ever have to worry about pinching your credits like the rest of us peons."

"The drawbacks," Bumblebee said, thoughtfully, "are going to be that the little protoform will be far more vulnerable. Also, if I'm reading the schematics on the sensory net right, it's going to be very sensitive to touch."

_Smack it, and it hurts, _Sam guessed.

Doc nodded. "You can be hurt by other humans. Not fatally with anything short of being run down by a SUV ..." he grinned at Mikaela, who smiled brightly, and Sam realized that the story of Mikaela taking out a Decepticon Pretender was probably widely known, "but _hurt_. That's deliberate, Bee. And that sensory net you're referring to is based on the human nervous system. My work."

"If the little form does get destroyed, I get really injured, badly." Bee fell silent, for a moment, then said, "On the other hand, I've been badly hurt in _this _form a few times. I might survive an attack on _this _form that would otherwise kill me as the little protoform would still have half my spark. Obviously, we wouldn't be taking my shorter half into battle."

Mikaela added, "And you'd have a backup memory core."

"Yes, true." Bee's eyes flicked in the direction of the surgical bay, and Prowl. "Though that wouldn't be proof against a virus, it would help in the case of an unlucky injury."

"Yes." Doc nodded. "You realize that the major reason we don't do this more often is the sheer bloody expensive use of rare resources. I'm not kidding when I say the quantum link between the cores is on par with the technology used to create a starship engine. We're literally using undamaged parts from the Ark's ruined engine for this. They're just doing a swap and replace on the engine with a spare in the subspace hold, and we three med bay nerds," he grinned at the phrase, "called dibs on the parts before Grimlock did."

"Grimlock wants to be able to do quantum jumps again?" Bee said, tone approaching 'horror' and doorwings pinning flat to his back. "Primus! Not with _his _processor core damage. And aside from that, I seem to remember him jumping into the Earth's _mantle _last time ... Wheeljack was _crazy _to fix him the first time."

"Fortunately, that was also Optimus's reaction." Doc lifted an optic ridge at Bumblebee. "Wheeljack's judgment leaves a lot to be desired sometimes, doesn't it?"

"And he can talk Ratchet into _anything_," Bee groaned, sagging in place. "Ratchet by himself has tons of common sense, but Wheeljack seems to cancel that out. It's like matter and antimatter when they get together."

"Apt description, given Wheeljack's explosive tendencies," Doc chuckled.

"I can hear you!" Ratchet called from the next room.

"We know!" Bee shot back, causing Mikaela to giggle and Sam to smile.

"He's Dr. McCoy with armor and a welding torch," Doc said, definitely loud enough for Ratchet to hear, and Sam shot the alien doctor a very startled look at the comment. Doc was so damned dignified, where had _that _reference come from?

"So," Mikaela had been silently studying the protoform. "Does it transform into anything?"

"A real boy!" Ratchet shouted from the next room.

Bumblebee replied with a clip of music from an old Disney movie, "I've got no strings to hold me down, to make me fret or make me frown, I had strings but now I'm free. There are no strings on me!"

Doc said, "Wishful thinking, Bee?"

"Something like that," Bee said, wings drooping. He glanced sideways at Sam, and Sam suddenly realized he still had his hand holding on to Bee's finger. "And I believe our fifteen minutes is about up. Before Ratchet puts a dent or two in me, I should go -- Optimus just pinged me to remind me I _am _back on active duty, too, and I need to go play tour guide."

"How long will it take you to build the protoform?" Mikaela asked, before they could leave.

Sam was expecting an answer like "ten years" given the level of sophisticated technology involved. If the Autobots called it "high tech" then it was probably going to take _forever_, right?

"Hmm. The hardest part will be the organic parts, and those are already nearly done. I have a few tricks at my disposal that fall under the category of 'things Autobots don't tell humans about' to speed the growth of cellular tissue. As far as the protoform, Teletraan's drones are working on it, and Wheeljack's supervising. Maybe -- tomorrow?" Doc sounded a little hesitant. "I believe that the departure date for the Ark was finalized for next Monday, which will allow us time to get to Nieryl Six before the end of the truce. We will need to hustle a bit if we want to get this project finished, and Prowl online, before it departs."

"You are assuming Fang will keep his word and honor the truce until the 30th," Sam pointed out.

Bee huffed a long sigh. To Sam's surprise, and apparently Doc's as well because Doc lifted an optic ridge, Bee said, "Fang will keep his word, I can virtually guarantee that. None of us are worried about it. Random Decepticon trouble isn't out of the question, but Fangface won't be behind it."

Doc snorted delicately. "Are you certain he isn't just playing mind games with us? Killing traitors to his cause does not make him remotely loyal to ours."

Bee's vocalizer clicked as if Bee was thinking about saying something, but then the Autobot pulled his finger free of Sam's grasp and stood up. "You assumed ahead of time I would say yes to this modification?"

To Sam's ears, Bee sounded surprisingly defiant given his usual polite deference to other Autobots. But Doc's response clearly eased Bee's mind, because he visibly relaxed when Doc said, "No. You were merely our first choice. Elita and Bluestreak were both in the running, and Hound, as well."

Bee covered his face with one hand. "I will accept this, then, simply to avoid the possibility of there being _two _of Bluestreak."

From the surgery, Ratchet's response made everyone chuckle, "Thank you, Bee!"


	37. Chapter 37

Author's notes:

Special thanks again to KittenCeezs, for beta-ing this monster of a fic.

* * *

Two years ago, Judy Witwicky had watched with terrified horror as government agents descended on her home during a power outage and took her son away.

Now, she sat alone on the steps of the tiny, rickety, battered little government-owned trailer and watched as one of the Autobots practiced touchdowns on the asphalt in front of the main hangar. The Autobot, a tiny and rather impish creature who had introduced himself as Manywinds, was transforming in midair and landing lightly on his feet. Earlier, the big flier, Silverbolt, had been doing something similar on the runway, but Windy only needed a few feet to land where a Hercules needed a good-sized chunk of real estate. Silverbolt watched as Windy repeated the landings over and over.

After watching the two Autobots a moment longer she decided there was a lesson going on in front of the hangar, but she wasn't sure who was teaching whom.

She sighed, remembering how she'd gotten to this point in time.

Two years ago, Sam had come home, battered and bruised, with orders to report to a military base for repeated health evaluations. The explanation was that he'd been involved in the mess in Mission City, and he had explained a partial truth: "Aliens, Mom, it really was aliens, but I can't talk about it any more ..."

"What, like E.T.?" she said, two years ago, realizing that would explain both the medical checkups and the agents who had invaded her house. "Are we in any danger?"

He had refused to say anything about it, however, even when Ron had threatened him with grounding. When pressed, Sam had said, "It's classified."

"You're a minor," Ron had snapped back, "They can't make you keep secrets from your parents."

And Sam had given then a desperate look and said, "But these secrets are _important_. People could get hurt if words get out. People who saved my life."

It had been two months later, towards the end of summer break, when one of those secrets had shown up in their driveway. Sam had been eating breakfast. She had been washing dishes with the kitchen window open because it was a lovely cool morning. Ron had been out in the yard, tending his precious grass. Heaven forbid his precious lawn get pretty yellow dandelion flowers in it! Ron had been on his hands and knees pulling weeds with so much obsessive care that she practically expected him to use a magnifying glass to identify them when they were only teeny-tiny seedlings.

The scene had been totally domestic, and the brand new yellow Camaro that pulled into the driveway not unusual except that they didn't know anyone with such a car. Ron had stood up, an odd expression on his face, and had said loud enough for her to hear through the open kitchen window, "That car's not on the market yet."

A second car pulled in behind the first, an enormous pickup truck with windows tinted so dark she couldn't see the driver.

The man who stepped out of the Camaro was dressed in civilian clothes, complete with a baseball cap, but he was still so screamingly military that she halfway expected him to march rather than walk. He had broad shoulders and a strong jaw and the strikingly distinctive stance of a man who'd been spent long years in the armed forces. However, he simply patted the car on the hood, then headed for Ron. The pickup's driver didn't get out. Only later would she truly meet Ironhide and realize he had no driver.

"Mr. Witwicky?"

"Yessir?" Ron was looking in puzzled confusion from the man to the car and back.

"I'm Major Lennox." Lennox had held a hand out for Ron to shake. His voice had floated through the open window, clearly audible inside.

And Sam, who had ignored the sound of a car pulling in, erupted out of his seat at the kitchen table and knocked the chair over. He righted it then burst outside and shouted, "You came back!"

At first she thought her son was talking to the major, but he streaked right past Lennox and did a sort of ecstatic dance around the car. "Bumblebee! You came back! You came back!"

Major Lennox had hooked his thumb at the vehicle by way of probably unnecessary introduction and said, "The Camaro's Bumblebee."

The Camaro's radio had started playing 'You've Got a Friend' at Sam, whose reaction was far different than Judy had expected. He covered his face in his hands and groaned aloud and said, "Sappy, Bumblebee! Aaaaaughhh!"

"Will somebody please explain to me what's going on?" Ron demanded, sounding belligerent and uncertain all at once. And Sam was laughing helplessly, though she couldn't say why. She was simply baffled, both by Sam's behavior and the presence of an army major on the lawn, and by just a general sense of something-not-quite-right.

Lennox pulled his hat off, swept his ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, and said, "It's about what happened a couple of months ago with your son."

"Yeah," Ron had growled, "I'm still looking for answers. Nobody's talking and government agents kidnapped my son for _three days_."

Lennox had grinned a bit wolfishly. "You're going to get the answers you want, so don't bite my head off. Also, I can assure you now that the agent who took your son will _never _work with my team."

He paused, looking first at both vehicles and then pursing his lips and regarding the yard and the buildings. He called over to Camaro, "Bumblebee, do you think you can transform inside that garage?"

A cheerful clip from Star Trek played from the car's radio. Scotty said, "Aye aye, sir."

Sam finally came bouncing back to them, and his grin was bigger than the time he'd gotten a bike for his tenth birthday. "I never thought I'd see him again!"

Lennox snorted. "We've practically had to weld him to the hangar walls to keep him away, Sam. He's been begging us to get the paperwork done for the last week."

_Him, _Judy wondered? Who was _him_? Was there someone else in the car? She craned her neck to see, but the car seemed empty.

Lennox added, "His vocalizer is working. Right, Bee?"

"Yes sir," a somewhat staticky voice said from the Camaro, making them both jump. "But it keeps sending errors to my processor and they _hurt_."

Judy began to put some clues together. Errors. Processor. A voice coming from the car, and nobody in it. And her son's behavior, because Sam was bouncing on his toes, staring at the car, and looking like he's just won the lottery and found out Santa Claus was real, all at the same time.

"The car's a robot?" she guessed.

Ron blinked at her. Sam gave her a startled look. Lennox, more to the point, said, "You must have seen something, then, a couple of months ago? We weren't sure, but the 'bots said they didn't think that you two had seen them in protoform. So much for Autobot senses."

The truck made a very rude sounding noise, sort of a cross between a backfire and a raspberry.

The Camaro added, sounding embarrassed, "I coulshhhhht have sworsssshhhhht that only Mikaela and Sam saw shhh!httt me."

"Ouch," Sam said, "That even _sounds _like it hurts."

"At least he can talk." The truck had a grumpy, deep voice. "I was getting tired of show tunes and sitcom laugh tracks."

"They're like the cars on Knight Rider?" Encouraged, she continued, "Umm, super-secret military vehicles?"

"Explains the concept car," Ron said speculatively, eyeing the Camaro with his brows furrowed, "though it's not exactly subtle."

_Neither was KITT, _she thought in triumph at what she thought was an accurate guess.

"Super-secret yes," Lennox seemed deeply amused, "but not military vehicles."

The truck coughed.

"... they do not belong to _our _military," Lennox amended. "Ironhide would remind me that he's been a soldier since before human civilization existed, and that he outranks me. Also, I swear he's been watching too many Rambo movies in his quest to understand human behavior." That earned him a short, sharp clip of noise from the truck and a several chirps from the Camaro. "I _heard _that, 'Hide. -- But I'm getting ahead of myself. I need to have you sign some paperwork first before we give you the whole scoop."

"I'm not signing _anything _until a lawyer looks it over," Ron folded his arms, jaw set, stubborn determination on his face.

Lennox sighed. "Here's the deal, and I'll be perfectly frank. Your son by pure dumb luck of having a crazy ancestor, and no wrongdoing or carelessness on his part, is caught up in an alien war. The good guys think he's going to be a target. We want to protect him, and the aliens owe him a huge debt and I think they simply _like _him, but some of the things that might come after him are big and bad and nasty enough that humans are gonna be hard pressed to stop them. That's where Bumblebee comes in. You can either cooperate or not, but there's some pretty major national security interests at play. There's nothing objectionable in the papers -- Optimus saw to that -- but they do ask you for silence on anything you may learn about some pretty important top-level secrets."

He thrust a folded wad of papers at them. Ron grabbed them, scanned them, and said, "Aliens. We're not supposed to talk about _aliens_."

He shoved the papers at Judy. She read them. They were two pages, extremely straightforward, and simple to understand. They were simply pledging to stay silent on the subject of an alien race that had landed on Earth. There was no penalty if they didn't, but there was a promise to expend all reasonable effort to protect them and their property as long as they kept quiet. The implication was that they would be on their own if they spoke out, and would have protection if they stayed silent.

She reached for the pen that Lennox offered, signed the paperwork, and handed it to Ron. He did the same, grumbling all the while. "Nobody would believe me _anyway_." He finished his signature with a flourish and a glower at the same time.

Unexpectedly, the truck said, "The boy, too."

"He's a minor," Ron objected.

"So it's not legally binding. Optimus asked to have him sign too. I think it's about the symbolism." Lennox smiled.

Sam gave Lennox a funny look, eyebrows drawing together, as if he was a bit surprised they even needed to ask for this much. "I've kept their secrets this far, haven't I?" But he signed.

"Good. If we can use your garage ..." Lennox nodded at the building.

"What for?" She was confused, for a moment.

"Introductions," Lennox said, mysteriously, but sounding amused. Belatedly, it dawned on her that maybe the alien _was _in the car, and she just couldn't see him. She wondered if he had an invisibility ray? Was he six inches tall? Perhaps he was hiding in the trunk?

Sam laughed, "Alright! This is so cool. Dad, we're gonna need to move your car, and _don't _freak out, Mom! He's my friend."

"The car is his friend," Ron repeated to Judy, both eyebrows going up.

"Really, he is. He saved my life."

"There was shhzzzzhhtttsshhh actual mutuashhht! life shhhhtaving _blast that fragging glitch to slag!_" The last part of the Camaro's comment came through crystal clear, full of irritation, and incredibly human-sounding. Judy suddenly found herself struck with sympathy for the creature, whatever (or wherever) it was. It added, sounding abashed, "Sorry for the swearing."

"If that's your version of profanity," Judy said, a bit amused because it sounded so very humanly frustrated, "you need to take some lessons from my husband."

Lennox's lips twitched. He was trying not to smile. "I think some concepts might be getting lost in the translation there, Mrs. Witwicky. Bumblebee would be in trouble if he said that in front of civilians and with Optimus in hearing distance."

"We would like you to know," the truck added, "that Sam saved Bumblebee from being sliced and diced by government scientists. On top of that, Sam saved the world. And on top of all that, your son saved our leader's life, who is both our species' last and greatest hope, and beloved by all of us. We owe him a great debt."

Sam scuffed the toe of his sneaker on the ground, earning a disapproving glare from his father for potential damage to his precious grass. He was insisting, "It was nothing."

_My son did that_? Judy stared at Sam, wondering just how he'd managed to pull that off. Her son? The boy she'd yelled at just fifteen minutes ago for drinking out of the milk carton, and who had to be reminded every night to take the trash out? Her sixteen year old son, who couldn't talk to a girl without becoming tongue-tied (not even the absolutely darling Mikaela) and who hadn't been able to get a summer job despite some fairly enthusiastic trying? _That _boy?

"It was shhhhhttteroic," the Camaro objected to Sam's humble declaration of 'nothing.' She deciphered the garbled word as 'heroic.'

"Yeah, well, don't tell my parents the details, or they'll lock me up and throw away the key until I'm 90." Sam suddenly looked uncomfortable.

_Oh-hoh, boy-oh. I really want to hear this story now. _Her mother instincts had gone on red alert. Not that they weren't already. She had known for two months Sam was hiding a lot. But aliens? _Really_, aliens?

"So," Ron said, slowly, and looking alertly around, "Where are the cameras?"

"Cameras?" Judy said dumbly. She had no clue what Ron was thinking about. She was stuck on the twin thoughts of, 'My son is a hero!' and 'What the _hell _did he actually do?'

And the car crowed, "You're on Candid Camera!" And cackled a laugh full of static.

Ron looked smug for figuring it out. "Good joke, son. You had me going there, for a moment. So ... where are the cameras?"

Sam swatted the car's hood, causing the laughter to break off in mid note. "Bumblebee, that's _not _helping."

"No cameras," Lennox assured them. He was grinning, but he also shook his head at the car, as if trying to discourage such comments. "This is real. If we could please use your garage, sir?"

"... Okay," Judy said, since Ron was still trying to find photographers in the trees. "Sam, would you move the car?"

"Yeah, yeah, right! Keys, dad, keys, keys, keys!" Sam bounced excitedly from foot to foot.

Ron sighed and handed his keys over. "Be careful."

"I _can _back your car up without hurting it!" Sam ran for the garage. To her immense surprise, both of the 'robotic' vehicles rolled backwards down the driveway to allow him to get the Mercedes out, and she absolutely could not see anyone driving the Camaro. She was seriously tempted to run after it and peer into the driver's side window just to try to solve that mystery. A second later the garage door lifted and Sam backed up fast enough that Ron's mouth tightened in a frown of displeasure. He wasn't quite being reckless, but Sam wasn't exactly being new-driver cautious, either.

Before Sam had the car parked on the curb the Camaro rolled forward and vanished into the recesses of the garage. A second later, Sam ran after it, and the adults headed in that direction at a more sedate pace.

"I will warn you," Lennox said, as they walked into the garage, "that Bumblebee can be a bit scary the first time you meet him. However, I promise he's one of the good guys."

Sam, who had his head stuck in the Camaro's driver's side window when they entered the garage, straightened up. "The first time I saw Bee, I thought I was going to die. You should see the video I shot, or maybe not, 'cuz it's pretty embarrassing."

"There's shhhhh video?" The voice from the Camaro said, with evident interest. Then it added, "_Oh, _on your cell phone."

"You can view that?" He pulled his cell phone out, and peered at it.

"I can hack ssssshhhhhone." Despite the static, Camaro-voice sounded both smug and vastly amused. "Japanese, Sam?"

"Hey, I grew up on anime, okay?" he shrugged. "Sorry, giant robots bring Voltron to mind."

The car-voice snickered. "Remind me to shhkkkkhht you about combiner teams shhk!hht gestalts."

Sam's eyes grew huge and wide. "_Really?_"

Lennox blinked as well, and in nearly the same tone of voice, said, "_No!_ Bumblebee, you're shitting me!" He glanced at Judy and added, "Sorry, ma'am."  
Chapter 36 - Google Docs  
Ron shut the door garage door and in a very different tone of voice said, "Okay, let's see this alien. Come on out, buddy."

His tone of voice told Judy he was still looking for cameras. Possibly, they were in the car, but Sam's reactions were off, if that were the case. His interaction with the voice was too genuine. And he was too honestly happy. Her son looked like he'd just won the lottery times ten.

Lennox said, "Everyone stand way back and give him some room."

Room? Judy said, but she obligingly backed up until she was pressed against the cabinet that held the garden tools. Lennox stood on one side of her, Ron on the other. Sam joined them and said, "This is _so _cool. And Mom, don't scream, 'kay? Bumblebee's harmless."

"Hardly harmless," Lennox murmured, "or he would be useless as your bodyguard, kid. But he's _friendly_. He won't hurt you folks."

She was expecting an alien to materialize out of the vehicle. What she wasn't expecting, at all, in any way, shape, or form was for a crashing of gears and a rattling of metal on metal to come from the vehicle itself. In a rapid, flowing, and somehow very organic motion of shifting parts and folding metal the car changed from a pretty hot looking yellow Camaro to a very alien and very _big _robot. Enormous glowing blue eyes stared at them. It filled the small space of the garage to overflowing, and even crouched on all fours it was taller than their heads. The garage seemed far too small, and she wanted to scream but couldn't draw a breath.

Then her son, her only son, her sixteen year old son, her _baby,_ darted forward and literally right into the clutches of the scariest and most nightmarish monster she had ever seen in her life. "Bumblebee, you look awesome! Way better than last time!"

"Sam means he's not in pieces," Lennox translated for them, whatever that meant.

The creature sat down, head barely inches from the ceiling and legs sprawling out across the cement. It put a hand on her son's back even as Sam hugged his arm.

Hugged. His. Arm.

Sam had to stretch to get both arms around the creature's limb. It was just that big. Judy felt faint, and realized she had stopped breathing. And then robot rested his other hand on Sam's back with what looked like a friendly gesture. That hand spanned the width of his shoulders with several inches to spare. Judy was pretty sure it could squish Sam if it wanted to. She sucked in a breath with a startled, frightened gasp.

"Mom?" Sam turned around to face them, "Dad? Meet Bumblebee."

"G..." It wasn't often that Ron Witwicky was struck speechless. She glanced sideways at him, hoping he wasn't about to drop dead. He tried to speak again, and what came out was a hoarse and uneven whisper, "Get away from that thing, boy."

Lennox pointedly crossed the the few steps from the wall to the robot's side. Judy, looking down, realized that in the close confines of the garage they were literally only about three feet from the creature's legs. Sam looked a bit hurt at Ron's words. The robot gave an enormous sigh.

Lennox said, "Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, I know this is a bit of a shock, but I'd like you to meet Bumblebee, an officer in the Autobot army and a direct report to Optimus Prime, their leader. He, uh, likes Sam."

A long string of hissing, spitting static emerged from a speaker where the creature's mouth should have been. It reached up and flicked itself in the 'jaw' with a finger, then made a sort of coughing motion, and visibly winced.

Lennox sighed. "You lose your voice completely, buddy?"

The robot tried again, but managed to emit only a loud squawk.

"Damn, I was afraid that was going to happen. I knew we should have waited for Ratchet to fix you better, Bee." Lennox ran a hand over his face. "Sorry for the technical difficulties, folks. This comes up all the time with him, I'm afraid. It might be best if you just plan on him not being able to speak, and be happy when he can."

Sam sounded more concerned than Lennox when he added, "There's something broken with his voice, I don't know what."

Lennox filled in the blanks of Sam's explanation, with a quick explanation, "From what I understand, Megatron got hold of him in a fight a long time ago and basically ripped his throat out. He has a hard time speaking because of it. The repairs are definitely jury-rigged."

Ron snapped, "So we have an alien robot that wants to be buddies with my boy, and it's _broken_. We're not responsible for fixing it, are we? And how much is this thing going to cost us to run? Fuel and such? Bet it gets _lousy _gas mileage."

Lennox gave him an absolutely incredulous look. Sam groaned, "Daaaaaad."

The alien robot ... laughed. It was soundless, but it seemed to be chuckling, with its shoulders bouncing up and down in silent mirth. Sam's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then said, "Oh, hey, good thinking, Bumblebee," he passed the phone to his dad, "He's got something to tell you."

Ron passed the phone to Judy. The message said, "Barring leaks, I will not need to refuel for over several decades."

"Hnh." Ron took a step closer to the robot. "Bumblebee, huh? I guess I can see that."

Judy glanced from the phone to the robot and back to the phone. Yeah, she _could _see where he got his name. He was yellow and black, and the Camaro's doors had slid back and now formed a semblence of wings. His face very vaguely resembled the features of an insect too, in ways that were almost cute.

Ron stared up at the robot.

The robot extended a hand out towards Ron, and he flinched, then realized half a second after Judy did that the robot was offering to shake hands. He could barely close his hand around one of the robot's three overlarge fingers, but shake hands they did. When Judy took a turn at shaking the robot's hand, she discovered his metal finger was warm and somehow felt alive.

Sam said, "Isn't he _cool_?"

Ron scratched his head and scrutinized the robot without a word for a moment. Bee was very still, and let him look. Ron finally smiled, and the robot's face moved in what might actually have been a sort of answering grin. Ron said, "Yeah. Actually. Pretty damn cool. You're pretty damn cool, Bumblebee. My boy's a hero, you say?"

Bumblebee responded via text message again. "He is quite a hero, and I will send you an e-mail describing the events if you give me your address." There was a pause, and a buzz. "Our medic will repair my voice, but probably not today." Another message appeared on Sam's phone, "And please, feel free to shorten my name to Bee."

Judy handed the phone to Ron, who thumbed through the messages, nodded, and handed the phone back to Sam. Ron scratched his head for a minute and then said, "So ... do we need to like put car insurance on him or something? Because that's gonna be expensive."

"And pretty damn hard, given he doesn't officially exist and his alt mode isn't actually on the roads yet," Lennox said, with a dry laugh. "Don't worry, he's got the appropriate paperwork in his glove box, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Oh, and so you know, he'll need to return to the base every few days to see their medic -- he was pretty badly hurt in Mission City and has some repairs ongoing, plus that damned voice of his," the soldier shared an apparently commiserating look with the alien, who made a slight whining noise, "but other than that, the plan is for him to stay here. He's on light duty for the near future, meaning he's not supposed to get in any fights, but their medic says he's perfectly capable of driving around town and keeping an eye on Sam, and engaging in hand to hand with the enemy if he _has _to."

"This is _so _cool." Sam held a hand up, "Gimme five, Bee."

Judy watched in disbelief as her son slapped his comparatively tiny hand to the palm of a giant alien robot.

She found she was both awestruck and a little afraid but she said, "He's pretty neat, I guess."

* * *

In the present, Judy was jolted out of her memories of her first meeting with Bumblebee by the sound of alien laughter. Manywinds had been joined by Wheelie, and Wheelie had Windy in a playful headlock. It was Silverbolt's laughter, a surprising baritone given his enormous size, that had drawn her attention.

Wheelie was a little heavier than Windy, and an inch or two taller. However, Windy summarily won the mock fight by flipping Wheelie over his shoulder and pointing a laser rifle armed wrist at his head.

Silverbolt observed, in a voice that carried all the way to the trailers fifty yards away, "You lose, kid."

Windy offered Wheelie a hand up, and the two small mechs ran off into the vast, shadowed depths of the main hangar.

It was funny, Judy reflected, how _human _they seemed.

Bee had scared her, at first, but his charisma and warm sense of humor had quickly put her at ease. Plus, they'd talked quite a bit via e-mail. She wasn't sure if her son was completely aware of just how much she'd discussed with the Autobot via her computer. His deep sense of responsibility had been endearing. Plus, not only had he explained what precisely had happened in Mission City in candid and honest detail, he had also sent her some recorded video of Sam in the battle, shot by various Autobots as they had fought. Apparently, they stored memories as video, and that video could be shared with others.

Sam didn't know she had seen the images.

She played dumb and kept up a charade of relative innocence.

Judy had been terrified of those images of her son, terrified to the core of her very being. Her son could have died a thousand ways. He had been chased by a horrific enemy Decepticon (dead twice now, and hopefully never to return a third time). He had fallen off a building in the grasp of their leader. He had shoved the Allspark into the chest of the same horrible enemy robot, at obvious great risk to his own life, and with no regard for his own safety. In doing so, he had saved the Autobot's leader, and probably the entire world.

Her son could have died.

She was so very, very proud of him.

As far as Bee went, Judy had quickly gone from 'scared to death' to 'tentatively curious' to (after seeing those videos) understanding the need for his presence. However, the first time Bee had brought her son home before curfew and she had overheard Sam complaining about it bitterly over the phone to Mikaela, Bee had won her amused appreciation.

Shortly after that, she had grounded Sam over a bad grade on a test and he had tried to sneak out. Bee had tipped her off with a quick phone call. Her son had ended up grounded for twice the amount of time, and Bumblebee had spent the next two days tutoring Sam on Calculus. He had aced the next test. When he came home with an 'A' Bee had successfully advocated for an early parole for Sam and taken him out to the lake to celebrate.

To tell the truth, she was fairly sure that Bee was responsible for Sam making straight A's his final year of high school. Studying with Bee was more fun than studying alone, and Bee wouldn't take Sam anywhere fun until he did his homework.

Then there had been the time she had stepped outside very late one night to find the Camaro parked in the driveway and her son in the front seat crying bitterly. Bee refused to tell her the details, but advised her later that a bully named Trent had questioned Sam's sexuality to the point where Sam had fled class and ditched the last half of school. She had been furious, ready to take on the bully herself. Bee had said that the bully was a problem, but so was Sam's lack of confidence in himself, and having his mother fight his battles would not help.

It was so obvious that Sam loved, trusted, and admired Bumblebee. It had been so almost from the beginning. She had concluded that Bee was the best friend her son always should have had. It didn't really matter that Bumblebee was an alien war machine older than human civilization, or that Sam was a teenage boy. They were just _friends._ Bee's wisdom and sense of responsibility, as far as she was concerned, was just icing on the cake Once she'd come to know the Autobot, she'd never worried about Sam's safety or welfare when he was with him.

What made Judy Witwicky ready to kill him now was that Bumblebee had now broken her trust. Oh, she was pissed off that Sam was hurt, but this was somehow a lot more personal than just an injury. Bee had broken Sam's trust, and Bumblebee had shattered _her _trust in him. She had trusted him, and genuinely liked him, and he had hurt her boy. It didn't matter that it was an accident. She had trusted him to prevent even accidents.

Heavy footfalls made her look over, then way up. Very much to her surprise the stately red and blue leader of the Autobots was padding in a direct line towards her. Judy looked around, expecting to see that he was really headed to speak to someone else, but she was the only person in front of the trailer.

"Mrs. Witwicky," he said, gravely.

"Err."

He sat down, moving with surprising ease for a nearly thirty foot tall robot. Optimus, for all his bulk, was graceful. After taking a seat he regarded her with a thoughtful expression on his face. For her part, she just stared back. However, before she could say something awkward, such as 'what do you want?' he finally spoke, "Ratchet said there was a problem in the med bay."

Her lips pressed together in an unhappy frown. She was angry about that. "He's my _son_."

"I am deeply sorry Sam was injured. You know that I consider him one of my own."

"Own what?" She couldn't help but be a bit peevish at him.

"One of my own ..." his voice clicked a couple of times, "... I am sorry. English doesn't have a word that translates precisely, but 'family' would be close. I owe him my life twice over, Mrs. Witwicky. It is a debt I cannot repay in this lifetime. Plus, I simply _like _your son. Sam is a true friend to all of us, and a joy to know."

"... Oh." But again, she had to be snarky. "But you do not know what it is to have a son, Optimus. You're a robot."

The ancient leader of an ancient people simply sighed. "How much do you know about our reproduction?"

"You used the Allspark to reproduce, but it was destroyed."

He nodded gravely. "Megatron would have created a vast army of Decepticons had he gained possession of the Allspark cube. They would have destroyed Earth, and many other worlds. As it stands, Megatron and his comrades have much to answer for in the afterlife."

"Why are you telling me of this?"

"The Allspark created life for us," Optimus replied, quietly, "but our children are born feral and wild, and often very afraid. They simply do not have the programming code to comprehend the world around them. We must mentor them, nurture them, and teach them to love. We may not procreate as humans do, but we _have children_, Mrs. Witwicky."

"Did you ever have any of your own?" Normally, she heard Transformers refer to their own children as 'sparklings' and 'younglings' and never using the word 'child.' However, perhaps the word was the same. "Would you ask them to fight in this war? Would you ask _Sam_?"

"Mrs. Witwicky," Optimus said gravely, "I already have, on both accounts."

She really didn't know what to say to that. Optimus was right, though. Her son had been killed in Egypt. He could have died in Mission City. Optimus had asked him to serve, and he had, and he very nearly died both times.

Optimus rested his hands on his knee, and watched as Windy and Wheelie came streaking back out of the hangar, with Silverbolt still trailing after both of them. Silver took one slow step for every twenty of the smaller mechs. Wheelie was laughing, and Manywinds trying to catch him. Optimus said, in a voice pitched only for her ears, "Once, we were a peaceful race. I had many younglings that I mentored, and loved as my own. Mrs. Witwicky, they are all dead now, every one."

"I'm sorry," she said, hearing the deep pain in his voice.

His gaze seemed distant now, aimed above the level of the hangar at a spotless blue sky. "I have sent my own children to battles where I knew none would come back alive, Mrs. Witwicky, because that was the lesser of evils. There are so few of us left alive that few of us have any family left. Siblings, mentors, sparklings. All dead. Most of us are orphans and alone, except for our comrades in arms."

"My son is not an alien." _And he was badly hurt today. He could have been killed. Again. _

"My children were not _alien _to me," he replied, voice growing just a trace sharp. Then he glanced back and sighed. "I had a family once, Mrs. Witwicky. You would recognize it even by human terms. I had Elita, and two brothers. I had good friends and I had younglings that I loved every bit as much as you loved your children. I had a mentor that you would probably identify as a mother, for she was very nurturing."

A smile tugged at his lips. "She stood about knee high to me, when I became Prime and took this form. And she could still make me shake in my armor if she was angered. Megatron was flatly terrified of her, despite the fact that her position in our society was that of a simple clerk for a warehouse, and he was High Lord Protector long before I became the last Prime."

"He was frightened of her?" She had a hard time envisioning Megatron being afraid of anything. _Terrifying is more like it, not terrified._

The smiled broadened in distant, and apparent fond, memory. "He could have hurt her with his bare hands, at any time, without need to resort to his weapons. Her words hurt him far worse than any wound he could inflict, and she wielded them as effective and disciplined weapons. If only he had allowed himself to listen to what she was saying rather than react with rage and anger ... she was right, but he was Megatron, and Megatron did not take advice from clerks, or from the two sons of a clerk. However good that advice it was."

And then the smile faded. "She is long dead, too. Mrs. Witwicky, I will tell you that the pain does not grow less with each loved one you lose. Each time hurts anew. Each time is a fresh wound. Each time, I regret, deeply. And far too often in this battle, which is for the very fate and future of the universe, our losses are necessary. I ask Sam to fight a battle against forces far more powerful than he, and know he may die. But he is one man. There are eight billion sons and daughters on this planet, Mrs. Witwicky. Sam's life is worth no more and no less than the rest. And in him lies greatness, both because of what he has been exposed to -- the Allspark, the Matrix, the Primes -- and quite simply because of who he is. I am firmly convinced that he was sent by the Primes themselves to aid us, and I do not believe fate is done with him."

"He is no Messiah." He was her eighteen year old son. Nothing more.

Again she saw that ghost of a smile. "Neither am I. Nor am I prophet, to tell the future. But your son was chosen, that much is clear."

She sighed and leaned back on the steps, bracing her hands behind her. "Optimus, my son could have died today, not because Megatron tried to kill him but because his best friend had a glitch."

"He could have." Optimus nodded. "Nobody is disputing that, least of all Bumblebee. And Bee could have been more careful."

"I trusted Bee. I _trusted _him."

"I still do." Optimus sighed. "There was a world once, a long way from here, and a long time ago. I had a friend on that world, a young woman from an organic race not that different from humans. Her name was Reyta, and I loved her like you would love a daughter. The other officers and I raised her ourselves, for all intents and purposes, as her mother was killed by our enemies and her father was a soldier often sent far away. She was with us from the time she was barely old enough to walk or feed herself. We _loved _her. And then she was very nearly killed in an accident."

"What happened?"

"A car crash. The driver was careless, indisputably so. He drove when he was tired and fell asleep on a long trip." He sighed. "The driver was her husband. I could have blamed him, Mrs. Witwicky. He made mistakes. He drove too far, too long. He did not take rests. He failed her, and by extension, all of those who loved her. But it was a _mistake_. A terrible mistake, but there was no malice in it."

Optimus sighed deeply. "And then I trusted him to drive her again. We," now there was a ghostly flash of a smile, "obviously could have provided rides for her. He would not have argued."

"He probably never made that mistake again, either," Judy said, then rubbed her forehead. Her head hurt almost as much as her heart.

"Bee loves your son, Judy. He will never make a careless mistake again." Optimus made a move as if to stand up.

"Wait, please." He paused at her words, and she continued, "Optimus, thank you."

"Hmm." He rose. "And thank you, Mrs. Witwicky, for being Sam's mother."


	38. Chapter 38

Author's notes: For a variety of reasons I don't do real person fic. Therefore, the actors and musicians mentioned in relation to the special event are fictional. Feel free to mentally replace them with your favorite Big Shots.

(And, err, I _hope _they're fictional. I've got a funny memory and have been known to try to invent people before, only to insert real names into a story. If I inadvertently used a real person's name let me know.)

* * *

"Yes, sir," his mom was saying on the phone when Sam awkwardly opened the front door with his left hand, "We'll have Mr. Van Knight's dressing room stocked with guacamole and chips from Nana's Taco's. In a cut glass bowl, with real silverware and linen napkins. Linen, not cotton. _Yes _I know this is important, sir ..."

Sam shot her a funny look. Guacamole?

She saw his glance and shrugged, but kept talking. "And strawberries. Organic. Right."

Sam padded past his mother to her fridge and mouthed, "We're out of milk. Can I have some?"

She waved at him, indicating 'go ahead.' He opened the fridge in her trailer and found half a carton of 2%. He really needed to go grocery shopping himself, but he'd just been far too busy. Mikaela had attempted to have groceries delivered to the base, and the grocery store, upon learning the destination was the Autobot compound, had flatly refused. None of their drivers would do it, they said, and they wouldn't ask. Too dangerous.

He had been very tempted call the store back and point out that if he went to pick the groceries up it would mean an Autobot parked in their lot. Mikaela had suggested just sending Wheelie and letting the store deal with it, but they had decided to refrain in the interest of interspecies relations. No sense in panicking people unnecessarily.

His mother continued, with a comment surprisingly congruent to his dark thoughts, "We can pay for a limo to take Mr. Van Knight and his band back to the airport, if you'd like, but if he would prefer we can also have some of the mechs drive them. We can even provide a big rig. No, not Optimus, but his brother, who turns into a Mack ..." His mother stopped talking, apparently in reaction to something the other party was saying.

Somewhat awkwardly, he retrieved a glass from the cabinet and tried to pour the milk left handed. His right arm was still strapped into a cast. Doc estimated one week of healing rather than six, meaning it would be off by the speech and party on Friday, but it was still a colossal nuisance. Sam was not at all surprised when he spilled the milk. His mother rolled her eyes and, without missing a beat from the conversation on the phone, took the carton from him, filled his cup, and pointed impatiently at the dish towel hanging on a hook on the wall. "Safe? Sure. Would Mr. Van Knight prefer a ride in a DeLorean alien engineer who will talk his ear off about ideas for improving human technology, or a Ferrari who will just talk his ear off?"

_Wheeljack or Bluestreak_, Sam mentally translated, amused, as he cleaned his mess up. _Too bad Bee's too busy with everything else to play chauffeur. He'd talk Mr. Van Knight's ear off about music. _It was Tuesday, his mother had worked about sixteen hours a day with the mechs since Friday, and she already had many of them figured out. Most of them seemed to like her, including a few real surprises in mechs that didn't like _anyone_. His father also seemed to be fitting in, which was more unexpected than his mother. However, his father's bluster and growl and macho attitude, not to mention his sarcastic sense of humor, was meshing well with a few of the more military-minded 'bots. He was getting along wonderfully with Sideswipe and Arcee, though he kept calling Arcee 'he'.

His mother added, "And given there's nine people you'll need one more ride -- Optimus said the twins would give lifts too, but I'm not sure which set he meant. Probably the Corvettes. I don't think he'd inflict the Terrible Two on people who don't know us -- I swear those two have the robot version of ADHD ... No! There's nothing wrong with them. They're good boys. They just drive everyone who knows them crazy! ... Anyway, assuming it's the Corvette twins, you should tell Mr. Van Knight to ride with the yellow one. He's funny."

Sam nearly choked on his milk. He glanced over at his mom. His mother's eyes were sparkling with barely restrained amusement. He wondered what the Knights, their chosen band, had done to piss his mother off beyond making some exacting dietary demands for their lead singer.

His mother's first meeting with Sunstreaker had been memorable and had involved outright profanity on Sunny's part. Fortunately, his mother was still more or less convinced that 'slagger' and 'glitch' and 'pit' were not true swear words, even if she could dish them out if sufficiently pissed. His mother had blithely ignored Sunny's cursing and general bad attitude for all of Saturday and part of Sunday, when the mech had been assigned to take them to visit with an assortment of caterers in LA.

He understood _why _Sunstreaker had been assigned to them: Sunny was fast enough to get to LA and back in just a few hours, if they broke a few traffic laws. His mother's sheer delight at the speeds they'd hit had been surprising to Sam, who was used to her nagging him to mind traffic laws, but maybe the magic words 'diplomatic immunity' and 'Optimus's approval' along with a _lot _of open road and an impossibly close deadline had something to do with that. He even understood why they'd picked Sunny over Sideswipe, who was just as fast. Sideswipe was working with a California National Guard high-muckety-muck on crowd control issues, and 'Sides could be trusted to remain more-or-less politically safe. It was probably best to keep Sunstreaker out of earshot of the high-muckety-mucks.

The fact that Sunstreaker had already been told that he would be spending the party exiled to guard duty specifically _because _Optimus Prime didn't trust him to mind his mouth had probably contributed to his bad temper. Sam had spent the ride on the edge of his seat, fingers of his good hand curled around his cell phone, debating on which mech to call first if Sunstreaker left them by the side of the road or worse. Magnus was his commanding officer, but he suspected Sideswipe was ultimately most effective at Sunny-wrangling. Sunny was far from completely cooperative with Sideswipe, but Siders generally knew what to say to calm him down. Bumblebee was a distant fourth choice, after Optimus. Sam trusted Bumblebee, but the Evil Twins didn't respect him nearly as much as they did Optimus.

Optimus didn't bother with tact or diplomacy when it came to Sunstreaker. He simply gave orders, expected that they be obeyed, and swiftly reacted with an appropriate punishment detail if Sunny tried to argue. He was matter of fact, straightforward, and startlingly blunt with Sunny, in a way that Sam had not seen Optimus behave towards any other mech. To some extent the other officers behaved in similar manners, but the contrast with Optimus's normal manner was simply astounding.

Sunstreaker hadn't left them stranded, though. His mom had spent most of the trip flattering Sunny shamelessly. By the end of the trip, Sunstreaker had been in a much better mood, and his mother had still been cheerfully enthusiastic. For the life of him, Sam couldn't tell if his mom was really that clueless or if she was being deliberately obtuse about the fact that even other Autobots were afraid of Sunstreaker.

And he still questioned Optimus's judgment in assigning them everloving _Sunstreaker _as a ride and bodyguard.

"Oh, yeah," his mom was saying, "sure, the mechs are safe. These guys, anyway. The Decepticons are pretty damn scary, _boy _could I tell you stories about them, but the Autobots are friendly. My son's best friend is one, and I've got one doing my laundry right now. For real, he's doing my laundry." And his mother laughed.

_For real?_ After finishing his milk he tip-toed down the tiny trailer's narrow hallway and peered into the laundry room at the end. Sure enough, Wheelie was folding a stack of his father's tighty whiteys.

"What are you looking at?" Wheelie growled at him.

Sam snickered. "Who did you piss off?"

"Nobody," Wheelie snapped, sounding offended. "I'm not in trouble. I don't _get _in trouble, if you haven't noticed. I've got enough problems with everyone thinking I'm a Decepticreep. They'd probably squish me the first time I actually did something wrong."

"Geeze, sorry, Wheelie. I was just teasing."

He huffed a human-sounding sigh from his fans. "Optimus just said to find something to do to help your mom. She said this needed to be done. So I'm doing it. Glad to be of help. Really."

"Man, if the Decepticons could see you now ..." Sam just couldn't resist teasing the mech. He reached, jokingly, for his cell phone and flipped it open.

"Oh, fuck you. Take a picture of this." Wheelie held up a familiar pair of boxers as a shield, ones with bumblebees on them that Mikaela had given him for a joke, effectively derailing Sam's plans to snap a shot. "I suspect these are yours."

Sam, very nearly mortally embarrassed, yanked the laundry room door shut and retreated back into the kitchen, where he discovered his mom was off the phone. She gave him a tired look and, perhaps reminded by the exchange she would have overheard between him and Wheelie in the small trailer, said, "You need to get you some clothes, Sam."

"Huh?" He had been planning on wearing his suit. He owned one. He'd last worn it to his grandfather's funeral, four years previously. Though, on reflection, it probably didn't fit.

She pressed her lips together. "You need a tux. And a haircut."

"Mom ...."

"Highlights, maybe. And some earrings, kiddo."

"How are we going to afford _trendy _clothes?" The idea of wearing earrings didn't bear mentioning. He'd pierced his ears when he was thirteen, his father had freaked, and his mother had ooh'd and aah'dd over them and said they made him look grown up. She seemed to _like _his earrings, and had made a few disappointed comments when he'd stopped wearing them. The holes were probably closed up. He wasn't sure. He had no inclination to find out. And what was wrong with his hair?

After a moment's thought he realized he had cut it a few weeks before he had started college. It was at least six weeks grown, and starting to cover his ears. Yeah, maybe he did need a haircut, but it wasn't _that _bad. Though he suspected that if he slowed down enough for his father to notice the growth, his father was going to hassle him. Maybe a hat would be in order for awhile. He could hear his father now, "You trying to look like a _girl_, boy? Want some makeup to go with those bangs? Maybe a little perfume? Your mom has a curling iron you could use ..."

Well, his father's snark aside, a squirt of gel would make it look passably okay. He was too busy to go to the barber! And highlights would mean his father would bitch at him until they grew out, and possibly beyond that point.

"Anyway. Trendy clothes. Optimus is giving you an advance on your salary -- and I must say, he's being rather generous, beyond anything I imagined -- and Mikaela's taking you to the mall tomorrow." His mother sounded firm. "She has good taste in clothing when she's not trying to show off her assets. Follow her advice."

"Salary?" Elita had vaguely mentioned he would be paid, but he hadn't asked how much. He had been far too busy. He'd spent all day yesterday dealing with guest list issues and both clothing and money was the last thing on his mind, though he vaguely remembered Mikaela fretting about the former a few times and wondering if the dress she'd worn to prom would work.

Guest list issues ... he felt his heart rate and throat constrict just thinking about it. He felt he was absolutely unqualified to deal with guest list issues, really, and suspected the hundred or so extra people who had somehow managed to wrangle tickets out of him were taking full advantage of that. Bee had snorted when he'd voiced that fear, and said that the ship's hold had room, so stop worrying, and to just notify the caterers. Then Bee had given him a list of fifteen more people to add to the total who had been approved by Optimus. At this rate, they were going to need a second Ark.

His mom had responsibility for the catering and the entertainment, vetting the former to make sure it was suitable as the 'bots really didn't have much of a clue about what constituted good human food. Sam honestly wasn't sure what his father was doing, but he had overheard him discussing the subject of bathrooms with Teletraan and Socket last night as he'd walked through the hold to the door. Socket had been grumbling volubly. Teletraan had been unruffled. His father had been firm that they couldn't have the fancy guests using porta-potties.

Bee was dealing with the press, who would not be allowed in to the party but would be given photos and videos, though his responsibilities were being shifted to Elita and Hound in preparation for his upgrade. Sideswipe and Ironhide were working on security and parking for the party, which was (justifiably) getting a lot less government aid than the speech on Friday. It was all coming together, somehow, in what seemed like an impossibly short amount of time.

In response to his baffled question about money, his mother blinked at him. "It should be in your bank account right away. I think he said five grand a week, which is unbelievable, but I guess they're getting some decent money from companies wanting interests."

He stared at her.

"Why do you think we were so willing to drop everything and sign on? Your father's talking about sticking our salary in a bank account and retiring at fifty-five." She pointed a finger at him. "_You_, young man, should save it up and go back to college when all of this blows over."

"I'm just answering e-mails ..." he said, dumbfounded. That much money made him feel guilty. That was twenty grand a month. It was so much money that he honestly didn't know what he'd do with it all. Slowly, he said, "I'm not doing anything special. And we don't have to pay for an apartment or anything."

His mother shrugged. "I'm getting the feeling that we're going to be earning the money. Elita just told me to plan on driving down with Ratchet and Doc to some medical conference in Memphis weekend after next. I don't know a damn thing about medicine, but I get to tag along to smooth over any issues with people who don't want to deal directly with Autobots. You know, the 'eek and run' factor. I'll be leaving LA on Wednesday and won't be back here until Tuesday. -- Oh, and you and Bee are supposed to attend some huge science fiction convention in a month."

"We are?" He stared at her, dumbfounded. "Optimus agreed to this?"

"Optimus contacted them. He's not a stupid man -- mech, whatever. Bee is officially their 'Alien Guest of Honor'."

"Nobody told me about this," Sam said, not sure how he felt about the whole idea.

"At five grand a week?" His mother smirked. "You'd better be willing to go."

"I suppose," he said, hesitantly, "Bet it's going to be a bunch of weird people, though."

His mother shrugged. "Five grand. Go, smile, sign a few autographs, give a few talks, have fun."

"... talks? Oh, no. No. _No._"

"It'll be easy. And hold still a second." She reached out for Sam's earlobe, probably to see if he still had a hole for earrings. "I'm thinking diamond studs, kid, for the party this weekend ..."

"Awk! Mom! No earrings!" He fled, his mom's laughter trailing after him as he ran out the door and down the steps. His timing was perfect, because Bee drove around the corner of the little trailer at that moment, and he fled into the safety of the driver's seat. "My mom is _scary_."

Bee said cheerfully, "She must be. Sunstreaker seems to like her."

"That is not reassuring. What if they team up together?"

"Primus, the universe would end." Bee played a couple notes of _Taps_. "So, how is she being scary this time?"

"Earrings. She wants me to wear earrings." He sighed. "And there's some sort of convention Optimus has signed us up for."

"You have pierced ears," Bumblebee observed, "and the convention will be a cakewalk. It will be fun, and Optimus is giving us that assignment as a bit of a break."

He decided he'd worry about the convention later. The earrings were a more immediate concern. "I was thirteen, okay? It was a rebellion thing. I wanted to piss off my dad. He thought they were girly. Unfortunately, my mom loved how it looked and actually got mad when I took them _out_." He scratched one ear reflexively, "My mom sometimes gets a bit enthusiastic about stuff like that. Has, since I was little. You should see some of the pictures of the costumes she dressed me up in when I was a toddler."

"I've seen them," Bee said, "you were, dare I say, cute ..."

He growled, "You've _seen _them?"

"Your mother e-mailed me a number of scans right after I met her. This upsets you?" Bee managed to sound far too innocent and puzzled. After six years on Earth, and two years as Sam's friend, he damn well knew enough about human culture and about Sam's personality to know that Sam would be very embarrassed for anyone to see pictures of him in a child's sailor suit. Sam was convinced beyond any shadow of a doubt that the Autobot was laughing inside with hilarious amusement at his reaction, even if his voice was completely controlled.

Sam shrank down in the seat. Between Wheelie and the laundry and this, his day was just not starting well. "Please tell me she didn't send you the one of me naked and covered in cake frosting, did she?"

"She made special emphasis of it. I believe she is quite fond of that baby picture."

He contemplated matricide. "Don't show Mikaela, 'kay?"

"It's far too late to stop that, I'm afraid." The Camaro was practically vibrating with closely suppressed laughter.

"Beeeeeee!" He covered his face with both hands.

"Mikaela's comment was that she had blackmail material now." Bumblebee paused, then abandoned all attempt at sounding blandly clueless and said, in a very mischievous tone, "Could you be convinced to wash and wax my armor tonight ...?"

"Bee!" He sighed, and tried to change the subject, "So what's up, anyway? You weren't going to come by until lunch time."

"Well, my armor _does _need to be polished before the event."

"Yeah, yeah, we'll get it. What's up _now_?"

Bee was silent, for a moment, one of those pauses that were full of meaning if you knew Autobots. In this case, however, he wasn't able to read that hesitation until Bee said, "I'm scheduled for the surgery in an hour. Hound's taking over my appointments until tomorrow evening. The last tests and scans of the protoform are all perfect. Ratchet says it's as clean as it can be. They're way ahead of schedule, but the three of them have designed modifications like this before, so I think they were just being conservative on the time estimates. It's not even really a prototype, except for some of the organic parts, and those are based on established Nebulan technology. The cellular structure is Nebulan, not human, so there wasn't even any extensive research needed into how to make it all work."

_Only an hour? _Sam thought, wildly, desperately. He had expected some warning and a chance to sit down with Bumblebee and have a chat or something. He was so scared Bee was doing this for the wrong reasons; that Bee was doing it because he wanted to be human. Bumblebee idolized human culture and it was obvious to him that Bumblebee was bitterly unhappy about the tragedy of their endless civil war.

"Bee, you don't have to do this," his response was instinctive. "Ratchet and Doc say that it would work with one of the others."

His car sighed, "Sam, I know you are not happy with this decision. I know it will make me more alien to you than I already am. But it is so very necessary. It is a tactically sound modification, and will give me many advantages on this world." Bee hesitated, then added, "It is also reversible. Do not forget that."

"Alien?" Bee had _nailed _one of his fears, and one he didn't even know he had. He had been thinking 'Bee will look human, he wants to be human' but the truth was that Bee was going to be split into two halves. That was not-human on levels he had a hard time even imagining. He took a deep, shaking breath, and admitted, "I think I can deal with that. It's like Arcee, right? I'm cool with Arcee."

"I don't want you to be simply cool with me," Bee said, quietly. "I wanted to make sure you knew that whatever my form, I will always be _me_, Sam. Autobots are so much like humans that it sometimes surprises even us, but we are also alien in ways that I believe humans have a hard time comprehending. Physical form really does not define who we are, Sam. Our memories, our processors, and our spark itself determines that. You are troubled by this change because you believe I will be different after the modifications. But I will not be changed, except for some processor core modifications that have deliberately been designed in such a way as to not alter my personality. I will still be me."

"There will just be two of you." He found he was more than a little upset by that. Bee had realized that before Sam had consciously become aware of that.

Sometimes, Bee had a nearly empathic ability to get inside Sam's head, though Bee swore that he did _not _actually have any forms of extrasensory perception. Sam had asked about E.S.P. once. "Not a mod I've ever had a chance to acquire," Bee had said, leaving Sam to wonder if there were telepathic Autobots out there. Bee had claimed the answer to Sam's question to that effect was classified. Sam still hadn't figured out if Bee was pulling his leg. He had jokingly asked Bee about the effectiveness of tin foil hats, and Bee had responded, "That's also classified, sorry."

Bee said, "Yes. And that may affect who I _become_ in the future, because of the experiences I will have as one spark in two bodies. However, life is always about change. Just as you are a far different person today than you were two years ago when we met, I may evolve a bit because of this. I will learn and grow, and that is not necessarily a bad thing." Bumblebee drove up the ramp and into the ship's hold, and he paused his conversation for a moment.

Sam suspected Bee was talking to Teletraan when he fell quiet; he had seen that break multiple times. He would be walking into the ship with a group of mechs who would be chattering away, and as they entered through the doors of the great ship there would be a moment of silence. He had teased Bee once about paying respect to the Ark by his silence, and Bee had snorted and explained that it was tradition to ask the ship's spark for permission to board.

He waited patiently for Bee to continue, and after a moment he did. "Sam, it's not been an easy few weeks, has it?"

"No." He echoed Bee's earlier sigh, and then ran his thumb over the Autobot symbol on Bee's steering wheel. Sometimes, he wondered about the symbolism of placing his emblem there. A steering wheel was used to guide a car; Bee was very much guided by his Autobot principles. "It hasn't."

"Not for any of us."

"If you're going to apologize again for what happened Friday, don't." He didn't want to relive it. He wanted to forget that Bee had hurt him as soon as possible. His arm, still in a sling, was reminder enough.

"I believe I already have said I was sorry," Bumblebee said. And he had, formally. Once. He'd carried Sam up to the observation deck and made a private, firm, uninterrupted, and very clearly heartfelt apology. And then he'd lifted Sam up to his shoulder and they'd just stood there for a long moment, watching a plane land. "I am not going to be redundant and annoy you with another one. Human memory is good enough to recall the first ..."

He snorted. "You're picking on me."

"Yes." Bee didn't sound like he was laughing, though. "Though that's an interesting difference between us. If you were another Autobot, and I'd apologized and meant it, and you seemed to be looking for another apology, my response would be, 'what, you didn't believe the first one'? But humans repeat themselves over and over. I am not sure if it has to do with human memory requiring repetition to reinforce knowledge, or if the offending party is simply seeking repeated confirmation that they are still liked."

"You're forgiven," Sam said, laughing. "You're forgiven, you're forgiven, you're forgiven. That enough warm fuzzies for you? Need more?"

"I, on the other hand, have a perfect memory." Bee chuckled. "If I want to recall your response to my apology, all I need to do is bring up that file."

His own voice played from Bee's speakers, _"You're fucking forgiven, man."  
_  
Bee's voice followed, _"Are we good?"  
_  
Sam heard himself say, _"Are we ever bad?"  
_  
Bee's recording of his own voice was tinny, probably deliberately so, _"Well, if you want to be bad, there's this prank I've been wanting to play on the Evil Twins ..."_

Sam had responded, _"We're good. And bad. Do we have time for the prank right now?"_

"At the moment, no, and Optimus would have my bolts for being irresponsible. I'd rather pull it off when he'll find it funny. This one will take a co-conspirator, so I'd need your help ..."

And that had been that. Bee said, now, however, "Sam, I am always humbled by your courage."

"Courage?" He blinked at the dash of the car, as Bee drove across the vast, empty, central hold and turned up the corridor that led to the med bay.

"When someone betrays your trust, even inadvertently, there is fear. It takes a great deal of courage to step past that, Sam." Bumblebee huffed a sigh. "And I sound like Optimus. He's infectious, I swear."

"I noticed that effect," Sam said. He rubbed at the metallic covering over the cast on his arm.

"How's your arm?" Bee asked, with concern.

"Itches." It occurred to him that Bee had brought him all the way to the med bay for reasons beyond just a chat, and asked, "Do you want me to stay, when they work -- operate -- on you?"

He remembered the last time Bee had been hurt, and how very, very glad he had been to see them. Sometimes he wondered why Bumblebee seemed to desire his, well, _comfort, _so very much when the mech was hurt or upset. Bee was friends with essentially the entire Autobot army. There wasn't a mech that Sam had found yet that didn't like him. So why had the Autobot picked him and Mikaela, out of everyone he knew, as 'best friends'? He was pretty sure that if Bee wanted to confide in someone, or get some emotional support, he could turn to any number of mechs.

Bumblebee didn't answer, at all. He stopped in front of the med bay door, but Sam stayed seated. That would effectively trap Bee in place, since there wasn't enough turning radius to fit through the doorway in his alt mode, and he couldn't transform with Sam inside him. "I just ..." Bee started to say something when he realized Sam wasn't going anywhere, then seemed to think better of it, and fell silent again.

"You're scared, aren't you?" Sam asked. "All that tough talk about not changing, but you're scared."

"Yeah."

"I'll stay and wait until they wake you back up," he offered.

"Thank you. However, it may be awhile. I would just like it if you're here when I wake." Bee sounded almost shy when he said that, surprising Sam. "Ratchet warned me that I may be disoriented, and that I will come back online with my comlinks and weapons systems disabled. That's standard operating procedure for anyone who may be mentally compromised. You would not believe how much chaos a mech screaming for help loud enough for the whole world to hear can cause ..."

Sam thought about that for a moment, remembered just how quickly Silverbolt had arrived at the pizzeria when Barricade and Soundwave had attacked, and contemplated the likelihood of a violent and sudden reaction like that if a mech in the med bay screamed about a hallucinated attack over the comlink. "I could guess."

"And multiply that chaos by a couple orders of magnitude." Bee's voice held amusement, though he didn't offer an explanation as to what, precisely, he was thinking about. Instead, in a more serious tone, he said, "Sam, I may very well need a friend I trust to help orient me. Ratchet suggested I ask you to be there. Not that I don't trust Ratchet, but he's busy trying to get Prowl online too."

"Want me to call Mikaela, too?" he offered.

"No," Bee didn't hesitate on that answer. "Optimus sent her into town with Hound to pick up some argon from a welding store, specifically because we are both concerned about her state of mind. I'd just as soon she not see me waking up, because it might be pretty bad. There are very good odds I'll wake up very disoriented. She's got enough to deal with. She'll be ticked, but better that than more stress for her."

"Good thinking," Sam said, running his finger over the Autobot symbol again. He wondered why Bee seemed to assume that _he _could deal with the fallout from Bee's procedure better than Mikaela. Sam was getting that nervous out-of-my-league feeling again, and it was _Mikaela _who was so interested in Autobot medicine. He said, hesitantly, about Mikaela, "She seems to be doing okay, though."

"We're keeping her busy, and deliberately so. My hopes are that by the time things slow down she'll have some temporal distance from all of the bad events." Bumblebee made a faint whining noise. "I'm worried about her, Sam. She's had too much happen too fast."

He rubbed his forehead. That was probably true, but he was just plain out of his depth. "I love her so much, Bee. I wish I could make everything better."

"Wouldn't it be nice if we could do that for the whole blasted universe?" Bee growled back at him. "Wave a wand. Galaxy all better."

"You okay?" Sam heard a strange note in Bee's voice.

"Hop out, I want to transform." Bee now just sounded a bit impatient.

"Oh. Yeah. Right." He opened the door and stood up next to Bee.

After Bee transformed, he crouched down and said quietly, "Sam. You can't make everything better. The world doesn't work that way. But you can make _some _things better."

"Yeah, I know, but ..."

Sam saw a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye and reacted with complete and total reflex. He flung his arm up and flinched, heart rate doubling, every muscle going rigid. Adrenalin hit his system like a punch. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as his mind froze in completely irrational terror.

Bee lowered his hand slowly. Sam, belatedly, realized that Bee had simply been reaching towards the floor, likely to rest his weight on his fist while he spoke to Sam. It was a little awkward for a mech as big as Bumblebee to crouch on his heels for long, and he often ended up with one knee and one hand resting on the ground.

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, embarrassed.

Bee ran a hand over his faceplate, a copied human gesture, and looked sharply away. "You will probably do that for a long time, Sam. It is my fault. Do not apologize."

He sounded so much like Optimus when he said those words that it felt wrong. Sam had no clue what to say. And when Bumblebee stood up and turned towards the med bay, and the doors whooshed open, Sam was still staring blankly at him. After a moment, he followed Bee into the room and deliberately stood a little closer to Bee than he normally would. He was, he told himself very firmly, _not afraid. _

* * *

Sunstreaker was not particularly pleased to be on human-guarding detail every morning for eight hours. He suspected it was a punishment for something, given he didn't like the little organics at all. Not. At. All. And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why a couple other mechs had offered to swap schedules with him for the job. Bluestreak had even offered to trade a city scouting patrol with Sunstreaker for this shift.

Deeply suspicious about why Blue would offer to give up such a desirable assignment, he'd declined. Something must be up. Maybe they were expecting trouble. He could do with a spot of fighting. It also made his commanding officers happy when he did a good job at it, and they had been grumpy lately.

"Hey, Sunshine-sweetie," a cheerful voice said as the front door of the crappy little trailer opened, "We need to go run an errand. Hot Rod's coming with us."

Hot Rod had said nothing to Sunstreaker, who was taken by surprise by the announcement. Nobody ever bothered to fill him in on anything, they just gave him orders. He was in alt mode and snapped his peripheral optics towards the voice, even though he knew who it was. Judy Witwicky. Sam's creator and mentor. She was important on an emotional level to the humans. Not on a tactical level, however, so he was puzzled why Optimus had assigned him -- the team's absolute best fighter (and he was convinced he was the best) -- to guard one little human. Still, orders were orders and these orders were clear: guard her, and transport her wherever she might want to go.

"You know, I do love your color." She sounded irrepressibly cheerful. That made Sunny wary. What was she so happy about? Sometimes, people laughed at his expense. Some people _liked _it when bad things happened to Sunstreaker. He had learned to be cautious of people in good moods because of that.

"You're in a good mood, why?" he said, tentatively. He expected her to snicker at him and tell him he must hate ferrying humans around, and to gloat about it. He sank down on his shocks in expectation. He was not allowed to do anything bad to the humans in retaliation. That was also part of his orders.

Optimus had been very specific that this rule of 'nothing bad at all' included pranks, though Sideswipe was the better one at figuring out practical jokes. Sunstreaker just couldn't seem to see the opportunities to pull off the best jokes that 'Sides did, and even when he tried his hardest, people always got mad at Sunny rather than laughing like they did at Side's tricks. They said his were 'mean' and 'cruel'. Sideswipe, by contrast, generally made people laugh. Sunstreaker figured this difference was simply because most people hated and feared him, so they didn't like his jokes either. It wasn't fair, and he didn't understand why they liked Sides so much more than the ydid him.

Sideswipe said that was okay, that _Sideswipe _loved him. And it was true. Sideswipe did. He knew that Sideswipe loved him with a certainty that went to the very core of his being.

"It's a lovely day," the human said, answering his question with a giggle, "and I'm riding in a really hot Corvette that turns into an absolutely awesome robot to go to the airport to pick up a reporter. I have a picture. He's adorable. Optimus wanted me to take Bluestreak, but I said you'd do fine. You'll be good, right?"

"I'll be good," he said, grudgingly.

"And he's sooooo cute. You'd better be good! He's some sort of reporter for a big car magazine."

"You've got a partner," Sunstreaker said, puzzled by her behavior. "Are you two looking for a third?"

The woman laughed. "You guys are so alien sometimes. _No_."

He wondered if that was an insult. Alien could mean literally 'from another world' or it could be used as an insult. In this case he thought she meant 'different' but even after running her words through his English to Cybertronian language module twice he didn't know if she was putting him down or not. It was much harder to convert English into Cybertronian than vice versa, slagging imprecise language that it was. Her voice tone was amused, but that meant nothing. People could use different voice tones than they really meant. He had learned not to trust the emotions someone presented on the surface a long, long time ago.

"Then why would you care about him?" Sunstreaker said, grumpily. "And why can't they just land here?"

"Because he's cute. I'm allowed to look, as long as I don't touch." She giggled.

Sunstreaker thought sourly, _Alien, right back at you, woman. _The thought of being attracted to anyone but a chosen partner based on looks alone was strange to Sunstreaker. Attraction was based on a hell of a lot more than physical appearance. _Sideswipe has known me since our first conscious thoughts. He knows all my faults, all my failings, all my weaknesses, and he loves me completely for who I am. Moreover, he is someone I can count on utterly. I trust him completely, and can rely on him. He has strengths I do not, and I would be lost without him._

That, at least, Sunstreaker knew to the very core of his being, with utter and absolute certainty. It was impossible to lie when you dropped your firewalls and interfaced with another mech. And Sunny's experiences, throughout his life, had taught him just how far he could trust Sideswipe. That was very far indeed.

Mrs. Witwicky added, "And he's on a commercial flight, sweetie."

"So? It should just make a stop here."

"It doesn't work that way," she said, with a laugh. "The plane's on a schedule and it must be followed."

"Well, we're more important than a schedule." He growled, frustrated. Why should he have to go driving to Vegas (and his calculations suggested that would take over two hours) when Autobots were so short on time?

"Got a hot date with Sideswipe?" she said, in a teasing tone of voice.

"No. He's busy." Reluctantly, he started his engine and drove towards the closest base exit. As they rounded the corner of the hangar, however, they came across two mechs.

Hound he knew; Hound was on the long list of mechs that Sunstreaker had no real personal grudge against, but who he viewed with wary suspicion simply because he didn't understand them. Hound was too quiet, and Sunstreaker never could figure out what was going on in his processor. The other was one of the newcomers, one of the civilians from the ship. However, she'd sworn allegiance to the Autobots, so maybe she shouldn't be considered a _civilian _anymore, even though she was utterly untested in battle. The newcomer was a botanist by occupation, and he had absolutely no clue how 'botany' would be useful to Optimus.

_At least 'former pit fighter' meant that Prowl was pretty sure I knew which end of a force-sword to hold when I started._

What was her designation? He'd heard it once, and had to dig through his memories to find it, as he had not saved it as important data. _Flora_, that was it. _Primus. Dumb name. No Deceptiscum will ever take _that _name seriously._

Hound was leaning against the hangar wall. As they drove past, Flora stepped into Hound's space in a manner that no Autobot could mistake. They weren't touching, but they were standing only inches apart. Pretty much only partners (or mentors with younglings) got that physically close to one another. That behavior was unmistakable.

_Hnnh. Well, well, well._

Sunstreaker pinged his brother. _:Hey! Sides! Look what I saw!:_

He transmitted video to Sideswipe, who reacted with a chuckle. _:Hey, I win a bet with Jolt. I bet him a patrol duty shift that somebody from our team would pair off with one of the newcomers in under a week.:_

Pairings always seemed to happen whenever two groups of mechs merged, though it had been a very long time since they'd met true strangers to test that theory. Sideswipe claimed it was the novelty of new faces, combined with a real awareness that they were the last of their kind and there was a limit to how choosy you could be when the pool of available partners was that limited. That _these _newcomers were not only unknown to the Autobots, but (formerly) civilians seemed to be an added draw. Sunstreaker wasn't sure why that was. _:Meh. She's got a stupid name.:_

:Who, Flora? I guess. She's got some potential as a scout, though. Hound was training her. Looks like he scouted out a few more things than Decepticons. And Sunny, I've got to go. Busy here.:

:Yeah, yeah. See you tonight, 'Siders.:

* * *

Ratchet had set up an office in a garage-sized room just up the hall from the med bay. It was there that Sam waited, curled up in a corner with his laptop, scanning e-mails. Two stars and a politician canceled; he made note of that on the guest list spreadsheet. Optimus sent him an e-mail requesting he add a teenage girl to the list; apparently the kid was dying of cancer and a charity had contacted Optimus to ask for tickets for her and her father. He granted those requests, and gladly. _She's seventeen. God. One year younger than I am, and she only has months to live._

Doc had let drop somewhere along the line that Autobot (or Nebulan, and he got the feeling the two cultures had intermingled a lot of science) medical technology could easily be used to extend human life by centuries, if not millennia. Sam had absolutely no problem with the idea of celebrating his tenth centennial someday.

_Wonder if I'll ever meet a Nebulan_? He thought, thinking of the pictures he'd seen of Windy's late partner. _Bee says they routinely turned themselves into cyborgs. His new protoform is basically a cyborg in reverse; it's an Autobot brain in a mostly organic body. So the technology was readily adaptable. Though I would love to know how they grew the organic parts that fast. They all say it's 'classified', darn it._

He didn't mind that the Autobots kept secrets. They had their reasons, and those reasons were good. Still, he was a bit curious about _why _whatever it was that caused rapid cellular growth was a big stinking secret.

While he was mulling over Autobot mysteries, Kup sent a mass e-mail to everyone involved in planning the party, asking if it would be possible to tell a story to the guests. By the time that Sam noticed the e-mail, Optimus had already replied with a question about the plot, voicing concerns that Kup clear content with him because some things were sensitive information. He pictured Kup trying to sit down and spin a tale of some sort to watching stars and politicians, and rolled his eyes. Well, hopefully Optimus would put a stop to that in a hurry. It had a high potential to be very corny.

Idly, he surfed the internet. He was trying to distract himself from the fact that his best friend was in surgery, getting modifications that would change him in ways that were utterly alien. Despite Bee's assurances that he would remain fundamentally the same mech, Sam just wasn't convinced.

He was not one to pay much attention to the news, but, out of curiosity about what the world was saying about the event, he checked out a few prominent news websites. Little to his surprise, the Autobots were the number one news story on every site he visited. There were articles about them on every subject possibly imaginable, from personal profiles of the 'bots (and 'cons) to in depth analysis of the various fights. He was shocked by just how much news there was. The party itself was highly controversial, with the Nobot group leading a call for boycotts of any star or industry leader who attended. This, Sam observed, did not seem to be discouraging attendance much.

And as far as the comments on the articles went, reader reactions ranged from outright paranoid to so stupid that he felt his own brain cells dying, as Leo would put it, in reaction to 'Teh Poisonously Dumb.' Quite a few people seemed to think that the Autobots were a government conspiracy, a sign of the End of Times, the advance forces of a vast conquering army of alien invaders, or possibly a mutant hybrid of all three theories.

Sam could understand the last concern, and the first was actually _true _in that the government had kept them secret for over a century (if one counted Megatron). But End of Times?

Well, to be fair, the Fallen had sure tried hard to end the world. But the dumbasses commenting were confusing 'Autobots' with 'Decepticons' and mixing in human religion and it pissed him off. _Wonder what they'd make of me, _he thought a bit acidly, _if they knew I'd come back from the dead, literally. _

Fortunately for his temper, he was distracted from the news by an e-mail that popped up in his inbox. It was a suggestion from Manywinds that Kup set up a walk-through story.

Kup replied with a tentative suggestion that he could create a story (and Sam was thinking, 'something like an exhibit?') covering a condensed version of Cybertron's creation. Sam hastily replied, "No religion, guys. Let's not give the fundies any more fuel ..." and sent them two or three links to the news articles he was reading, where some of the commenters were going off the deep end.

Gah. No. No Autobot creation myths. What he'd learned of Cybertron's early history was strikingly religious in nature, with battling supernatural forces and Cybertron itself created by the good brother of a Dark God to wage eternal battle against the forces of evil. _And the Autobots got that memo, but I think the Decepticons need a refresher course on their own history._

He picked through the news websites a bit more, cringing as he read about plans to stage a counter-protest in LA in response to Optimus's speech. Hopefully, the protestors wouldn't have time to mass any really large numbers. There was a certain element to the Nobot movement that viewed themselves as heroic defenders of Earth against the evil Autobot invaders.  
As they seemed to be neither rational nor particularly good at critical thinking, they could be trouble. He rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache blooming.

He was finding more disturbing news. A certain nutty US governor, plus several prominent conservative senators, were trying to lay the blame for the 'illegal alien robots' on the current president. They were suggesting a conspiracy to hide their presence from the public and demanding the 'truth_._' That group was going so far as to scream about impeachment, and he sent an e-mail to Optimus on that matter, "You see this, boss?"

It was, he thought, pretty damn cool to be able to legitimately call Optimus Prime 'boss'. He was officially Optimus's employee. _A month ago, I'd have reacted with horror, _he realized. Just when, precisely, had their war become his fight too? Had it been when Optimus had laid down his life to defend Sam, or had it been when the Ghosts of Primes Past had paid him a visit in the afterlife? Or had it been the quiet realization that the Autobots were his friends, and they were worth fighting both for and with?

Optimus's reply to his concerned e-mail was prompt. "That political faction lacks the support to be anything more than an aggravating nuisance. Worry more about the protesters, Sam. We _must _win the battle for public approval. It will not help our cause if the Nobot movement causes riots in Los Angeles."

He started to respond that riots would not be Optimus's fault, but reconsidered the idea after typing half a sentence. If not for the presence of the Autobots, there would be no riots. Additionally, public perception would place the blame for any mob violence squarely on the heads of the mechs. Unfair, perhaps, but it was the simple truth. _Bee must be rubbing off on me_, he thought, when he responded with a question, "What do we do if it looks like there will be violent protests?"

It took Optimus longer to respond. Finally, he came back with, "The security is being planned by the same group of very skilled humans who ran the recent presidential inauguration in Washington, DC. They are very good at what they do. We cannot guarantee that the entire day will be without trouble, however, we do not anticipate that there will be any significant issues. As Bee would say, they are 'on top of' matters. However, I have made it abundantly clear to the government officials who I am working with that I will _not _go forward with the speech if it clearly endangers the safety of the public."

Sam sighed, and wondered what Optimus's tipping point would be. They had put so much work into Friday's events. It would be heartbreaking to need to cancel.

Another e-mail popped up, this one from Windy. Windy said, "Kup, rather than scandalize the religiously minded humans with a glimpse of someone else's beliefs, why not tell my story?"

Optimus came back with, "Your story, Manywinds? I may be missing a reference."

Manywinds' response was a bit confusing, leaving Sam frowning at the screen. He suspected he was missing some context. "Prime, sir, you must not have seen my medical files yet. To be very blunt, I am a reformat. My original designation was ..." a string of Cybertronian glyphs followed, before Windy reverted back to English, "... which I am translating into English as Seeker Starknight."

Optimus took a moment to reply. His response was simple, "Vector Prime, my predecessor, knew Starknight. His memories of Starknight were fond. I am very deeply sorry to be reminded of his fate. Perhaps I should have made the connection, in truth, once I heard your t'Grethi's name, Manywinds, but Grethi is rather common. And Windy, I believe I see the angle you are suggesting to Kup, but do you wish your Autobot team members to know of your past?"

Windy promptly responded, "The Ark's crew already knows. It's not a secret that could be kept, and since anyone who would have known Starknight is dead, it is probably a moot point anyway. Kup, the angle I'm suggesting is simple: tell the love story, because, hey, it's romantic and all. Humans love that sort of stuff. However, wrap it in the bigger background of Cybertron's relationship with Nebulos. Surely, humans will see the parallels between Earth and Nebulos. Both sides benefited so much from that alliance, and when the Ark was lost, we had been friends for ten thousand years."

Optimus's response was very firm. "Find another story, Kup. I'll explain why later." Several Cybertronian glyphs followed; Sam recognized the ones for 'classified' and 'war'.

_Hmm. More things Autobots don't talk to humans about_, Sam thought, with a mix of curiosity and aggravation. _Given the amount of trouble knowing Cybertronian secrets has caused me in the past, it may be best that I don't know. Still, I wonder what's so awful that they're hiding?_

The Autobots got a bit funny any time the subject of Nebulos came up. They frequently made allusions to Nebulan technology, but Sam had only asked Bee once if he had any Nebulan friends. Bee had said quietly, "They died at Decepticon hands, and I'd rather not talk about it any more."

Bee's tone had been strange, and his eyes had gone distant. His doorwings had pinned completely flat to his back, which generally indicated either fury or frank fear. It was either an offensive or defensive posture, depending on the context. Sam had no idea which emotion Bee was feeling, and he hadn't dared to ask.

He had asked Ratchet if there was ever a chance that he might meet Nebulans. Ratchet, too, had gotten that funny look on his features. "If there are ever Nebulans on Earth, it will be by Primus's own grace, Sam."

Pretty much, he was concluding something bad had happened on Nebulos. His working theory was that the Decepticons had attacked the world and the Autobots had not been able to defend it, and that the Autobots didn't want humans to know they'd failed. That would fit with the fact they'd classified everything to do with Nebulan history, and with Bee's obvious emotional upset when he'd asked him about Nebulan friends. It must have been a hell of a fight, Sam thought, and he suspected a lot of people had died.

That realization was chilling. There were only forty-one Autobots on Earth. If the Decepticons ever decided to seriously attack, in large numbers, could the Autobots even defend them? And a small voice that Sam was resolutely trying to ignore asked, _What if they attack Earth _because _of the Autobots. _It was disloyal to his friends to even think such things, but he couldn't completely dismiss that worry.

On the other hand, if not for the Autobots, Earth _would _be a dead world now. So, on the whole, he was glad they were here.

At that moment, a gmail chat window popped up from Ratchet. "Sam, good, you're online. We're about to wake Bee up."


	39. Chapter 39

Author's notes:

Thanks again to KittenCeez for beta'ing. The mistakes are all mine. The reason there's fewer mistakes is her.

* * *

The med bay was quiet when Sam stepped through the enormous doorway.

His mother had observed, "Now I know what Mojo's point of view is," the first time she had seen the ship. It was apt. Proportionately, humans were equivalent to house pets in size compared to Autobots. There was easily thirty feet of clearance above his head when he walked through the sliding door, and the ceiling was higher than that. The beds in the med bay were waist height to Ratchet, which put them well above his head. There were cabinets the size of tractor trailers with drawers the size of twin size mattresses, monitors as large as swimming pools, and counters that he would have needed a stepladder to reach. The main med bay surgery, which was the room he'd entered, was easily the size of a basketball court. That was cramped from Ratchet's point of view, but rather large by Sam's standards.

Bee wasn't anywhere in the room, however, Wheeljack greeted him with a friendly, "Hey, kid. They're closing him up in the clean room. Here ..." Wheeljack crouched and held a hand out for Sam.

Sam gave Wheeljack an uncertain look, then decided 'Jack was probably on the short list of Autobots he'd trust to pick him up, and sat down on Wheeljack's palm. 'Jack lifted him up so he could see through a window into the next room.

Bee was shrouded in white fabric, and the cloth was actually tucked into an opening into his chest. Ratchet wore an outfit that reminded Sam of nothing so much as the garb a beekeeper wore, and Doc -- kneeling on Bee's shoulder at the moment -- was similarly dressed. Wheeljack explained, "When you open the cores, you've got to be _clean_, see? Even a little speck of dust a couple microns across can short out a circuit. That can cause arc-out, which is something like a stroke, if it's in a bad spot. The circuits in there are wicked sensitive. If anything, Autobot medics have got to be cleaner than humans doctors are when they do surgery on the cores."

"How long until they're done?" Sam asked, just as Ratchet pulled the fabric out of the hole in Bee's chest.

"He just needs to close everything up." Wheeljack's palm was rock solid and steady, and Sam found himself quickly relaxing despite the ten feet or so of empty space between 'Jacks' hand and the metal decking far below. It was probably a good thing that he had never been particularly afraid of heights. "Sam, Ratchet and I have a question for you: Do you know that Bee has listed you and Mikaela as his next of kin?"

"Huh?" Sam twisted around to look up at 'Jack. "Err, no. He never mentioned it."

"Mmm. He has simply listed whoever his commanding officer is for as long as he's been an Autobot. The other Autobot officers are effectively the closest friends he has left alive. However, he modified his files to show you and Mikaela this morning."

"Umm. What does that mean?" Sam asked, stunned.

"Essentially, the same thing as a human next-of-kin. In fact, I'm using the human term because the Cybertronian word doesn't properly translate, but the meaning is very close if not the literal word usage. If he had any property or credits, you'd inherit it." Wheeljack frowned. "We used to get paid a salary, you know. I'm not sure what I'd buy with credits if I had 'em now, so that's irrelevant. It's not like we've got a functioning economy left. As far as property goes, none of us have much. What it _does _mean, though, is that he's set you two up to make decisions for him if he's ever unable to speak for himself."

"If he gets hurt, you mean?"

"Mm." Wheeljack nodded. "Ratchet said to tell you to talk to him about it, so you _know _what he wants. If you were other Autobots you'd see the update in your personnel files, but I doubt he overlooked the fact you don't get those notifications yet."

_Oh god ... _The mere thought of making those sorts of decisions made him sick to his stomach. He didn't want that responsibility. "Idiot could have asked first."

"We figured he had not said anything to you." Wheeljack sighed. "Bee's private like that, sometimes. He'll probably be a little irritated that we alerted you, but it's information you need to know."

"Yeah, thanks. I'll bring it up." Sam watched as Ratchet tore the fabric away from Bee's protoform. A second table had a blanket-wrapped bundle that Sam assumed was Bee's new, err, modification. He realized there were tubes coming out of the blankets, and they appeared to be hooked up to IV drips. "Umm, Wheeljack, just _how _organic is the new protoform?"

Wheeljack chuckled. "As I believe we've told you, it's based on Nebulan tissue cultures, because we completely understand the chemistry there. It has skin and organic muscle tissue, and the organs necessary to support that. Digestive, respiratory, glandular, and so forth. Secondary to that, it also has an energon fueled power plant and duryllium struts for the inorganic bits. He'll have about a seventy year supply of energon in his tanks; his system's pretty efficient but it's a small tank. He's not designed to operate independent of an Autobot base of operations anyway, so the energon needs shouldn't be a problem. His spark is in the chest, memory core in the pelvic girdle, and processor core in the cranium. We had to separate them due to space and size considerations, and the need to provide armor. His pelvis and ribs and skull are reinforced duryllium and titanium for protective purpose ..."

"Wait, wait, back up. Digestive? Respiratory?"

Wheeljack nodded absently. "I've always wondered what food tastes like. He'll have to send me a sensory file or two to share the experience. And stop gaping like that, Sam. This is not new technology, Sam, but it is rarely done."

"Why so rare?" Sam said, even as he struggling to even comprehend that.

"He's goin to be so damn _vulnerable_," Wheeljack growled. "Though, I would note, less fragile than you. If he kacks his organic bits, somebody carries him back here and we grow him more. Humans don't have that option. -- Given the mod, the 'somebody' carrying him back may well be himself, though he'd potentially be in enough pain to go offline depending on specifically what he did. Doc hooked an organic-based nervous system into his processor core, so he'll feel both pleasure and pain like an organic creature would, based on environmental sensory input. We were very thoroughly realistic. It was a bit of a contest between us, actually, to see how true to organic life we could get. The three of us haven't done a project like this together in a few millenia, and we started showing off, y'know?"

Sam glanced up at 'Jack, who mused, "You know that we're on a roll creating something when we start getting competitive with each other ..."

Ratchet was fiddling with the tubes, disconnecting some and rearranging others. Finally, he scooped the entire bundle of blankets and protoform up in one arm, picked a small mechanical device up with his other hand, and headed for the door. Doc hopped off the table behind them, neatly dropping a good ten feet to the ground and and landing on his feet, then following on Ratchet's heels.

"Moment of truth," Doc said, cheerfully, when they'd exited the clean room via an airlock arrangement.

Ratchet grumbled something that Sam didn't quite catch. He set the blanket-wrapped protoform down on the same cot that Sam had used a few days earlier, and the device next to it. Belatedly, Sam recognized the protoform was hooked to a ventilator, and he shot a questioning look at Wheeljack. 'Jack saw the expression on Sam's face and explained, "His diaphragm's mechanical. Cybertronian bits are entirely offline. Once he's booted up, the autonomic functions will install themselves and operate in a background mode. He won't stop breathing unless his processor core is totally fragged. At that point, he'll have bigger worries than oxygen exchange."

Sam noted, "So he's going to be sensitive to toxins and stuff?"

"Like I said, vulnerable. Though he may find this to his advantage: he's going to be highly resistant to the effects of both stimulants and depressants, since they won't affect his cores. If he needs to, he could drink anyone under the table." Wheeljack chuckled.

"Aw, _that _takes the fun out of partying!" Sam laughed.

"You're too young to be drinking anyway, so what do you know about that?" Wheeljack shot back.

"What do _you _know about that?" Sam retorted.

"Cybertronians have our own ways of getting intoxicated. None of which, unfortunately," Wheeljack sighed dramatically, "exist on this world. And Ratchet refuses to help me correct that deficit."

Ratchet shot 'Jack a significant look. "I'm too busy to deal with the fallout of drunk twins. And I'm honestly not sure which set is scarier from my standpoint, though I'd note that Sunny's a better patient than Skids and Mudflap."

Wheeljack snickered. "Yeah, but when Sunstreaker gets drunk, the damage tends to be to everyone else."

"Mirage really was stupid that one time," Ratchet agreed, chuckling.

"You guys are shitting me, aren't you?" Sam said, skeptically.

Wheeljack set Sam down, as Ratchet sighed. Ratchet explained, "Sam, given what we do for a living these days, it was almost inevitable that we discovered a way to simulate the effect of alcohol on organic nervous systems. I don't always condone it, but I've also _done _it. We're at war. Slag happens. And some ways to forget, just for a bit, that slag happened are much safer than others, which is why I generally get involved when this miscreant," he pointed at Wheeljack, "starts tinkering in his lab. And why Optimus almost always looks the other way."

"Right." Sam said, uncertainly. He walked up to the tiny, blanket-wrapped protoform that would shortly be Bee's other half (and that was an incredibly disturbing thought, any way he looked at it) and watched as Doc fiddled with the equipment. "So you're going to ... boot ... this half first?"

Ratchet snorted. "It's entirely possible he's going to come up fighting. If he does, I'd rather have _that _half take a swing at me than sixteen feet of terrified mech."

Wheeljack grinned. "Aw, c'mon, Ratch. You know you could take him down if you had to."

With dignity, Ratchet said, "Yes, but then I'd have to fill out the reports. I'm too busy for administrative crap."

Doc pulled a slim arm out of the blankets, revealing pale skin and the plates of metal armor that Mikaela had suggested. "Here, Sam, you should see this in case you ever need to help him, if he's hurt."

Sam peered over Doc's shoulder. "Help him?"

"The other arm has a weapons mount, should he need it. This one has a number of ports for data, both earth systems compatible and Cybertronian. The catches are here ..." Doc demonstrated, pressing down on the skin on either side of the metal plate. There was a sharp click and the armor popped open, revealing that it was hermetically sealed, with a rubber flange. There were a few dozen different input jacks nestled together. "... his port for energon is on his back, and that opens the same way. You can feel the catches under the skin."

"What happens if he runs out of energon?" Sam wished Mikaela were here, because she would probably have better questions than that. He also had fairly significant misgivings about Bee's decision to exclude Mikaela from this, and suspected 'Kaela was going to be _very _angry at Bee and him. However, he wasn't going to argue about something this personal for Bee.

Doc pointed out a standard 115 volt outlet in among the other jacks. "He can run on battery power for a few days at a time, and recharge from the grid. It's not a disaster. If he runs out of power completely, his processors obviously shut down, and his autonomic functions fail. His organic bits would then die. _He _wouldn't die, he'd just go into stasis lock. And a power cord from any PC will fit that jack, if he needs to charge himself that way."

Ratchet added, "If he can't get energon, he's got bigger problems than charging his batteries, though. You can't run a mech the size of a Camaro off battery power for very long. Also, if one half goes into stasis lock, the other half is gonna be in a lot of pain. We've found with Arcee, as you saw in Egypt, that she will not actually offline but I can guarantee she's not firing on all cylinders if she's got one or more of her alt modes out of commission. When she lost her fourth protoform, however, she crashed hard and we had a pit of a time getting her to boot again. Keep that in mind."

"Are we ready to do this?" Doc said, as he hooked a datapad into a port, then handed it up to Ratchet.

"Might as well."

Doc pulled the blankets back from Bee's face and upper chest, revealing a lanky form. Bee's new protoform looked strikingly human, Sam thought, with long and very blond hair caught back in a knot at the base of his neck (likely to keep it out of the way of the medics, as the style was girly) and surprisingly few muscles. He'd expected his form to be a hulking bodybuilder type, but he was not. He was slim, lean, with the body of a gymnast rather than Hulk Hogan. Fit, but not a testosterone-riddled hulk. The holo-emitter image had seemed bigger.

"Get ready," Ratchet said, though for what, Sam wasn't sure. Ratchet pushed a couple of buttons on the datapad, however, the protoform jerked abruptly, and the ventilator made a beeping noise.

Eyes of an inhuman blue, vivid and rich, snapped open. Bee flopped his arms, looked wildly around, and then frantically reached for the tube down his throat while at the same time kicking his legs under the blanket.

"Easy," Ratchet said, "Bee, _easy_."

He groaned, and thrashed, and then got a grip on the tube. Doc latched onto Bee's wrist in an attempt to stop him from pulling it out and his panic clearly went up a notch. Ratchet had mentioned that Bee might try to hit them; instead, he leveled a weapons-less wrist at Doc's head and, had he been armed, probably would have fired. His eyes were enormous and full of panic. When he discovered he was missing a pulse cannon or two he tried to scramble away instead, and Doc pinned him down.

Ratchet said, in a voice that held far more command than Sam was used to hearing, "Bee! Access your memories of the last day! Do it! That is an _order_, soldier!"

Bee suddenly arched his back and went rigid all over, then limp.

"Hnh. Terminal error." Ratchet frowned at the datapad.

"Is that bad?" Sam asked, voice a bare whisper.

"Cybertronian version of the blue screen of death," Wheeljack said, sounding rather casual. "Not unexpected. Ratch, was it a hardware or software glitch?"

"Hardware, but I can code around it. Nothing major. Just the usual bad circuits you find in any new processor core." Ratchet added, obviously for Sam's benefit, "As complex as our processors are, and because the tolerances are measured by the molecule, it's inevitable that there are a few glitches. Hold on a sec ..."

The second time Bee came online it was slower. He lay still, motionless, eyes staring straight up. Then he flinched once and crashed.

"_Pit_." Ratchet added a few choice epithets in his native language.

"Is he going to be okay?" Sam was antsy with worry, wanting to pace almost as much as he wanted to stick to Bee's side.

Doc said easily, "Yeah, he'll be fine. Ratch had to reboot Arcee fourteen times before it stuck after her mod."

Ratchet poked at his datapad a few times. "Sam, his processor has been reconfigured and he's having trouble initializing the first time. There's a ton of errors in his core programming now, and that's inevitable; there are too many variables for us to account for everything. I'm fixing the critical ones as I find them, however, and once he _does _get online and stable I will have him do a medical recharge overnight and his own systems will find and correct the rest. Let's try this one more time, shall we?"

"C'mon, Bee ..." Sam whispered, as Bee twitched and then opened his eyes for a third time. "Bee, you can do this ..."

When he woke this time, Bee froze and lay still and very rigid, eyes darting about first from Ratchet to Doc to Sam. When he saw Sam, however, he relaxed marginally, and lifted a hand in a jerky motion towards him. He moaned. Sam reflexively caught his hand. His fingers were cool, but felt alive.

"Heh. Figured he'd react that way," Ratchet said, sounding completely unsurprised. "Sam, I want you to take a note about what you just saw. He's not really coherent yet, and he's not going to remember this, but we've known Bee for most of his life. And he's reaching for _you_."

"I don't understand ..."

Ratchet sighed, "Personally? I don't get it either. But ... whoops!"

Bee had crashed again.

"Software, this time," Ratchet said, making another change.

Then Bee came up fighting, and threw a punch at Sam. He froze with his fist inches from Sam's startled eyes. Sam flinched, a bit late, then met Bee's gaze. Bee unclenched his fingers and instead touched Sam's face in recognition. Sam caught that hand and said quietly, "You stopped yourself. Don't feel guilty over this one."

"He stable this time?" Wheeljack asked, when Bee remained frozen in place but clearly awake for a few moments.

"I think so," Ratchet passed the datapad down to Doc for confirmation.

Doc nodded agreement. "Bee, I'm going to pull the tube out of your throat. It's going to hurt a bit. Are you ready?"

Bee gave him a shaky, wobbly thumb's up.

When that was accomplished (and Sam covered his eyes) Bee swallowed a couple of times, conspicuously and rather awkwardly, then said in a thick, husky, slurred voice, "Whheerrrre amm I?"

"Med bay on the Ark," Ratchet said, briskly.

"Weiiirrrrrrd looookkkkinnng."

"Angles are all wrong, probably," Wheeljack speculated. "Different type of optics, too, and they're closer together than he's used to. Bee, run a diagnostic on your optic sensors after feeding the schematics for your new protoform through your processor."

Bee closed his eyes for a moment, then reopened then and said, "Betterrrrrrr. Recogniiiizzzzze (cough!) you nowwwww 'Jackckckc."

"What's with his voice?" Sam asked. Bee was slurring his words something awful.

"Learrrrrrninng currrrrrffffff," Bee said, and coughed, and gasped, then said, "errr ... currreeevvve. Curve! Learrning curve!"

"Translation: He's got a larynx and a tongue." Ratchet snorted. "He has to learn to use them."

"Oh, boy." Sam said, covering his face with his hand in mock alarm, and a bit teasingly, because he somehow knew Bee probably didn't want too much sympathy. "Bee, you just got your voice _fixed_. Do you want to borrow my iPod for communications purposes?"

Bee made a thick, choking sound that caused Sam to look at him in alarm before realizing he was trying to laugh. He finally drew in a ragged, wheezing, gasping breath, started to sit up, then clearly thought better of it. He slumped back, fingers grasping the edge of the cot now, as if holding on for dear life.

"Hmm," Ratchet said, viewing the information on the datapad. "I never actually realized humans really only make sounds when exhaling. Nebulans have a slightly different jaw and throat structure, but we modified yours to look human. Bee, update your code accordingly. That might work better."

"Ineffffficiennnnt." Bee complained, frowning.

Sam, struck by that expression, stared at him. Over the years he had gotten used to Bee's limited ability to express his emotions with his faceplate. You could tell when Bee was smiling, because the metal around his optics narrowed. And he communicated his mood easily -- _if _you knew him -- by his posture. The set of his doorwings, the way he held his head, and even the speed of his movements were all very telling. At a glance, he could generally tell what sort of mindset his best friend was in. Couple that with a very expressive voice (when it was working) and a willingness to communicate his moods via words or song snippets, and Bee was easy to read.

But that was a frown.

A real frown. An honest-to-God human expression, and he had never even considered the effect of having a real face would have on how people would perceive Bee.

Bee saw him staring, met his eyes, and ... smiled.

The grin lit his face up. It was surprisingly impish. His eyes sparkled with sudden amusement. The smile turned to an outright grin, and he realized that someone had decided to give Bee a dimple. He looked disturbingly cute. Sam _knew _the girls were going to go crazy over him. Also, his appearance was only a little older than Sam; he looked to be a very young twentyish. He didn't try to say anything, but Sam found he was returning that grin with a hesitant smile of his own.

"You feeling a little more oriented now?" Doc said, to Bee.

Bee hesitantly nodded.

"Good. Let's see if we can't get you up on your feet. We need to give your processor some input to chew on before you recharge." Doc offered Bee his hand.

Somewhat clumsily, Bee reached for it. His face went slack with concentration, and he stared at his fingers, then managed to clasp Doc's fingers . Doc pulled him up into a sitting position, and Bee plucked at the blanket with his free hand. Then, fascinated, he touched it again, fingers trailing over the soft fabric. An odd look crossed his face. He pinched a fold of fabric and brought it up to his face and rubbed it against his cheek, and then stroked it down his arm.

"Bee?" Sam said, wondering what he was doing.

Bee's grin was enormous. "It's _soffffft_."

Doc shook his head, and flicked the edge of the blanket aside, then said, "Swing your legs over the edge of the bed and I'll pull you to your feet."

It was not until Bee, shaky and swaying, actually stood up that Sam realized he was not wearing any clothing. Moreover, he was male. _Very _male. Sam stared for precisely half a second, then hastily averted his eyes and said, "Err, did any of you think to get clothes for him?"

Wheeljack gave Sam a completely blank look.

Ratchet huffed and said, "He's not human. Does it matter?"

Doc rolled his optics at all three of them. "There's a set of fatigues in my office that Lennox gave me. And a dress uniform that I had Sunstreaker design, too. _One _of us plans more than two seconds ahead."

Ratchet snorted, "I assumed that we'd just borrow something from Sam."

"Umm, I'll get them." Sam started to head for the door.

Fifteen minutes later, and after a lot of embarrassment on Sam's part because he and Doc had to help Bee dress, Bee was comfortably attired in a set of khaki pants and a camo t-shirt. His long blond hair had escaped from the knot and fell down across the green fabric to the middle of his back, the color and hair style strikingly at odds with the military design of his clothing. He ran a hand over the cotton, apparently fascinated by the texture, and repeated, "Soft."

Bee was growing increasingly confident and steady on his feet, and as he continued to talk, his voice was rapidly growing clearer. Cautiously, he walked several feet away from them, turned about, and walked back. He then gave a satisfied nod and said, slowly and carefully but clearly, "I believe I'm ready for you to wake my other half."

"Sit down, then," Ratchet advised, then added, "You won't be able to move your other half. I've cut the motor functions to it."

"I'm _fine_," Bee insisted.

Ratchet gave him a dubious look, then poked at his data pad. In the clean room behind him, Bee's eyes suddenly glowed blue.

And the humanoid Bee sitting on the edge of the cot screamed hoarsely and lunged back to his feet. He made it two steps and went sprawling hard, crashing to the floor. He cried out again, "Get it out! It's in my processor, it's in my processor, I'm hacked, I'm hacked, I'm hacked ..."

Sam covered his mouth with his hand in a horrified reaction. Bee sounded utterly terrified. Obviously, something had gone wrong.

Bee curled into a ball, shivering, "It's in my processors! I'm being hacked!"

"Bee. That is _you_. Calm down." Ratchet's words were firm. "You have two sources of input now."

"Get it out!" He suddenly lunged back to his feet in a complete blind panic, and tried to run. Ratchet awkwardly made a grab for him but was slowed by the need to do so without hurting him. Doc was too far away. Sam, closer, grabbed Bee by the wrist with his good hand even as he lunged for the door. Bee struggled for a second, lost his balance, and they both toppled to the floor. Sam's cast smacked the metal decking hard enough to make his eyes water from the unexpected pain.

"I'm being hacked!" Bee whimpered, "Inside my firewalls. Inside. Inside. Get out! Get out! It's going through my files! It's going through my _memories_! OUT! OUT! HEEEELLLLLLP!"

Bee's voice hit a note of terror Sam had never heard before. It cracked, and then he fell silent but Sam could feel him gasping for breath-- breath! -- in some autonomic emotional reaction.

Ratchet, grimly, said, "He's got two processors, both writing to the same memory banks. He _thinks _he's being hacked because of that. Slag it! Bee, calm down ..."

"Help!"

Bee wasn't rational, Sam realized. He was literally scared out of his mind. So, he did the only thing he could. He wrapped his good arm around Bee's thin shoulders and held him close and whispered, "Bee, listen to Ratchet."

"Get it out. Get it out ...!" Bee, scared out of his mind, clung to Sam. His ribs heaved and his breath was warm against Sam's shoulder. The last time Sam had seen Bee that scared, he'd barely known him a day, they'd been under Hoover Dam, and he had not actually recognized his level of terror at the time. Now he knew Bee very well, and his fear threatened to rip Sam's heart apart. He tightened his grip, as if he could help simply by holding him a little tighter.

"_Frag _this, I can't listen to that anymore." Ratchet stabbed a finger at the datapad. Apparently, Ratchet was nearly as dismayed as Sam.

Bee sagged against Sam's chest, and clutched at his shirt, and whispered, "They're gone. They're gone. They're gone ..."

Sam rocked back and forth, shocked that Bee was seeking comfort this way. Touch wasn't an Autobot thing, it really wasn't. Yet Bee wouldn't let go of him. Awkwardly, Sam slipped his broken arm out of the sling so he could hug him with both hands.

Bee whispered, "I feel like a damned _sparrrrkling._"  
_  
Oh. Right. Mikaela said that Ratchet told her sparklings often seek close contact with adults, because they are frightened and they find the very close proximity of adults comforting. He says he feels like a sparkling. He's just terrified. Bee's first reaction is to fight when threatened. He's so scared he's beyond that now; he's reacting with an instinctive need to seek protection from others._

Though why Bee would find Sam's arms comforting if he was scared, Sam didn't know. _Of course, I did save his life once ..._

"Yeah, you're acting like one, too." Ratchet had his hands on his hips and looked and sounded disgusted. "Quit fighting your other protoform. They're both you. Give it a chance to sync up and it's not going to feel like a stranger. It _is _you."

Sam tightened his grip on Bee. "He's so scared. Cut him a break."

"That was me. It felt like somebody else, but it's me." Bee was literally trembling in Sam's arms. He shook his head vigorously, making his long hair whisper across Sam's wrists. "Ratchet, again."

"Are you sure ...?" Sam asked. It didn't take a genius to know why Bee had reacted this way, and to realize that his comments on his experiences under Hoover Dam had been understated.

"I can't go through the rest of my life with half of me asleep," Bee said, sounding a bit irritated. And then he went rigid and whimpered as Ratchet rebooted his other half. He buried his face in Sam's shirt. "I feel like a damned _sparkling _..." he murmured, sounding a bit embarrassed. "It's _stupid._"

"It's not stupid," Sam rubbed his back. "And you can do this."

"Thanks ..." His voice was so low as to be inaudible. He was rigid. Better prepared this time, however, he managed to force his fear back and maintain a modicum of emotional control. After several minutes, Bee added, "I think ... I think I'm okay now. I think I have it figured out. It just feels so damned weird. I'm seeing everything through two sets of optics, and writing code to the same memory bank from two processors. It's _weird_. It works, I can do it, but it's crazy weird."

"I'm going to release your motor functions now," Ratchet said, "get up _slowly_. Both halves."

Bee's mech half looked a bit wobbly for the first few strides as he headed for the clean room exit. The humanoid version, grinning shakily now, and eye still too wide, watched himself approach. "So _that's _what I look like from a human eye view. Pit! It's like staring up at Megatron! That gun is bigger than I am -- it's like looking down the barrel of the pulse cannons on the Nemesis! No wonder everyone flinches."

Far from cringing from himself, however, Bee hurried forward. Clearly, he'd managed to sync his processors and his instinctual fear was surpressed for the moment. Fascinated, Sam watched as Bee-mech crouched and Bee-humanoid stood in front of himself. He caught his own tiny hand up in one large metal one and curiously touched his own skin, tracing a metal finger down one arm. Bee-humanoid frowned, dissatisfied at something he saw, and then very awkwardly reached up to try to pull his hair back. "Looks messy," he complained.

"It looks cute on you pulled back," Sam said, then blushed and shut his mouth, because he wasn't entirely sure he was comfortable with giving Bee a compliment like that. Even if it was true.

"Cute?" Bee-mech said, lifting one optic ridge. There was a teasing lilt to his voice. "You think I look _cute_?"

Sam laughed, very nervously, and said, "In a very manly way."

Ratchet huffed a sigh. "Bee, if you are feeling good enough to flirt ..."

"He is _not _flirting with me!" Sam denied, indignantly.

"... then it's time to go get some rest. Twelve hours, Bee. Medical recharge. I've already got the code installed, and you just need to initialize it. When you wake up you'll be a lot more oriented, I promise."

"Thank you, Ratchet." Bee-humanoid eyed Sam hesitantly over Bee-mech's metal yellow hand. Bee-mech was still poking and prodding his new protoform with absolute fascination. "Do you mind if this half of me sleeps over at your trailer? It's going to be pretty noisy here in the ship and at the hangar both for the next several hours."

"Noisy?" Sam didn't mind Bee sleeping at his place, no, though he had somehow expected him to stay in the med bay. He'd always felt bad when Bee slept outside of either his parents' home or the trailer.

"I've got a far too much work to do ..." Ratchet shook his head. "Plus they're going to start turning the hold into a blasted nightclub. And I need to finish installing weapons mounts on fragging civilians. _Pit_, I'm busy. So yeah, noisy."

Doc said mildly, "It could be worse. We could be fighting Decepticons."

"Oh, _don't _say that," Ratchet grumbled, "You'll jinx us. Anyway, I figure _that _won't happen until this nice, shiny new med bay goes flying away into the stars and I'm left with a tin shed and a pair of pliers to do circuit surgery with. And go on, Bee. We'll check your code in the morning, but I expect to be able to release you to light duty tomorrow afternoon, after a full recharge and several hours of conscious time to verify you're not going to glitch out on us again."

* * *

"How do you feel now?" Sam asked, as he stopped Bee's alt mode in front of the trailer.

Bee, sounding a bit uncertain, had told Sam to drive. Sam could hear the rattled fear in Bee's voice again. Bee's words, from the Camaro's speakers, didn't ease that any. "Primus, I don't know how I'm going to relax enough to recharge."

"Anything I can do to help?" Bee didn't open the car door for him, telling Sam just how preoccupied he was. He pushed it open, and stepped out of the car. "Bee?"

"I'm fine," Bee said. "Or will be."

Bee-humanoid attempted to get up as well, but promptly cracked his head on the Camaro's doorframe. The Camaro jumped in surprise right along with Bee-humanoid, shooting six inches straight up on shocks that weren't quite ordinary. With a startled cry and an oath from _both _of him, he sat back down.

"You okay?"

"No! _Pit _that hurt!" That came from the speaker of the car.

Sam had heard that impact loud and clear, and figured it did. He hurried over, where Bee was still sitting down with a rather annoyed look on his face. "Let me see."

"I'm fine."

"Let me _see_." Bee awkwardly tried to block his fingers, and Sam impatiently pushed his hand aside, and parted his blond hair. There was a small cut, and quite a bruise. It was bleeding sluggishly and already starting to swell a bit. A goose-egg. It was not as severe as he'd feared, but the noise had been alarming.

_Oh. His head's hollow, probably, _Sam realized, belatedly, _full of processors and not brains inside his skull. I'm going to have fun teasing him about that!_

"Can you ask Ratchet ...?" Sam wasn't sure if this merited medical attention or not.

"My comlink is offline until Ratchet deems me competent to use it again." Bee glowered at him, an expression that was ruined by the fact that he looked like a blond elf, minus the ears. He did 'pissed off' a lot better when he was sixteen feet tall.

Sam smirked at him, then grabbed his cell phone and called Ratchet.

Ratchet's greeting was, "_Pit_, boy. He crash again?"

"No, he hit his head."

Silence. Sam could easily envision the disbelieving look, then a roll of Ratchet's blue optics before he responded with a grumpy question, "... On what?"

"Door frame of the Camaro, getting out."

"Is it serious?" Ratchet dropped the annoyed tone, and sounded concerned. "His coordination is going to be way off for a couple of recharge cycles. Doc has suture material, if we need it. Please make sure he knows we planned for him to damage that form as he acclimates to you. Knowing Bee, he will blame himself and feel guilty for making us work, but repair time was factored in to the project."

"It doesn't need stitches. If he were human I'd put ice on it," Sam offered tentatively. Bee, in front of him, was staring at the smear of blood on his fingers in absolute fascination.

"That should slow any leakage of blood from damaged capillaries and lessen the secondary damage, yes. Do that. Call me back if his processor crashes again or the bleeding doesn't stop." Ratchet ended the call with a decisive click.

"He's kindof in a bad mood," Sam said, tentatively. "But he says they expect you to get hurt a few times."

Bee arched an eyebrow at him. "He's busy, and I'm not sure he recharged at all last night. He's trying to fit months of work into a few days, before the Ark leaves."

"Well," Sam offered Bee his hand, then pulled him to his feet. "Let's get you inside, and some ice on that head."

"It _hurts_. Primus," Bee complained, touching the goose egg gingerly. He hissed, sounding very not-human, and the Camaro's speakers issued a simultaneous burst of static. "Is it supposed to send me that many damage errors?"

"Probably." Sam had seen mechs fight while missing limbs, and with holes blasted clean through them. Optimus had walked around for almost a week with most of his shoulder armor blown off, and his shoulder trashed, and he had shown only the occasional flinch of discomfort. A human-like nervous system was going to be a good bit more sensitive. "They did say that they deliberately designed you to be as human as possible."

Bee had stopped a few feet from the car, and was holding his hands out. At first, Sam didn't know what he was doing, but then Bee turned his face up towards the sun. Eyes closed, he just stood there. "The sun feels so good. Temperature has never felt good before, Sam."

Sam shook his head in disbelief at that, because 'feeling good' was not something he generally said about the sun this time of year. It was damn hot. "It's Nevada in September. It's going to feel miserable in about two minutes. It's got to be a hundred degrees out here still. And -- can you get sun burnt?"

"Yes," Bee said, opening one eye and regarding Sam with it. "The manual that comes with this protoform must be a terabyte long. According to the manual, daily application of UV blocking sunscreen is a maintenance requirement, along with dental hygiene and bathing and a whole host of other time-consuming tasks. Including meals and meal preparation, I expect I will be spending at least two to three hours every day just keeping this protoform functioning properly, and the financial expense will be shockingly high."

"Welcome to the real world," Sam said, laughing. "My mom's after me to get a haircut before the party."

"Probably a good idea," Bee said, after a few seconds of scrutiny. "Unless you want the same look I'm trying for."

"Aaack. The pretty boy look's _all _yours, and you can keep it." Sam gave him a gentle shove on the shoulder. "We may be best friends, but we do _not _need to match."

Bee snickered, "Didn't think so. Besides, your hair's so curly I don't think it'd do anything but be all fluffy if you tried to put it in a pony tail."

"I really pissed my father off when I was fifteen by growing it out about six inches long, and teasing it so it was all poofy. And then I bleached it." Sam laughed. "_That _lasted until some boys decided I looked gay and started hassling me about it. Plus, my father said if I wanted a car, I had to cut my hair as well as earn the money ..." he trailed off, then added, "... he said my hair was embarrassing him."

Bee stepped through the doorway of the trailer and again stopped. "Air's cool. That feels good too."

"Mmm. Yeah."

"And I'm glad you got the haircut, Sam, since it was part of the path to our first meeting." Bee's voice turned mischievous. "But are there any photographs?"

"_God_, I hope not. My father refused to let my mother take my photo when my hair was that long. He really was horrified by it."

"Has anyone ever told you that your father has issues?" Bee said, sounding a bit annoyed. He glanced around the room, then fixed Sam with an intent look. "I mean, he has some good points, but _Primus. _You know, when I was a youngling I went through a phase where everything I owned had to be eye-blinding neon purple, including my protoform. My alt mode was a purple hover craft with purple running lights. I even changed the color of my optics, and enameled my struts. My mentor just laughed and made a bet with me that by the time I was eighty-three years old, I would never wear anything, ever, that was purple. I was an absolute sight, I'm sure. You could have seen me coming from miles away."

"Did he win?" Sam asked, curiously.

"He would have," Bee said, quietly. "He died before he could collect."

"I'm sorry."

"I was fifty, which is young by our standards, but I had been declared an adult." Bee looked around the room again, before walking into the kitchen. "Err, do you mind if I sit down?"

"Yeah, sure." Sam blinked a bit at Bee's question. "Mi casa es su casa."

Bee settled rather primly into the chair, knees together and hands folded into his lap. It didn't look like a natural posture, and Sam made a note to give Bee a few pointers on body language if he didn't figure it out himself in the next few days. Now was not the time, however. With difficulty due to one arm being in a sling, Sam cracked a tray of ice cubes out onto the counter, then scraped them into a plastic baggy, wrapped it in a dish towel, and handed it to Bee.

"Ssss!" Bee made that hissing noise again in shock. "Owe, that _hurts_. Is it supposed to hurt?"

"Cold will numb it in a minute," Sam said, straddling a chair next to Bee. "So your mentor was cool with you painting yourself purple?"

"And my quarters, and my ... sss! owe!" He was distracted from his story briefly by the bruise, then continued, "... musical instruments and I even enamaled my maintenance tools. That would be rather like owning a set of purple razors and combs."

"Why purple?"

Bee lifted an eyebrow. "I just plain liked the color."

"Oh."

"And the reactions I got when I went out in public made me giggle. People stared and commented. It was fun." Bee shrugged. "But mechs are not nearly as concerned about appearance as humans are, I've noted. Most of the commenting was simply about my lack of taste, and no worse than that. There were no assumptions made other than that I was young and rather fond of a specific color. On the other hand ... there was something else we did fight over, and it was serious, and I disappointed him. But I'm not sorry I did."

Bee trailed off, and blew out a very human sigh. "I loved my mentor to the core of my being, Sam. His name would probably best be translated as Highnotes, and he was a very highly renowned musician. He prayed to Primus to be given a sparkling with a love of music like his own, and he paid a great deal of money to have a protoform built with all the necessary mods for musical brilliance. He got me."

"You love music," Sam said, puzzled by Bee's somewhat sad tone. Bee and music were almost synonymous.

"Oh, yes. But not like 'Notes did. Music was his world, Sam. It was fair to say he was obsessive about it, to a degree that few are -- and we are a musically inclined people, perhaps more even than humans. My first conscious memory was of Highnotes uploading my operational code. My second conscious memory is of him adding some basic music modules, so that I could recognize music and sing with him. He would ease me through my sparkling terrors with song; he sang me into recharge and he woke me with what you would recognize as equivalent to nursery rhymes. He had me composing music by the time I was weeks old, and I sang before my first audience when I was about Wheelie's age."

Bee sighed, and shifted the ice pack on his head a bit. "But while I like music, and while I have the mods to be good at it, and even while I am somewhat fascinated by the math involved, it was _not _my sole interest in life. I rebelled by getting involved in politics, and this was at the very beginning of the troubles between Megatron and Optimus that would later become our civil war."

"Oh." Sam frowned. "I think my father would like it if I got into politics."

Bumblebee chuckled. "Don't think you won't, if you stay with us. I think that will probably be inevitable."

Sam groaned.

"Cybertron had a political structure not _that _different from America's, actually. You would recognize Optimus as a president, though by the time I was born he was elected by default. His role could have only legally been filled by a Prime, and he was the only Prime running. There were seven other surviving Primes -- the Fallen, and the six who stopped him, and they vanished several thousand years before the war began."

Bee scratched his nose. "The fact that Optimus was being elected by default was held against him by a significant portion of the population, and Megatron was presenting himself as an alternative. He was not a Prime, but he held the position of High Lord Protector. He was agitating to be allowed to run against Optimus, and a lot of people supported him on those grounds."

Sam winced. "What was wrong with Optimus as a leader?"

"With Optimus? In retrospect? Nothing. However, we had just concluded a long war with the Quintessons -- _they _started it, as per usual with them -- and our economy was trashed."

"Quintessons?" Sam said, not having heard that word before.

Bee growled, "The one and only good thing the Decepticons ever did was kick the Quintessons out of this galaxy. I have no idea where they ended up, but it's not here, and for that, I'm grateful. They are not native to this galaxy anyway, as far as we could ever tell. They never did consider us alive, claimed to have actually _created _us and to own our very sparks, and the atrocities they committed in their attempts to gain control over us ... well, they treated us as if we were rogue machines that needed to be stopped, the same way you would treat a runaway car with no driver. Anyway. That's a story for another day."

"You were saying, about Optimus?"

"Optimus's direct responsibilities included health care, the Allspark and the creation of new sparklings, economic development and scientific research and exploration, finances, and infrastructure maintenance, and he oversaw the judicidal system. Megatron was in charge of the military, in a power-sharing structure similar to the way your executive branch and your judicial branch are separated. It actually makes me a bit uneasy to have your highest leader directly in charge of the military. It would make more sense to separate them, to me. But that's a discussion for another day."

"Mm. And Megatron wanted Optimus's role." Sam wasn't surprised by that.

"We finally were at peace. Optimus had been feeding Megatron funds and newly sparked soldiers for millenia, to support the war, but when the war ended, Prime cut the funding and stopped giving Megatron soldiers to swell his armies with. Prime says that Megatron was being careless with the lives of his soldiers, and it was the only way he could think of to encourage him to be more careful, to repair them or cause less suffering. And the funds were needed to rebuild our economy, which had really been devestated." Bumblebee ran a hand over his head again, fingers probing briefly at the bruise under the ice pack. "So Megatron wanted Prime's position. It wasn't legal, but there was a lot of support for it; Megatron had won the war, and yet people were frightened the Quintessons would come back. And Optimus, many thought, was weakening us."

"By rebuilding the economy rather than the army."

"Pretty much. And _many _people agreed with him. My own mentor not only agreed with him, but threatened to disown me when I joined a political campaign ..."

"A campaign? For Optimus?" Sam interjected, though he was also beginning to wonder why Bee hadn't wasn't getting ready to recharge. Likely, Bee didn't want to, and the Autobot was certainly manipulative enough to be distracting Sam from that fact wth a good story.

Bee snorted. "Like I said, Optimus was running unopposed. A fact he's since told us he wasn't comfortable with, but he also wasn't willing to step down given the alternative _was _his brother, and he knew that it would be a very bad thing for Megatron to end up filling his tracks. So no, I didn't campaign for Optimus. I was campaigning for my local representative. I should mention that Cybertron was divided into over five thousand districts, and each district elected a representative to send to Iacon, and the body of politicians similar to your congress there. For lack of a better term, we have been calling those representatives senators. The role was similar. My district was influential with multiple arms manufacturing plants -- including many directly owned by Megatron, I'd note -- and the election was hotly contested between the factions that would later become Decepticons and Autobots. It was bad enough that there was frank violence in the streets, something Cybertron hadn't seen in many millennia."

Bee removed the ice from his head and asked, "Do you think I need to keep this on any longer? It's uncomfortably cold."

"You're probably fine." Sam dumped the ice cubes into the sink, and dropped the bag into the trash.

"Anyway," Bumblebee continued, when Sam turned back to him, "I was campaigning for Ratchet."

"Ratchet -- our Ratchet?"

Bee grinned. "He hides it well, doesn't he?"

"He was a fucking senator?"

"Yeah, and a good one. He was running for re-election, on a platform opposing Megatron's ambitions, and championing some health care reforms. You'd be astonished by how similar some of the issues we had were, compared to your world's problems. In this case, the economic damage from the Nineteenth Quintesson War was severe enough that health care expenditures were cut back dramatically."

Bee fell silent, for a moment, then continued, "In the times before I was born, if a civilian mech was damaged he could be expected to be repaired to a level equal to his former level of abilities. The way it worked was that every mech was entitled to a basic level of protoform, with basic abilities. At that level, you would expect to work in menial jobs. Some mechs never got beyond that point, and there's certainly a place in the universe for relatively unskilled labor. However, if you wanted to get ahead, and get a better paycheck, you needed to specialize. I would note that Optimus started out life working in an energon factory, doing physical labor."

"How would you become specialized?" Sam asked, fascinated. He'd never really questioned why the mechs had such different forms. He had just assumed they were made that way, and had never asked _why _or _how _that happened.

Bee lifted one shoulder in half a shrug. "Some of us were lucky enough to have wealthy mentors who paid for those upgrades out of love, as I had, or a partner or friends or employers who financed them. Others, like Optimus and Magnus, had very working-class families and either took out loans or worked their afts off to pay for it or joined the military. Getting a loan was somewhat difficult, because you had to prove you had employment lined after the modification was completed. That didn't happen often. It was a lot easier to get the mods done, then work your way up through the ranks. Elita says Optimus worked double shifts for nearly a century to pay for his transformation cog. Magnus became a soldier."

"So you're not created able to transform?"

"Yes and no. Sometimes yes, depending on the whim of the Allspark. But the ability to transcan and change your alt mode rather than work with what you were created with is definitely not innate, and it is a very, very expensive mod. The nanotech is complicated to install. However, it's also a very desirable mod, because it opens up so many job opportunities. As I understand it, Optimus was thinking about factory work even when he paid for his first mods -- he could change his form as needed, depending on the job. It gave him more job security, you know?"

"That's so ... alien."

Bee shrugged. "Yes and no. Instead of going to college to learn a skill, you'd buy the data and the mods needed to take on that job. It's really not that big of a difference. Some jobs, like medics, would also require an apprenticeship, as there's more to being a medic than just following some rules and analyzing facts in a data module. Some jobs required aptitude that went to the heart of your spark; it would be pretty hard to make a medic out of someone like Sunny, or a politician out of someone like Ironhide."

"I still can't get over the fact that Ratchet was a senator."

Bee laughed, a genuine and very human sounding laugh. "Oh, yes. And back to that story -- I got sidetracked a bit. Anyway, traditionally, if you paid for mods you also paid taxes on that mod, and also on your salary, so that you'd be repaired back to your former level of skills if you were hurt or sick, right? And that makes sense. Say you have a scientist, who's paid for processor upgrades needed for his job. Well, his processor's out of warranty and he arcs out. That's like a stroke. In order for him to go back to work, he needs an equivalent processor. And he's _paid _the taxes to cover that repair."

"Right."

"Well, because of the war, there just wasn't enough money and resources to keep doing that." Bee sighed, and ran a hand over his face. "Something like that happened to Highnotes. His motherboard for his voice synthesizer glitched out. They fixed him, but he couldn't sing at the level he could before. Of course, he blamed Optimus and supported Megatron ... there was an argument to be made that Optimus had not supported the military enough, early on in the Nineteenth War, and he may have, in fact, made some mistakes that prolonged the fighting. He refused to finance some research, and would not create as many military protoforms as Megatron demanded."

"And you supported Optimus."

"Oh, completely. He may have made some mistakes, but they were honest ones, and he tried to correct them. Nobody's perfect, and he was always acting with our best interests in mind. It was clear to me that Megatron was interested in going back to war with ... someone. I was young, not stupid. He was always talking about threats to Cybertron, and wanting to defend the world proactively against other species that might attack us."

Bee stretched his legs out in front of him, eyed his boots-clad feet for a moment, then reached down and clumsily picked at the laces. He stopped, wiggled his fingers, pinched his thumb and forefinger together a few times, visually examined the bow for a moment, then figured it out.

"You need some help with that?" Sam started to get up from his chair.

Bee waved him away, and untied the other set of boot laces. "I need to figure out how to do everything for myself, Sam, and as soon as possible. You'll note I can learn on a curve much steeper than human, but this is still going to tax my processors. I'm tentatively back on active duty tomorrow afternoon, after a bit of shopping."

"Shopping?"

"I can't exactly greet dignitaries and charm the media while wearing fatigues," Bee noted, "though it was smart of Doc to have a military uniform put together for me. I _am _a soldier, after all. There may be times that I will need to associate with the N.E.S.T. humans, and I would stand out if I was not dressed similarly. There will also be times when I should emphasize that I am an Autobot officer. Though Friday night will not be one of them."

"Right." He'd seen the dress uniform. It was a pretty standard military-issue kit, an Autobot emblem instead of a US flag, black fabric, and blue piping. It looked very official, and not at all like they'd designed it on the spur of the moment. _Sunstreaker _had made it, which probably should have impressed Sam less than it did. The Evil Twins both had rather striking senses of style.

Bee tugged on his boot a couple of times before he managed to pull it off. He repeated this with the other shoe, removed his socks, and wiggled his toes. Then he continued his story, "Highnotes was horrified by my political activities. It was bad enough that he threatened to disown me. Sam, he had put decades of his life, no small amount of money, and incredible amounts of effort into seeing I would succeed as a musician. Had I no talent nor desire for music, I am sure he would have accepted me as I was, but I am what we term spark-gifted. I did have the ability to be what he dreamed for me. But instead of living those dreams, instead of taking advantage of all the opportunities he had given me, I got involved in politics. Worse, I was campaigning for a politician that my mentor disliked immensely."

"Ouch."

"Yeah." Bee agreed. "I disappointed him terribly. And you know how I hate to disappoint people."

_That _was an understatement. Bee's desire to please his superiors was on par with that of a golden retriever's, Sam thought, with some private amusement.

Bee paused, and shot Sam a sideways, oblique look. "... You know, I only met Ratchet _once _the entire time I was campaigning for him. He walked through the office I was working in, told me I was doing a good job, and kept going. Later, I overheard him talking to Elita and he mentioned me as the 'kid Jazz says has lots of brains and people skills and a really ugly purple paint job' ... I got a repaint the next day. I was pissed at him, though, and I never would have expected he'd end up my friend."

Sam snickered.

"I am pretty sure that Ratchet doesn't even realize the purple youngling was _me_." Bee's grin was infectious, and Sam returned it instantly, then was struck for the second time with how natural Bee's expressions seemed. The programming was perfect. "I asked him, years later, if he recalled meeting me when I worked on his campaign and he swears we never did. I've never enlightened him about what I looked like then. I changed my designation when I joined the Autobots, and got quite a few military mods as an enlistment bonus."

"Given how perfect Autobot memory is," Sam noted, "and your ability to share video, he'd have blackmail material on you."

"Heh. Yeah." Bee pulled up one of his ankles so that he was sitting in half a lotus position, foot in his lap. He lifted an eyebrow, and commented, "Wow, this protoform is flexible." He poked at his toenails curiously for a moment.

"So did Highnotes ever forgive you?"

"He never got a chance." Bee let go of his foot and fixed Sam with a sharp gaze, going from casual to very serious in one moment. "Highnotes needed a job. He couldn't sing professionally anymore, but he had to work. He went to apply for a position as an accountant for Ratchet's staff, based on my suggestion because I knew there was a job opening. He was very angry that the only available position he could find was with Ratchet's campaign, and even angrier when he found out I'd put a good word in with Ratchet's campaign manager. Unfortunately, while he was there, someone tried to assassinate Ratchet. Ratchet lived, but my mentor was killed in the explosion.""

"I'm sorry."

"So am I. However, Highnotes would not approve of what I am today. I am certain he would disapprove of much about my life, even now." Bee's voice grew firm. "But I was _right _in the choices I made. History has born out how very, very right I was. My mentor was not perfect, and he tried to teach me things that I disagreed with. In the end, while I loved him deeply, I chose to follow another path in life. Sometimes, you simply have to reach deep inside yourself to find the confidence you need to defy your mentors, Sam. Those who love us are not always perfect, or always right. And sometimes truth is open to interpretation. It was true that Optimus made mistakes, and true that he was running unopposed and the people had no alternative choice for a leader. Megatron was not a good alternative, but I can see why Highnotes wanted to see someone else in charge."

Sam asked, "How did we get on this conversation again? Not that I mind, but you're supposed to be recharging."

"You were distressed because your father disapproved of your hair style choices." Bee pressed his lips together for a moment, a very unhappy look. "It's probably obvious that I don't like it when he picks on you simply because he doesn't like how you wear your hair, or your choice in friends, or whatever else it is he finds unsuitable on any given day. He loves you, but sometimes I think he is far too hard on you."

Sam leaned back in the chair and regarded his best friend in mild disbelief. "You told me that huge long story because my father doesn't like me wearing long hair?"

Bee shook his head. "The issues are more important than that, Sam, and you know it. Sam, you love him. And he loves you. But you are legally an adult, and you are allowed to draw your own conclusions and make your own choices, and decide what is most important in your own life. Sam, Highnotes disapproved of my life, but he never stopped loving me. He raged at me at first, but he got over it, and we came to accept each others' differences. He said something to me, one day, that I've carried all my life: that loving someone does not mean you agree with them. He was angry with me when he died, but I realized long ago that his death was not my fault, and that he eventually would have relented."

Sam nodded wisely. "I hear what you're saying. Aren't you supposed to be going to sleep?"

His best friend fell silent. The frown on his lips was new, but that the unhappy look in his eyes was eerily familiar. It was virtually the same look that his mech half got when he didn't want to do something, but had no good argument against it.

Sam pointed at the bedroom. "Mikaela and I can take the couch and the floor tonight. Ratchet said at least twelve hours. Go. Before I call Ratchet again."

Bee rose, only a little awkwardly, then said hesitantly, "I'd planned on sleeping in my alt mode ..."

"You mean in the Camaro?" Sam shook his head. "Bee, it's over a hundred degrees out there. That may not bother your other half, but ..."

"I do have air conditioning."

"Still not a good idea. If something goes wrong and you crash again, it'll be best if you're inside where it's cool."

"I can recline the seats, and park in the shade of the hangar." Bee was clearly ill at ease, likely because he didn't want to inconvenience them.

"No." Sam tried to channel Ratchet, or possibly Mikaela, and said firmly, "Bedroom. Bed. We'll be fine."

"Couch?" Now Bee was trying to negotiate something that Sam wasn't willing to bend on. Under other circumstances, he suspected he'd probably draw straws with Bee, loser takes the old couch, but not today. Today he was worried and feeling oddly chivalrous. Perhaps that was a funny reaction where Bee was concerned, but he wasn't in a mood to think about it much.

Sam glanced at the used sofa someone had scrounged up for them. It was definitely not the most comfortable piece of furniture in the world. Also, he didn't want to wake Bee from his recharge and he would be coming and going from the trailer all day. He said, very firmly, "Bed."

"Sam ..." Bee huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes.

Sam stood up, put a firm hand on Bee's shoulder, and gave him a shove in the general direction of the bedroom. Bee actually _let _him manhandle him, to Sam's astonishment; one more push in the small of his back and Bee headed, without further resistance, for the mattress. It was strange that a warrior who could be as fierce as Bee in battle really just didn't have much fight in him when it came to arguing with his friends.

"Get some sleep. Recharge. Whatever." He followed Bee through the bedroom door to make sure he actually got in the bed.

Uncertainly, Bee gave him a look full of hesitation and then awkwardly plucked the covers up and crawled under them. Satisfied, Sam asked, "Want music on?"

"Please." Bee sounded uncertain, and there was a ghost of fear back in his eyes.

"Any preference?" Sam retrieved his iPod from a dresser drawer. Ratchet had been pretty clear that the 'medical recharge' would help Bee assimilate his new programming code, and he decided he was going to be merciless. Bee was stalling, for reasons Sam couldn't even guess at.

"Queen," Bee said, after a moment.

Sam fiddled with his iPod, found an album by that band, then plugged it into his stereo (salvaged from his dorm) on the dresser. "Now. Recharge."

"Thank you, Sam." Bee met his gaze for a moment, then closed his eyes and curled up in a ball on the mattress with the covers completely over his head. He looked scared, and Sam waited for a long moment before heading back into the living room. Outside, through the living room window, he could see that his Camaro form was poised high on his shocks, a sure sign he was nervous.


	40. Chapter 40

Recharge.

Bee turned his optics off on both forms and as he had expected, his mech half slid fairly easily into recharge. However, seeing the world through two sets of eyes, and writing to his memory core from two sets of processors was more disturbing than he ever would have guessed. Arcee had mentioned that her mods took a lot of processor power, and he had assumed that was all there was to it. He had been very wrong.

The feeling of a second processor in his head was akin to the 'heebie jeebies' that humans described when they encountered something unnatural. While it was no longer frankly terrifying as it had been at first, it kept causing him to instinctively activate defensive subroutines. It felt like there was somebody else in his head, and he didn't like that feeling at all. He alternated between feeling crazy, like he was hearing voices in his head, and thinking he was being hacked.

Recharge. He was supposed to be recharging.

Bee tried to focus on the soaring voice of the lead singer of the band he'd asked for. The musician had a purity to his tones that was rare among humans, and a fantastic sense of timing. _Let me recharge. Please._

Slowly, the organic protoform began to power down. He initiated the medical recharge code that Ratchet had installed, and was very nearly offline when ...

... _strapped down to a table, 'Arguable' the man said, about him being alive, wires being connected to his data jack, a probing presence in his mind, looking for ways around his firewalls ..._

He came awake with a gasp, his mech half transforming and his organic side attempting to lunge out of the bed. He was being held down! He let out a strangled cry and snapped his battle mask down in one form, and struggled with the binding cloth in the other and ...

"Bee!" Sam's voice. Sam had saved him. Sam had come for him _now._ He looked frantically around for Sam in both forms.

The blanket was pulled back. Bee struggled for calm, deactivating combat subroutines and telling himself firmly that it was just a nightmare. That memory file of the time under Hoover Dam had been triggered, for completely logical and obvious reasons. "Blast!" he swore, with heartfelt feeling, as he shifted his focus to the organic form. He was literally shaking as his terror caused his autonomic functions to trigger a release of endorphins and adrenalin.

Sam blinked at him uncertainly, then said, "Bee? Are you okay?"

"Nightmare." It was a close enough analogy. "I mistook the blanket for chains holding me down. It caused panic."

Sam stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Finally, he said, "You need to recharge. Ratchet said you did. Do you want me to call him?"

Bumblebee shook his head. He'd had enough of med bays for one day, thank you very much. Plus, Ratchet would put him in a forced recharge before in the wake of battle damage, and he'd discovered the special terror of being unable to wake from nightmares. He would rather not have that happen tonight. Somewhat warily he said, "I'm just going to try again. This isn't really medical, it's just slag from past trauma getting stirred up by the new code."

Sam said quietly, "You were so scared, earlier."

He had been. He had been utterly and absolutely terrified, and was now a bit embarrassed about it. His reaction hadn't been logical, or coherent. It had been strictly instinctive on a level he couldn't even begin to describe. When he was himself, when all his emotional subroutines were firing normally and not aborting due to errors, he could apply some logic and deal with everything. Today, however, he was far from operating normally and terror on a level he had not felt in a few years had seized him. Sam had simply put his arms around him, and held him close until it passed. He'd felt like a stupid, scared sparkling, but he was also deeply grateful for Sam's reaction. Ratchet would have simply snorted at him and told him to get over himself. Wheeljack would have been lost, and flustered. Doc would likely have been sympathetic, but Doc was also painfully dignified at times. Sam, however, had reacted on a purely emotional level right back at him, and had given him the support he had desperately needed.

Sam kicked his shoes off and said, "Scoot over."

Huh?

"Move over. You're scared. You've let me sleep in the Camaro's front seat more times than I can count when I was upset." Sam grinned at him, but it was an expression that held a little bit of nervousness on Sam's part. "Just don't tell anyone, 'kay? I've got to keep my man cred good."

Bee had to think about how to make the organic form 'scoot over' and finally settled on levering his hips up off the mattress with a shove from his arms, and then awkwardly hitching himself sideways with a push from his legs. The differences between movements in his mech form and this form were completely astonishing. He had to think through exactly which muscle groups to activate to move. He was writing subroutines to simplify things as he figured out how the body worked, but for the moment, it was taking an astonishing amount of processor power just to stand or walk or pick an object up. Everything took conscious thought, and the amount of effort it took to operate the organic protoform left his overall abilities seriously degraded. He dearly hoped he didn't have to fight any time soon, because he wasn't sure he'd have the reflexes he needed in either form.

Sam sat down on the bed beside him, reached up, grabbed a pillow (which smelled of both Mikaela and Sam, but more of Mikaela) and lay down next to him.

Bumblebee stared at him in wonder, then blinked and firmly reminded himself that humans were _much _more touchy-feely than mechs. Among his people, only sparklings ever really snuggled with anyone, and that was simply because young sparklings felt vulnerable, and being in close proximity to an adult mech was safer. It was typical for sparklings to curl up with physical contact with an adult. There had even been many studies done that showed that sparklings who didn't get that sort of touch (or who simply didn't feel safe as children) grew up to have issues as adults.

Partners and close friends would sometimes touch as well, the same way adults did to sparklings, if one was upset. He had never done that himself with another adult. He'd never had a partner or a friend who was that close, and had never really been in a position to seek safety and comfort from the encircling arms and protective stance of another since Highnote had died. It had been a long, long time since anyone had held him close and guarded over him.

Sam wrapped his good arm around Bee's chest and pressed up against him, and said, "I'll be here. Try again to recharge. Okay?"

Bee was astonished to the core of his being. Earlier, when Sam had held him in the med bay, he had been in a nearly blind panic. Now, however, he was in full control of his faculties. This wasn't necessary, and he was a bit surprised by Sam's actions. But, on the other hand, he also felt deep gratitude. It wasn't necessary, but it was very welcome. He was rattled by the changes to his form, more so than he would ever admit. And Sam was simply _there _for him, without question or hesitation.

The tactile sensory network for this new form was far more advanced than anything he'd ever had before, and the information he was getting from it was completely new to his experience. The blanket over both of them was soft, fuzzy, and pleasantly warm. The climate-controlled room air was cool, but not uncomfortably so, against his bare arms. And Sam's weight against Bee's side, and the encircling arm around him, made him feel unexpectedly good. The pressure was pleasant, where 'pressure' would simply have registered as 'weight' without any positive or negative connotations (until it got to the point of damage) to a mech.

Bee wriggled a little, getting comfortable, and Sam's arm tightened. "Go to _sleep_, Bee. Or I will call Ratchet."

Bee sighed. He still wasn't sure he could, because there was a deep and nagging sense of apprehension lurking behind his thoughts.

"Are you okay?" Sam really did sound concerned.

"No," Bee closed his eyes. "But thank you, Sam. For your concern. For being my friend. There is nobody else in existence, aside from you or Mikaela, that I could turn to like this."

"What?" Sam sounded dumbfounded. "But everyone likes you."

He tried to explain, because talking about this was a little easier than trying to recharge. "Sam, there's nobody left among the officers who I can really talk to. They are my friends, and I trust them with my life, but can you really see me unloading my fears on Optimus -- or Grimlock? Ye Dark God, he'd tell me to just go smash whatever it was that was bothering me, and stomp off."

Sam's chuckle shook his whole body, and Bee laughed with him for a moment.

"And I cannot simultaneously lead and appear vulnerable to those who rank below me," Bee noted, eyes closing. "If I confide in the troops, if I show that I am weak, they will lose respect for me. I am younger and smaller than many of the mechs who I may need to command. I cannot also be emotional around them. Do you see how limited this leaves me?"

"Yeah." Sam wasn't laughing now. "I never thought about it that way."

Bee sighed. "It's one of many reasons why I love you both so much. I _can _let my defenses down around you and you listen to me when I do. And these days, I think, more than ever, I need to. I may be an ancient warrior to you, older than human civilization, but I am still mortal and sometimes I feel so very alone."

"Oh, Bee." Sam sounded truly distressed. "I never realized."

"Well, I'm not exactly inclined towards brooding most of the time." Bee smiled, despite himself. That was a simple truth. He was, while not irrepressible, at least not at all likely to engage in what he saw as pointless depression over things he couldn't help or change. "I learned a long time ago that I couldn't dwell too much on slag. I just have to keep going. But it's good to know I do have you two, you know? This, right now, it means a lot to me."

"Yeah, well, don't go spreading it around that I'm hugging you like some sort of girl." Sam sighed. "But you need it, and I'm your best friend. So shut up and close your eyes and recharge already."

"Yes sir," Bee said, and laughed aloud. He'd finally figured out to how laugh without choking in this form. "I'm going to initiate the subroutines now. And Sam -- thank you."

"_Sleep_." Sam growled at him.

"Okay, okay," he said, and closed his eyes again. He found he was grateful, and beyond that, deeply touched. Recharge came, and the bad memories did not; Sam's arm around him was a comforting -- and helpfully distracting -- weight.

* * *

Magnus headed for the trailers, slowing as he approached them. His brakes were far more silent than an equivalent human-made truck. Ron Witwicky had his hands on the steering wheel, but Mikaela didn't think he was driving. Magnus, while unerringly polite to humans, was not the sort of mech who'd give that control over to a human driver he barely knew. However, she'd been amused by how well Mr. Witwicky got along with Magnus; Optimus Prime's brother was dignified, professional and a bit reserved. Mr. Witwicky had an obnoxiously cheerful sense of humor mixed with the occasional amusingly snide comment. You would think they wouldn't have much in common.

Most of the supply run, to three different welding shops to buy argon and helium cannisters in formidable quantities, had involved some rather involved discussion about human sports. Apparently, Magnus had discovered football and was fascinated.

_At least, _Mikaela had thought, _it's not professional wrestling this time. I can handle manly talk about football._

The twins -- both sets -- had discovered the bastion of enlightened human culture that was the World Wrestling Federation. Skids and Mudflap were delighted by it. Sideswipe was amused. Sunstreaker had scared her by asking, seriously, if the wrestlers ever fought to the death. When she had explained it was just a game and they were acting, he'd tilted his head sideways and asked, "So if it's just satire, does that really mean there are more serious fights?"

"Boxing," she had suggested. "And martial arts. But nobody should die unless something goes wrong."

Sunstreaker had been silent for a very long moment, and then exchanged a significant glance with his brother. "I bet there are death matches," Sunstreaker said, finally, "but good people like you just don't know about them."

She had been deeply disturbed by that exchange, in ways she just couldn't define.

"Oh, Bee's here," Mikaela said, spotting the Camaro as they rounded the corner. She was grateful for the distraction from the memory of the look on Sunstreaker's face when he'd mentioned death matches. It had been cold and knowing, and he had seemed to look right through her.

"He's in recharge," Magnus said, "please don't wake him. He's had his spark-splitting procedure and Ratchet said he needs twelve full hours of recharge to integrate some new code."

"Oh." Mikaela said, trading a glance with Ron Witwicky.

Sam's father grunted. "Aliens. I swear. 'Spark splitting surgery' -- you'd think the kid would have more sense than that."

Magnus said mildly, "The 'kid' you are referring to is older than your civilization, and his upgrade will gives us considerable tactical advantages."

"It's still freaky." Ron sounded like it was going to stubbornly stick to his opinion, no matter what logical reasoning Magnus provided.

"From your standpoint," Magnus said, sounding only amused, "yes. From ours, it is simply an upgrade."

"I just like Bee," Ron admitted, as if he was reluctant to say it. "He's saved Sam's ass a few times. It's been good for Sam to have a tough, competent friend like that. A role model, like. I don't want to see Bumblebee get hurt, is all."

Magnus was silent for a moment, then reported, "Ratchet says the procedure went well, with no more than a typical number of complications."

Mikaela reached for the truck door. "Magnus, are you going to need me for anything else today?"

The Autobot officer took a moment to answer, before saying in a tone that sounded like a command, "We have dignitaries arriving early tomorrow morning. Elita would like you to run into town this evening with Hound to get more coffee, as we are nearly out, and some fresh fruit and pastries. Tomorrow, you and Sam are to obtain a wardrobe suitable for both the party this weekend and general business meetings. You will take Bumblebee with you on the shopping excursion, as he will need similar clothes."

She blinked at the dash, wondering how she was going to pay for that. Her $243 in savings was now $102, as she had paid her cell phone bill. That had been run up a bit high by the need to call everyone after her father died. She must have said something aloud, but she wasn't really aware of the words. Her mind had gone numb at the reminder of all that she had lost. She didn't even have a closet full of clothing anymore, not that she'd had a formal dress anyway. She knew the 'bots expected her to attend the party, but she supposed she would need to decline somehow.

Yesterday, Sam had been teasing her about wearing her backless dress to the party and it had not occurred to either of them that all her clothes were burned. It was weird how hard that was to remember. The set of military fatigues she was currently wearing had been given to her by Lennox to wear until she could get some more clothes daily wear; she'd somewhat vaguely had a trip to a thrift store in mind.

Ron snickered. She shot him a startled look, wondering if she should be offended by that laugh. He said dryly, "Did they mention your salary to you, sweetheart?"

"Slag," Magnus cursed. "No, we didn't. Mikaela, Optimus gave you an advance on your salary, plus a hiring bonus we expect you to use for clothing, as we understand that can be expensive. It should be in your bank account now."

"Salary?" They hadn't even discussed money with her. She'd filled out some tax forms in sort've a dizzy haze, and had simply not asked.

"We _are _paying you." Magnus sighed. "The amount should be sufficient, I hope. We've researched the matter."

"Amount?"

Magnus casually gave her a figure which left her staring at the dashboard in dumbfounded disbelief for the second time in a few days. "Per month? Wow."

"Per week, Mikaela."

"Err, I can live with that. Did I ever mention how much I love you guys?"

He added, "We do plan to upgrade your housing, as well, eventually. The trailers were quick, and temporary."

"Umm, yeah. I won't complain about a better house. I'll make the grocery run in a bit, then."

Five grand a week. Optimus had said that her official job title would be 'apprentice medic' and that there would be a lot of study involved, as well as very long hours and some danger. The danger was a given, the long hours were not worse than anything she'd done before, and five grand a week was a hundred and sixty grand a year, and _wow_.

Magnus added, in a dry tone of voice, "Part of the reason we are paying you so well is that you are very valuable to us, Mikaela. Money is a cheap way to show it, if you will pardon my pun, but there are very few humans who have earned our trust to the extent that you have and who do not already have conflicting oaths to the US Military. Money is not a problem for us. We have corporations lined up at our gates wanting access to our technology."

"I ... you guys don't have to pay me that much, really."

Ron snorted. "A word of advice, kiddo: Don't complain. They're right about the money. Just thank them."

"Err, thank you."

"Mikaela," Magnus said, very seriously, "we want you to work for us as long as we are here on this world, or for the rest of your life. It is how we operate, and I suspect that is a cultural difference between humans and 'bots. You are a part of our family now, and we will make sure you are taken care of. The money is a fair share of what we expect to earn from our technology. We have already received sizable advances from several corporations and a few government research grants."

It was a dizzying, awe-inspiring thing. They wanted her for the rest of her life. She was family. They took care of their family.

"Umm, thank you." This time, it wasn't about the money. It was about the fact that they cared, and were taking care of her when she needed it.

"You're welcome, Mikaela." The tractor trailer's door opened on its own. "Hound will change shifts with Sunstreaker at six PM tonight. You can run errands after that. It would be a good time for you to purchase any food or supplies you need, as well, including whatever you need for several days in LA."

"Are you putting us up in a hotel or something, or should I pay ...?" She asked, uncertainly.

The truck chuckled. "We will all stay on the ship. If it is acceptable, you will share a cabin with Bee and Sam. The Ark will depart for Nieryl Six on Monday and we intend to convoy back to Tranquility after it departs."

She had no issues with sharing a room with Bumblebee. In fact, it sounded like fun. She nodded. "Thanks, Magnus."

* * *

Inside the little trailer, everything was quiet. She assumed Sam was off doing something around the base, and, without any suspicions whatsoever, pushed the bedroom door open.

Sam's dark hair, on one side of the bed, was the first thing she saw. A second later it registered that there were two people in the bed. The second person had long blond hair, and that hair was all she could see. However, the woman was slim, and was clearly snuggled into Sam's embrace. Sam had his good arm around her, and both seemed to be asleep.

She had lost ... nearly everything, really ... but she had decided somewhere along the way to trust Sam. And now, this.

Sam moved slightly and murmured very softly from under the blankets, "'Kaela? Is that you?"

"I HATE you!" she hissed at him, and grabbed the closest throw-able object, which happened to be an unfamiliar army boot on the floor. She flung it as hard as she could at the two of them. It collided with Sam's head. "DAMN YOU, Sam Witwicky! I trusted you!"

Both figures in the bed shot upright, just as she chucked the second shoe. The trajectory was perfect; it hit the blond woman square in the face as she was sitting up.

There was a tremendous noise of transformation outside, and at the same time, the blond ... not-a-woman ... leaped to her ... his ... feet in the middle of the bed. Then Blondie promptly fell back down onto Sam, who was still staring at Mikaela in dumbfounded disbelief.

Sam yelped as the man's weight landed on his bad arm. The man twisted off Sam, and demanded in absolute confusion, in a voice that was altered and yet familiar, "Mikaela! What did Sam do?"

"More to the point," Sam fixed her with a dangerously angry glare, "... what did _Bee _do to you?"

Bumblebee. Belatedly, she recognized his new protoform from the holomatter image he had projected for them. Also, she realized that both were fully clothed.

She met Bee's gaze. Sam's fury was making her uncomfortable. Bee simply looked a bit puzzled, then that confusion was quickly being replaced with snickering amusement. Bee flopped backwards on to the bed, and said, "I believe the term, Sam, is 'compromising position.'"

"Fuck." Sam tossed one of the shoes to the floor. "'Kaela, he was having nightmares, okay?"

Belatedly, Mikaela remembered Magnus asking her not to wake Bee, because he was supposed to be in a medical recharge. She'd certainly fouled that up.

Bee put a hand on Sam's arm, humor vanishing in a flash. Tone reassuring, he said, "I'm not hurt."

"You didn't trust me." Sam's words were flat. He wasn't dropping the matter. "You hit Bee."

Bee repeated calmly, "I'm not hurt, Sam. It was a shoe. And given _my _track record for mistaking identities and reacting with violence, I am hardly going to complain about being pegged with a boot."

"You _just _got to sleep." Sam growled.

Bee giggled again, amusement returning.

"It's not funny!" Sam turned back to Mikaela, and snapped, "Damnit, 'Kaela! He'd just gotten to sleep for real! And you hit him!"

Bee was laughing harder now, and she felt a snicker escape herself. "I'm sorry, Sam, I really am, but I walked in and it looked like you were cuddling some blond bimbo and I just about was ready to kill you both ..."

Bumblebee seemed to be struggling to breath. Sam gave him a concerned look and said, "Bee? You okay?"

"B-Bimbo?" Bumblebee waved a hand in the air, and gave Sam an A-OK sign with one hand. Then he drew in a deep breath and said, "Don't be mad at her, Sam. It really must have looked bad from her standpoint, and she wouldn't be that mad if she didn't love you."

"She didn't _trust _me." Sam sounded wounded. Mikaela felt that was a little unfair, given what she'd thought she'd seen.

"Dude," Mikaela folded her arms, stung, "I _did _trust you. That's the whole point."

Sam scowled at her. "Next time, trust me a little _more_."

Mikaela ground out, "Would _you _have reacted well if you found _me _snuggling with anyone like that? Even if it was Bee?"

Bee and Sam traded a look. Sam said in puzzlement, "It's Bee."

Bee asked, more wisely, and in a slow voice that held hints of that utter calm that meant a Cybertronian was hiding emotions, "_Would _you object to me hugging her as you were holding me, Sam?"

Mikaela figured he would, at least in this form. Bee's new protoform was drop dead gorgeous. Sam couldn't possibly miss that, even as inflexibly straight as he was. Bee had the sort of attractive face (and slim, athletic body!) that turned heads of both sexes.

Sam's reaction was a bit unexpected. It was puzzled, and nothing more. "Why would I care?"

Mikaela wasn't sure if she exactly liked that answer, simply because she thought he should care. Why wouldn't he be jealous if he came home to find her in the arms of a man that looked like Bee's new protoform?

"It's Bumblebee." Sam still sounded confused. "He's your best friend. And mine. I trust both of you. Why would I care if he was having bad dreams and you hugged him?"

Bumblebee, at least, seemed to get it a little better. He said quietly, looking down at his hands, "Sam wouldn't care, because neither of us would let anything happen that he would need to care about, Mikaela. He trusts you, and he trusts me, and I do not believe he would ever try to discourage our friendship, because it would hurt all three of us."

"You couldn't even do anything I _would _care about," Sam scoffed. He shook his head, still looking perplexed, then turned to Bee. "And you are supposed to be sleeping, aren't you?"

"Recharging, yes." Bee let out a long, slow breath. A real breath. She watched him in awe, noting the play of emotions across his face. It was remarkable, seeing Bee's personality come to life in a humanoid form. They'd done an amazing job with that protoform, she thought, in making him look appealing to humans. He continued, "I do need to recharge. I need to talk to both of you, later, but recharging now is becoming a priority."

Sam hesitated. "Do you need me to stay?"

Mikaela saw something in Bee's eyes then that she had never really witnessed before. The look he gave Sam had fear in it, and he seemed to draw in on himself. He said, hesitantly, "I'll be okay."

Sam looked from Mikaela, to Bee, then back again. Bee, it seemed, could not hide his feelings. He looked very badly frightened. Now she understood why Sam had been holding him so tightly and so close. Bee was the strongest of the three of them, the one least likely to panic. However, he looked scared now.

"Oh, Bee," she murmured, and sat down on the bed. "What did they do to you? This isn't working out like you expected, is it?"

He said, with less conviction in his voice than she liked, "I just need time. Mikaela ... I'll be okay. Don't worry about me."

"He said he felt safer with me holding him," Sam said, quietly.

Bee was tough. Bee was sixteen feet of ass-kicking alien robot soldier. Bee was neither needy nor vulnerable, and Mikaela found she was having a hard time understanding what she was hearing. She wasn't sure what was more surprising, that Bee was so willing to let someone hold him, or that Sam would do it. Sam wasn't exactly touchy-feely when it came to other guys. And Bee sure as hell wasn't the type to seek comfort like that. He gave it willingly enough, but she'd never seen him _need _a hug before.

Bee said, sounding somewhat reluctantly, "I _do _need to recharge. I'm getting a lot of errors that aren't going to fix themselves until I manage to go through a complete and uninterrupted medical recharge cycle to integrate all the new code and defrag everything. If I don't, I'm afraid I'm going to start glitching and end up in stasis lock."

"Oh." She hadn't realized it was that urgent. "Bee, I'm really sorry."

"I know you are," Bee said, calmly, "and next time, you'll get the whole story before you strike out. Right?"

Coming from Bumblebee, given his recent history, that was not a decree that she was going to argue. She swallowed, nodded, and said, "Yeah."

Sam patted Bee on the shoulder. "Try to recharge. If you need me, I'll be in the next room. Just give a shout, okay?"

Bee grinned, "Will you guard the door and make sure nobody _else _throws anything at me while I'm in recharge? It hurts a lot more in this form than it does my mech ..."

"I'm sorry!"

Brief merriment danced in Bumblebee's eyes. "I know you are, which is why I'm picking on you. And I _am _going to try to follow Ratchet's orders, before he welds me to a berth."

* * *

Outside, in the living room, Sam favored her with a dirty look, then padded to the fridge and fished out a can of soda. He awkwardly pinned the soda to his chest with his cast and popped the top, took a sip, then said in a low voice, "He really had just gotten to sleep. Recharge. Whatever."

"I'm sorry."

Sam sighed, set the can of soda down, and ran a hand over his face. "Mikaela, they were expecting this, you know. Bee's flat-out terrified and they planned for it. They knew it would happen. It's got to be torture for him. He says it's like having someone else's thoughts in his head, hearing someone else's voice, when he tries to operate both protoforms at the same time."

She glanced at the closed bedroom door, then said, "I wish he hadn't agreed to it."

Sam sat down on the couch, leaned forward, and put his head in his hands. "I just can't help thinking that he did it for us. I mean, yeah, they have some really good reasons for needing more mechs who won't send the mundanes running away in terror, but he said something to me that got me thinking. He says we're the only people in existence that he can confide in. And he's set us as his next of kin in his personnel records."

"Geeze." Mikaela sat down next to him. "I didn't know he felt that way."

Sam leaned back, and ran his good hand over his face. "I don't know if I can deal with this, honestly. It scares me to death. But I've got to. I ..." he gave her a sideways look, "... I've got to deal."

"Tried running away, didn't work, eh?" she teased.

"I didn't run away." Again she saw a bit of anger in his eyes. This time, she figured it was because it was the truth.

"You ran to the other side of the country." Mikaela giggled as softly as she could. "And he got there before I did. That worked beautifully, Sam. Just beautifully. You can't escape from us, you're doomed."

At that moment, Bee cursed and there was a crash from the bedroom. Sam sighed. "I was afraid that was going to happen ... c'mon. Let's both stay with him until he's actually out. I'm not sure if he's having nightmares or flashbacks or what, but that happens when he starts to shut down."

Somehow, it was the most natural thing in the world for them to return to the room. Sam sat down on one side of Bee, and Mikaela on the other. Bumblebee didn't say a word, nor did they. He simply gave them a long, measuring look, then curled up in a ball and tried again to enter recharge.

Sam rested a hand on Bee's shoulder, and Mikaela did too. Their fingers touched. Mikaela swirled her thumb in a small circle. She could feel Bee's breathing -- breathing! -- and the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton t-shirt he was wearing. They sat like that for a long time, until it was clear he was not going to lunge awake with a scream.

Mikaela met Sam's eyes, then folded his hand into hers. He squeezed once, then very carefully rose from the bed. They both managed to exit without waking Bee, and Mikaela leaned against Sam and whispered, "He means so much to me, Sam."

"To us," Sam agreed. "To both of us."

* * *

Ratchet scowled at the protoform. It wasn't Barricade anymore, nor could it rightly be called Prowl. He had removed every weapon (_Primus _Barricade had been heavily armed), most of the armor, and had downgraded numerous mods for less power and speed. Anyone who'd ever dealt with sparklings would have seen the wisdom in that. Even younglings like Wheelie were best kept in small protoforms until they matured.

Humans did something similar, in that their younglings were not allowed to drive vehicles, own weapons, or drink alcohol until they hit a certain age. It was best to simply assume a youngling's judgement was impaired by lack of experience, and not complicate the problem by giving them a way to injure themselves or those around them.

_I wonder if I shouldn't just stick him in a smaller shell, period._

He had discussed that possibility with Optimus. However, there was a limit to how small they could make a protoform due to the size of his processor. Prowl's cores, while nowhere near the massive bulk of Teletraan, still filled up several square feet of space. He needed a frame big enough to accommodate both that bulk and a formidably hefty cooling system.

"That's a fearsome look, old friend," Optimus said, from the doorway.

Ratchet glanced up as Optimus walked into the room, moving with stately grace. He stopped a few feet from the still, motionless form and said quietly, "Teletraan says he is making good progress on sorting Prowl's optical memory, but that matching up emotions and thoughts to what Prowl saw may be impossible."

"I am surprised he has been able to do as much as he has," Ratchet said.

Optimus regarded the protoform's features for a moment, then observed, "He looks like neither of them. Thank you."

Ratchet had crafted a faceplate for the protoform that was based on human features. It made sense, as they would most likely be spending time here. He refused to let himself hope too much that they would settle here for good, if the war ended, but he knew it was a possibility. He grunted, though, in response to Optimus's praise. "We can change it later if he doesn't like it. Prime, we need to decide who's going to mentor him."

"I am."

Ratchet favored him with a hard look. "You?"

"Will he be ready to activate by the time the ship departs?" Optimus regarded the protoform thoughtfully. He didn't address Ratchet's reaction. This didn't surprise Ratchet; Optimus had long practice with remaining serenely confident no matter how much skepticism and cynicism Ratchet sent his way.

"You are not planning on activating him before the event, are you?" Ratchet's scowl intensified. Optimus had raised sparklings before, but not since the war had begun, for obvious and not-so-obvious reasons. He was more worried about Optimus's connections to Prowl than his ability to mentor a child.

"Even _I _would not be safe from your throwing arm if I suggested that we do this now, I believe," the leader of the Autobots teased gently. "But I believe we should very soon after. That will give us a several days before the truce ends to install at least basic coding and get him operational."

"I'd sure hate to be a sparkling in the middle of a war," Ratchet blew a sharp breath out. "Still, better to imprint him then than during the middle of a battle. And yes, he'll be ready to activate. I could do it now, but we're a bit slagging busy."

"Yes." Optimus agreed, then he tilted his head sideways. Ratchet detected a tightly encrypted transmission on the airwaves, on the officer's private channel, aimed at Optimus and from Ultra Magnus.

"Trouble?"

Optimus sent him the encryption key by way of invitation to join the discussion.

_:... bolide was on radar, Optimus, and it came in at a shallow angle. It's entirely possible it was a ship or a Cybertronian protoform entering the atmosphere.__: _Ironhide's voice sounded worried.

_:Where did it come down?: _Optimus asked.  
_  
:Just outside of Las Vegas. Less than seventy miles from here. It could well have been a very large protoform or a small ship aiming for the beacon.:_

:Ironhide, please assemble a task force, and have a look.: Optimus's orders were casual. They did this at least once a month. At least this one was close, and not on another continent. Ratchet knew, however, that the fact that it had come down so close to the base upped the chances of it being something other than a chunk of iron ore.  
_  
:Permission to send some trainees, boss. Manywinds and Flora, along with Blue and Sunny.:_

:Granted, but will you add Wheelie to that roster?:

Ratchet could see Ironhide's surly look of indignation in his imagination. _:Wheelie, boss?:_

:He's small enough to ride with Windy aloft, and unlike Windy, he has some combat experience.: Optimus pointed out. _:I'd like to see him get more responsibility. He's made a true effort to follow every order I've given him and at this point I believe he has earned it.:_  
_  
:One fight. He got cornered, and you had to rescue him. That's his combat experience.:_

:And thirteen years as a Decepticon, which essentially counts as thirteen years of combat.: Ratchet snapped. The way Decepticons treated their younglings had always sat wrong with him. _:They sent him into the field to get the shard from Mikaela and said they'd kill him if he didn't bring it back. That's combat, or my struts are made of tin.:_

_:Meh. I'll take him. He seems to be no more of a screw-up than the rest of this sorry lot of soldiers. Ironhide out.:_


	41. Chapter 41

_:Wheelie,: _Ironhide commed the former Decepticon, :Report to Briefing Room B on the Ark.:

_  
:Ironhide, sir?: _Wheelie said, incredulously. _:I didn't do nothing, I swear, sir. I _swear _I've been good. I've been with Mrs. Witwicky or Optimus or running errands Wheeljack or Elita all day.:_

:Easy, kid.: Ironhide mentally reviewed the disciplinary reports he got daily from Elita, who had more-or-less stepped into Prowl's role of Security Chief (except she was reporting to Hot Rod and Magnus, not Prime), and realized it was true. _:You're not in trouble.: _

The younger twins, Sunstreaker, Bluestreak, and -- of all people -- Hound were currently on Elita's scrap list. Hound had reported to his duty shift late, had sheepishly apologized, and then had done it _again _the next day. Ironhide had a pretty good idea of why Hound had been distracted enough to not check his chronometer, had suggested setting an alarm for the future, and then had laughed his aft off with Ratchet and Elita about it later.

Wheelie was not on said scrap list.

Point of fact, Wheelie never had been in trouble. Not once. Not even for any of the normal pranks he would expect young enlisted mechs to pull. He was prompt, reasonably polite, did what he was told, and usually didn't fight with anyone. He had a temper, sure, but Ironhide had yet to hear of him do anything worse than trade insults when provoked first. He wasn't particularly good with the insults, but calling Sunstreaker an aft while hiding behind Optimus was the truth, and not grounds for discipline beyond a scolding from their leader ... Aside from kicking Grimlock, he'd never been in a fight, and Ironhide was chalking that one up to correctable stupidity and not actual malice.

_Primus, he's so young._

Ironhide shook his head at the cruelty of war, that a mere sparkling would be asked to pick up arms, and then said over the comlink, _:I've got an assignment for you.:_

:Sir?: Wheelie said, _:Are you changing my duty shift hours?:_

That, Ironhide realized, was a fairly tactful way of telling Ironhide that Wheelie was off duty at the moment. Given the fact that the Decepticons worked their troops like slave labor, Wheelie probably would not directly object to being given a task during his off-duty time. He was still too wary of the tempers of bigger mechs. Pretty much anyone else on the team would greet an errand after their shift with moans and groans and whining. Hell, Ironhide had been known to grumble about that himself, and all they'd used Wheelie for was chores and errands.

_And he's dang useful for that, too. That motorcycle form of his is quick, and he's human-sized, so he can enter the human areas of the base to fetch tools and reports and things. _

He was supposed to learn more Autobot medicine, but Ratchet hadn't had the time for training. In the meantime, getting him some field experience was probably a good thing.

_:It's a mission, scraplet,: _Ironhide said, softening his voice. _:If you get your aft up to the briefing room in the next five minutes you get to come.:_

:Yes sir!: The young mech's reluctance was replaced with eager enthusiasm.

* * *

Dust swirled around his ankles in the dry desert air as Ironhide finished transforming by the side of a remote dirt road. The bogey had disappeared off radar in this area. They still didn't know what it was; it had come in without radio contact. Ironhide suspected it was just space rock, hoped it was an Autobot, and feared it could be Decepticon in origin.

"Getting anything on your scanners?" He asked Flora, who had the most sensitive sensors of the team he'd assembled. All of the Arc's scientists had top-notch mods. Vermilion Prime had paid for only the best for his crew and he'd have given his struts for some of the specs he'd seen in reports on the new crew. Ironhide was picking up nothing himself, but Flora's sensitivity would be twice his for radio transmissions.

The new recruit (and _Primus _it had been a long time since they'd had new recruits) gave him a nervous look. Despite having gone out in the field several times with Hound, she seemed keyed up. Likely, she was scared of him rather than of the job itself, because she kept eying his cannons. He had his combat programs running and his weapons visible, capacitors humming. "N-Nothing Cybertronian, sir. Just Earth chatter, in English and Spanish. I think there's some truckers with CB radios in the area."

Flora had _not _impressed him on the gunnery range. He'd pulled the same trick on her as he had on Windy. She had some decent sized pulse cannons for her size, but they were not a match for his armor. Flora had collapsed in a shrieking, terrified pile of shaking armor when he'd shot himself. She'd dang near fritzed out in terror when he'd blasted _her _back. Since then, she'd viewed him with frank fear. This was very much unlike Windy, who he had overheard laughing about his training methods to Lennox later.

He nodded, and surveyed the rest of them for a second, then looked at Bluestreak and hooked his thumb at the highest ridge. Blue saluted in acknowledgment and trotted off into the darkness.

Ironhide turned to the recruits and said, "So why did I just send him up there when we have a flier with us?"

"Permission to speak, sir?" Windy was the first to volunteer.

"Go ahead."

"Because you want a view into the next valley before sending me up."

"Partly. Wheelie, what do you think?" He was curious what Wheelie would come up with. Wheelie was far more worldly than his other two recruits, in that 'worldly' in his case meant born in the middle of the war. Ironhide had already established that Wheelie's actual combat training had been zero, but he'd picked up plenty (including how to duck quick and, apparently, the value of staying out of trouble) simply by being raised by 'cons. Ratchet had been entirely correct in his assessment of Wheelie's experience, though Ironhide was still reluctant to send a small youngling into a field of battle. He'd seen too many small younglings killed.

"To _cover _him." Wheelie folded his arms across his chest, as if expecting his theory to be shot down. "He can't shoot in alt mode. _I _don't have the firepower to take down any sort of large Cybertronian flier. Bluestreak's a damn good shot and he's got the biggest laser rifle I've ever seen, as well as some sabot rounds, a pulse cannon, and six anti-aircraft missiles. Anyone comes after Windy, they get a missile up their aft from Blue. Sir."

Ironhide quirked an optic ridge upwards. It was exactly the right answer.

He had not bothered treating Wheelie to his brand of firearms training. Blue had given Wheelie an orientation on Autobot arms protocol. Ironhide figured that Wheelie had seen what weapons could do at close range, and likely to mechs he knew. Even to Fangface, probably. He was too busy to waste time on a redundant lesson.

"Flora, what do you think?" He turned his attention to her, to see if she would give a different answer.

"He can also cover us on the ground from up there," Flora said, slowly and hesitantly.

"Hnh. Now, Sunflower here ..."

Sunstreaker shot him a dirty look in reaction to the nickname.

"... his specialty is close combat, and he's got some pretty good armor. Where should he be, Flora?"

"At the front, when we walk in," she said, hesitantly, "in case anything surprises us."

"Hmph. Wheelie?"

"I'd leave Sunstreaker behind and have him patrol the road looking for anyone we might flush out," Wheelie said.

"Why?" Ironhide demanded.

"Because he's not going to be nearly as mobile in the dirt as the rest of us. He'd be at a disadvantage. However, it's entirely possible if there is a crashed mech here and if they don't want to be caught, they'd head for the road. Sunstreaker's good at surveillance. He could catch them. And he's tough enough that he could take almost anyone out."

Sunstreaker smirked at the implied praise. Ironhide, however, snorted. "You have Sunshine's specs. Before you go into battle, it's generally a good idea to _view _them."

Wheelie answered Ironhide's critical tone of voice with a dark look, but he also took a second to view the stats. Then he rolled his optics. "Sunflower," he smirked at Sunstreaker, "can retract his wheels and walk on proper feet. I didn't realize that. Handy mod, that. Okay. One of us needs to watch the road, though, I think."

"Mmm. Who's best armored?"

"You are," Wheelie said. He tilted his head to the side, considered, then said, "Permission to revise my suggestion, sir?"

"Go ahead."

"Sunstreaker should still watch the road, because he can handle himself in single combat. Flora should stay with you, because she has no combat experience, and you've got loads. Windy and I take to the air, and you and Flora scout on the ground."

Ironhide nodded slowly, a bit surprised. Wheelie had gotten it more-or-less right, though he was tempted to have Flora and Sunstreaker scout, and watch the road himself. Sunny was faster than he was over rough ground, though less heavily armored. This was probably going to amount to nothing more than a training exercise, but there was enough of a possibility of danger to take everything seriously. Though he figured between him, Blue, and Sunstreaker, they had the "danger" part covered. The three of them had nearly a million years of combined combat experience. Even if they ran into 'cons he wasn't overly worried. There had only been _one _bolide reported.

Wheelie added a lightly encrypted comment to Ironhide, after a quick look at Sunstreaker, _:Tactically, it might be smarter to have Flora and Sunny scouting 'cuz they could move a little faster than you, sir. Not that you're slow or anything. But I'm not sure that a pairing of Flora and Sunstreaker's the best combination of mechs, sir.:_

:Why?:

:Personality, sir. Flora's scared to death. Sunstreaker's an arrogant aft, sir. He'll scare her worse just because it amuses him. He'll see her as weak.:

:Good assessment, Wheelie. Flora wouldn't learn anything from Sunstreaker.: Ironhide's optic ridges rose in surprise.

Sunstreaker had fixed Wheelie with a suspicious look, likely assuming the encrypted chatter had been about him. Ironhide caught Sunny's gaze and scowled at him. "Sunstreaker, go patrol the road."

"Yes sir." Sunstreaker transformed and shot off into the night, spinning his wheels in the dirt a bit.

_:Hey, 'Hide,: _Blue suddenly broke radio silence. _:I'm on the ridge. I don't see any signs of an impact crater.:_

:Copy that. We'll just treat this as a serious training exercise.: Ironhide turned his attention to the two small mechs. _:Up go you, you two.:_

Windy needed less than a hundred feet to get aloft with a passenger Wheelie's weight in his open cockpit. The lonely bit of dirt road they'd stopped by was more than sufficient. Without a passenger, the little flier could get himself into the air with just a running start on foot, a leap aloft, and a mid-air transformation but he did require a runway if he was carrying a load. They shot into the night sky, running lights off, climbing at nearly a forty-five degree angle. Windy was slow in the air, and scarily fragile, but he was as agile as a swallow.

Ironhide squinted his optics at them. By accident more than by design, Manywinds was hard to see at night. His engine was tiny, he only ran it for a few minutes at a time and chose to glide the rest, and his wings were a flexible polymer that didn't reflect radar. He had very little heat signature, and was nearly silent even when his engine was powered up. His mostly black paint job blended in with the night sky.

_:Hey,: _Wheelie said, _:There's a heat source behind you, 'Hide. It just appeared out of nowhere.:_

:Yeah?: Ironhide turned around, automatically unlocking the safeties on his weapons up as he did.

There was, indeed, a heat source: the mouth of a pulse cannon, leveled at his head, from twenty feet away. He aimed right back with his guns. The owner of the cannon was smallish, but heavily armored. The mech had moved with absolute silence, and more importantly, had not given off any _other _signals to alert 'Hide -- no EM, no sonar reflections off of the mech's metal armor, and nothing on Ironhide's auxiliary optics until he'd started to turn. The damn slagger had stealth technology on par with the best Autobot mods available.

"Who the frag are you?" Ironhide demanded.

The stranger said, in _Nebulan, _of all unexpected languages, "_Die_, _Autobot!_"

It had been a long time since he'd heard that language spoken aloud. It took him measurable time to recognize it, then unpack an archived language module to figure out what the heck the mech had said. Before he comprehended the exact words he assumed it was hostile because he could hear the click of disengaging relays and the escalating whine of capacitors about to discharge. However, Flora fired her cannons in a perfectly reasonable reaction one astrosecond before Ironhide did, even as the stranger shot back. Pulse cannon fire slammed into his armor, making him stagger but not doing any real damage. The stranger flipped end-over-end, tumbling into some rocks.

"Nebulan?" He said, incredulously, in Cybertronian.

"Bit of a weird accent," Flora said, padding closer. Gratifyingly, she was being cautious. She had her cannon aimed at the 'con's head.

_:Keep sharp: _He told the rest of his troops. _:Windy, Wheelie, keep your optics alert. They're using cloaks.:_

While Flora approached the enemy soldier, Ironhide stood watch, alertly scanning the desert around them for signs of more 'cons. All was silent and still. He was not fooled. They were not alone. He could feel optics watching him with an intuitive sense developed by many years of this sort of fighting.

_:'Hide, look at this.: _Flora shot him a quick image from her closer inspection of the 'con.

Where he would have expected to find the Decepticon sigil etched into the mech's chest armor there was something else: a black circle surrounded by a corona of red flames. He snapped his head around to regard the mech with brief suspicion. What the _frag_? Unfortunately, the mech was still offline, so he couldn't simply demand an explanation. It was possible that Fangface had simply changed to a new sigil, but that seemed highly unlikely.

"Ironhide, this isn't Cybertronian technology." Flora, one arm still extended at the mech's head with pulse cannon glowing, crouched. She poked the mech's armor with one finger. "Or, at least, it wasn't made on Cybertron."

"Nebulan?" He said, an easy guess. He was keeping watch and letting her do a quick field investigation of their attacker.

"Hnnh. He's young, if that's the case. Built after the start of your war." She scanned him for a moment. "Offline, but not dead. There's a definite spark signature. The general schematics are pretty similar to a Cybertronian transformer, but the alloys are all wrong. A lot of them are oxidative or unstable, and -- _Primus -- _he's not running on energon."

"Eh?" Ironhide blinked his optics. He'd never heard of a transformer that didn't use energon.

"I'm getting organic readings from this thing. It's got a digestive reactor, and a methane fueled power plant." She poked at the unconscious mech with one long, clawed finger.

"Eh?" Ironhide was no scientist. He had no clue what Flora was talking about. He might have understood better if she'd used the much more precise Cybertronian language, but she was speaking in English, and the rather general and vague nouns in English just didn't give him enough to go on.

"As best I can tell from a quick scan, it eats organic substances and then bacteria ferment it and generate methane, which is then used to generate electricity in a fuel cell. That's _... clever. _Ingenious." She tilted her head sideways. "I'd love to study that system. It must be terribly efficient to power a mech that size, and it's optimized for a world with an O2 atmosphere."

"But it has a spark." That was the important thing, Ironhide decided. He really didn't care if the damn enemy used a wood-fired steam engine to generate power. The really important part was the distinction between drone and mech. Mechs had sparks. Drones were just robots. He'd treat a mech a lot different than a soulless automaton.

"Oh, yeah. Pretty standard arrangement of spark chamber, memory core, and processor core." Using one hand she managed to retract a piece of chest armor and peered into his chassis. "Woah. I've _never _seen a design like this. It's like all the elements are there, I recognize most of his parts, but they're ... off."

"Uh?" Ironhide twisted around to look at her.

Flora stood up, and rested her clawed fingers on her hips. "It's just not _right_. Grip could probably tell me more, or your engineer, but we design stuff to last eons. This creature's not built that way. Wrong alloys, not durable enough. And the layout's different than anything we use. Stuff that's standardized, like thread counts on screws and tubing diameters, is _off_. It isn't using our standardized voltages either, and the power packs are shaped wrong, and I've never seen that color of insulation on Cybertronian wiring. The ground wires are _pink_, Cybertronian grounds are orange. Humans use black. Quints use green. Who the frag uses _pink_? And that's just for starters. It's just weird."

"He could be a rebuild using alien parts," Ironhide suggested. "We've been pretty strapped for resources for a long time, Flora. There's other worlds with the technology to do this."

_Quintessons_, Ironhide thought. A veteran of the Nineteenth Quintesson War before the civil war that had destroyed Cybertron, he had both a healthy respect for Quint technology and a real hatred for an enemy that claimed to have created his race and therefore own their very sparks.

"Hnh. Do you recognize that sigil? I don't, sir." She waved her gun arm at the black-circle-and-flames on the mech's chest.

"Nope. We'll have to ask him when he reboots." Ironhide hoped that wasn't going to be until they reached the base. _:Ironhide to Prime.:_

_:Go ahead, Ironhide.: _

_:We found something ...: _He filled Optimus in, using his highest level of encryption.

_:Hmm.: _Optimus considered the discoveries for a minute, then said, _:I'm sending Silverbolt with backup. Defensive positions until they arrive. And be _careful _'Hide.:_

Ironhide turned his attention to Windy and Wheelie. _:Both of you, look sharp up there ...:_

_:Yes sir ..: _Windy started to say, then in a startled tone of voice, _:Frag, I've got company!:  
_

_:Optimus, send Ratchet. This is getting hot.:_

_:I'm on my way.: _Ratchet spoke up. Ironhide assumed that Optimus had sent him an encryption key. _:Nobody is allowed to get slagged today. I'm too busy.:  
_

Ironhide peered into the darkness. He could see a dim point of light that was Manywind's engine in infrared, and nothing else.

Windy frantically sent an image of something dark and _silent _passing them, and coordinates. It still took Ironhide a moment to spot the craft even with Windy directing him to the right part of the sky; it was huge, and banking hard. He could only detect it by the stars that winked out as it passed. _Silverbolt's size, _he realized, with a chill.

And then the sky opened up with fire when the alien craft ripped into Windy and Wheelie. He heard Windy's scream across the radio -- rage as well as terror -- and Bluestreak's missiles fired from the ridge. The larger aircraft banked hard away, and Windy, trailing flames of burning energon, spiraled towards the ground.

_:Windy!: _Ironhide screamed into the comm even has he blasted video back to base, to every command-level officer. _:Wheelie!:_

_:Frag!: _Ratchet voiced his opinion amid an explosion of swearing voices on the radio. _:I'm on my way! ETA fifteen minutes!:  
_

_:Damn him to the Unmaker's Pit, he got my wings!: _Windy was conscious and sounded furious. _:Bluestreak, kill that slagger for me!:  
_

Blue was trying to do just that; the alien jet was streaking ahead of two guided missiles. His engines were screaming with a frantic effort to escape, and Ironhide took some grim satisfaction in Bluestreak's efficiency. The jet tried to dodge the missiles, and Blue (who was guiding them himself using his HUD) herded the jet towards his own position on the ridge. The missiles rose up, and in reaction the jet dodged down and screamed low over the top of the mountain. There was a flare of light from the ridge as Blue fired both of his cannons, and a thunderous explosion from the jet, and then it impacted the ridge below Blue's position with an enormous fireball.

_Probably a kill, _Ironhide decided, but he'd been doing this for too long to assume the jet was dead. He never assumed an enemy was deceased until he saw an empty spark chamber.

_:Got 'im.: _Blue said, in satisfaction, then in a slightly spazzier tone, continued, _:Got him got him got him! Like that time on Nieryl when I hit Starscream and isn't it too bad I didn't kill him then and I got him and Windy's going down, he's going down, he's gonna hit a hundred yards from your position, twenty degrees west of north, give you coords in a sec ...: _Bluestreak followed up with a spat of GPS coordinates.

_:Blue, watch yourself, kid.: _Ironhide cautioned, as he tracked Manywinds' descent with his optics. Windy was burning off energon in a fiery trail, and then that cut off when whatever was leaking sealed itself. Windy's chassis was hot enough to make him easy to track, however.

_:Gonna hit hard!: _Windy said, _:Sorry, Wheelie!:_

:Pit! Last time I fly with you, Birdy!:

Ironhide winced as the two hit the ground with a _crump _of metal impacting the earth.

_:Report!: _He barked at them, hoping he'd get a response. They had hit hard enough to do some serious damage. A large mech could take a fall like that and bounce up with only a few jostled circuits to show for it, but they were both small and lightly armored and had already taken a hit.

To his relief, Windy pinged him back, though he didn't answer with words. Wheelie, however, burst onto the air with a tremendous snarl of, _:Fragging aftwit what the frag there was a truce! Glitch that! Fang _lied _to us!:_

Ironhide could see them in the distance. Wheelie was trying to stand up. Manywinds wasn't moving much, though he pinged Ironhide again and included a stream of errors that made Ironhide wince in alarm. He was very glad that Ratchet was likely already in the air after reviewing that damage report. _:Wheelie, can you walk?:_

:Slag, yeah. That son of a fragging glitchwit put a hole through my rear wheel and I bent a strut, but can slagging walk_!:_

:Take what's left of Windy's wings off and get him over here. Drag him if you have to.: He let Wheelie vent, knowing it wasn't just the pain. It was the perceived betrayal. Wheelie was undoubtedly certain that he'd just been shot out of the air by one of Fangface's minions. He had not enlightened them about Flora's discoveries, and saw no tactical reason to do so when _real _Decepticons could hear the transmission and decrypt it. There was an off chance that keeping these strangers secret might be to their advantage.

It also occurred to him these strangers could be a splinter faction of 'cons. That didn't specifically account for the oddities in the mech's design, but an alien rebuild of a badly damaged mech could explain that. He pretty much assumed that Fangface had his hands full keeping control of the Decepticon forces.

'Hide decided he could cover Wheelie from his current position. Flora still had a gun on their prisoner. He didn't want to leave her undefended; she was watching the mech and he was watching everything around them for another attack. Every sensor on alert, he observed as Wheelie struggled to his feet.

Both of the mechs who had attacked them had substantial cloaking ability, and he was worried about more unpleasant surprises. Ironhide listened with his audio sensors turned all the way up for the softest crunch of a metal foot on desert sand, watched for the faintest ghost of heat, felt for EM, and waited for any whisper of a radio transmission. All was silent, but he was not convinced they were alone. His instincts told him otherwise.

Wheelie sent a burst of his own damage report to Ironhide, revealing he was likely in quite a bit of pain, though he didn't mention that. In addition to bending a strut, he had dislocated several bearings in his hip and ripped a piston loose on impact. It appeared from the injuries that he'd hyper-extended his hip. However, as he had said, he was able to walk slowly -- albeit laboriously, and with an unsteady limp.

_:Where do you want me, sir?: _Sunstreaker said, and he was all business. They'd been fighting together for a long, long time. Ironhide was grateful that he had two experienced mechs with him that he could trust in a situation like this. Sunny and Blue might have their own separate issues outside of combat, but he couldn't ask for more reliable soldiers right now.

_:Watch the road. Cover Blue's position if he needs it. Watch for cloaked mechs. The one we took out is Bee's size. I never saw him until just before he fired.:_

:Slaggin Decepticons. You got it, 'Hide.:

Manywinds had hit the ground in alt mode, and was likely too injured to transform without assistance. Wheelie bent over Windy, said something to him (Ironhide's sensors heard the distant mutter of their voices) and then gave a hard yank as Windy tried to unfold himself into protoform. Ironhide winced, knowing that had to hurt, but with Wheelie's assistance Windy made it into a bipedal form.

Wheelie detached the flier's shredded wings with a slash of his claws, abandoned them on the ground, and slung Windy's arm over his shoulders. The two staggered across the desert floor towards Ironhide. Windy was barely moving his right leg and his left was simply dragging behind him; he'd been hit just below the engine in flight, which corresponded to his hips in protoform. He had a _lot _of damage, though not to his processor. Likely, his incoherence was from pain. He kept shooting damage reports at Ironhide.

_:I hear you, Windy,: _Ironhide said, finally. _:Ratchet's on his way.: _

His only response was another pathetic damage report. There wasn't a thing he could do about Windy's pain right now, though those pings were likely wordless appeals for help.

Wheelie was halfway to their position when Ironhide saw a faint, ghostly trail of heat on the desert floor. He watched casually, not tensing so as not to alert the unknown mech that he'd been noticed. He could see the faint shadow of footprints from his thermal imaging optics, left by an unseen stalker who was paralleling the two little mechs. _:Blue. See that?:_

He shot an encrypted video at Bluestreak, and only at Blue.

_:Got him. You want him down or dead?:_

:Dead. We've already got a prisoner.:

Bluestreak would regret this later. Ironhide knew that. Blue had little problem with kill-or-be-killed scenarios, but he hated ambushing enemies and would feel awful about doing so. However, he didn't question the order, and Ironhide had been in too many fights to let the slight chance that this was _not _an enemy make him hesitate. Anyone dumb enough to walk around with a cloak on after cloaked enemy had attacked them deserved to be shot.

Blue simply asked, _:Flora, where's the pressure tank on that mech you guys took out?:_

:High, up between the shoulders.: She sounded puzzled. Ironhide had deliberately not alerted the trainees to the enemy, because he didn't trust them to play dumb effectively. One glance in the wrong direction and it would be all over.

It went without saying that anything that burned methane as a fuel would have a hefty tank for said gas. Methane was volatile, and would require pressurization to store and use. Ironhide assumed this also meant they would be dealing with mechs that were on the large side of things; it would be difficult to miniaturize the sort of fuel system that Flora had described. _Primus. Wonder what sort of environment prompted them to develop that?_

He was no engineer, and certainly didn't have the biggest processor. The only reason he could come up with for using methane to generate power was severe poverty, worse than what the Autobots dealt with. _If they didn't have the ability to refine energon, maybe they switched to alternate fuels in desperation. Energon refineries do require a fairly high level technology base and substantial planetary resources ..._

Maybe somebody else would have a better explanation, or their prisoner would provide one when they interrogated him.

Blue said, _.:'Hide, sir, can you hit him with a missile and then when he drops his cloak to shoot back I'll try to nail him in the flammables.:_

:That works. I'll fire on the slagger in three hundred astroseconds ...: Ironhide disengaged the last of his applicable safeties and casually turned halfway towards the cloaked enemy, while scanning the surrounding terrain. He wasn't just faking that survey of the land, either. They'd spotted one enemy, but another could be sneaking up on them too.

At the indicated time, Ironhide abruptly swung his arm up and fired a missile at the mech. Wheelie screeched an obscenity and flattened himself to the ground over Manywinds, even as the missile impacted the enemy's cloak with a tremendous flare of purple light. The cloak and, likely, a defensive shield disintegrated in a tremendous release of raw energy. A moment later there was a _pop _and Ironhide turned his back to the mech and flung an arm up to shield his faceplate. His peripheral optics and audio sensors were washed out and deafened by the explosion, and the blast wave rocked him on his feet. From half a mile away, Bluestreak had hit the fuel tank with a blast from one of the most powerful laser rifles in the Autobot army.

_:Got him.: _Bluestreak reported, unnecessarily.

_:Wheelie, you okay?: _Flora asked. He had been close enough to the explosion that the flames and smoke had blown over him.

_:I'm going to need a new paint job.: _Wheelie informed them all, sounding disgruntled. He scrambled awkwardly upright, yanked Windy off the ground and into his arms and ran the last hundred feet to their position. He was limping badly, and his optics were squinted in pain, but he didn't complain at all. He just set Manywinds down between Ironhide and Flora and reported, _:He offlined with that blast from the pain, I think.:_

_:Probably a good thing.: _Flora said, with a shudder.

Ironhide, however, was suddenly tense again. That line about the paint had been sent to all of them. It had been encrypted against the enemy, but he'd used a key Wheelie knew they all had. It was the kind of comment Sunstreaker would take as an opportunity to say something snarky, and silence reigned. The three trainees had not known Sunny for long enough to realize just how odd that was.

Blue, however, knew Sunstreaker better than almost any mech alive save Sunny's own brother. The two of them had spent years in a 'con camp together. Blue's voice held a bit of tension when he said over the comm, _:Sunstreaker could always help you. He's our resident paint expert__.:_

That was a blatant invitation for Sunstreaker to respond, to say something that would affirm to the others he was okay. There was not even a, 'Frag you, Blue!' from the young warrior.

_:Sunflower, report your status.: _Ironhide was a bit superstitious, and hated asking a direct question like that. Far too often, in his experience, the news was bad. He waited, uneasy, for a full earth minute. Sunny didn't respond. There wasn't even a ping of acknowledgement.

_:GOT the bastard.: _Sunstreaker's voice crackled over the comm, full of immense satisfaction. _:Sorry, sir. Didn't want to give my position up. Somebody needs to tell these slaggers that cloaking is pointless on a dirt road. I saw the dust coming.:_

:Dead?: Ironhide relaxed a little in relief.  
_  
:He tried to shoot me. I put a blade through his spark.:_

:Are you injured?:

:Do you have to ask?: But Sunny pinged 'Hide with a damage report that showed only minor cosmetic wounds. _:Fragging bastards.:_

:Got your paint. We know, we know.: Bluestreak teased. _:And we also know you'd still be the prettiest mech on wheels even if you were primer grey. You've told us.:_

Ironhide snorted. The banter was habit, and reassuring for the moment, as long as they didn't let it distract them. Bluestreak and Sunstreaker were too experienced for that to be an issue, but it could cause the trainees to lower their guard. _:Stay sharp, all of you. There could be more trouble. Enough chit-chat.:  
_  
_:How's Windy?: _Blue asked.  
_  
:Offline. Stable vitals.: _Wheelie, to Ironhide's surprise, had made himself very useful by crouching beside Manywinds and starting first aid. He had a handful of clamps and tubing in one hand, and was wrist deep in Windy's chassis, sealing off several leaking hydraulic lines. While losing hydraulic fluid wasn't exactly life threatening, leaking oil could cause secondary damage to other systems, and it had to be scrubbed off before Windy's primarily aluminum frame could be welded. The less spilled the better. Wheelie clearly knew what he was doing, and 'Hide recalled that he had some basic medical training.

_:How are _you_?: _Ironhide demanded, pointedly. Wheelie seemed to be protecting his damaged hip by not moving it if at all possible.

_:As Fang would say, the damage is a long way from my spark.: _Wheelie shot Ironhide a tough, challenging glare. _:I'll survive.:_

_:Wheelie,: _'Hide rebuked, at least partly because he was annoyed by the mention of the Decepticon leader, _:I need to know your status for strategic reasons. Report.:_

Wheelie fired another damage report at him, without looking up from Windy's injuries. He'd gone from patching hydraulic leaks to stripping out burnt and torn wiring. Windy's processor core was air-cooled, and it appeared that Wheelie was trying to field repair the wiring to a thermal exhaust fan. Manywinds might have gone offline for more reasons than just shock.

_:Got the facts. Need your opinion.: _'Hide ordered. _:Can you fight? Can you run? Can you transform?:_

:Yes, yes, no.: Wheelie sounded a bit preoccupied. He paused, poking at a visibly sparking bit of circuitry, then added. _:Not that I'll _ever _be the world's best warrior.:_

:That'd be me.: Sunstreaker put in.

_:Your brother would dispute that point,: _Flora laughed at Sunstreaker. Her amusement held a nervous edge. 'Hide gave her a wary look. She didn't sound like she was about to come unglued, but nervous mechs had a tendency to shoot before verifying the identity of their target.

_:She's already got you figured out, Sunny.: _Blue giggled, sounding -- to 'Hide's experienced ears -- a bit close to 'frantic'. From Blue there would be no blind panic, and he knew from long experience Bluestreak would hold it together until they were back at the safety of the base. Ironhide also knew that it would probably be wise to give Blue an extra duty shift or two off the schedule, until he found his equilibrium again. However, Blue's competence under fire was well established. It was the _rest _of the time they worried about the young sniper.

_Primus, I miss Jazz. He could always deal with Bluestreak's issues better than the rest of us put together. _A sudden, painful, bit of grief made Ironhide's spark twist in his chest. He had no clue, really, what to say to Bluestreak himself. _Maybe Optimus can take some time with him, or Magnus. _

_:Yeah, well, she has a dumb name.: _Sunstreaker grumbled, clearly at a loss for any worse insult.

_:This, coming from the infamous Sunflower,: _Flora snapped back.

Ironhide quirked an optic ridge up at that. She was nervous, but if she could come back with a response like that, she was still using her processor efficiently. That spoke of potential, once she got over being a green recruit. Hound wanted to use her as a scout, and Ironhide was beginning to agree that might be smart.

_:Oh, frag you.: _Sunstreaker's response was typically blunt, and without much wordplay. If he was pissed, he just got right to the point about it. And he didn't understand friendly teasing much. Ironhide made a mental note to pull Flora aside and make sure she understood that hassling Sunstreaker was a dangerous sport best done only when one had substantial backup. The only good thing about Sunny's temper was that he didn't carry a grudge long. His brother, on the other hand, never really forgot any slight.  
_  
:Ratchet,: _Wheelie said, interrupting the banter, _:Manywinds has a fractured spinal strut and a ton of neurocircuit damage, plus his right femoral strut is basically gone__ from the hip down and his pelvic girdle is in pieces. The only thing holding his leg on is a piece of armor and some wires.:_

Ironhide was struck by how adult Wheelie sounded. Mature. Responsible. He blinked his optics and gave Wheelie a quick glance. The kid was doing damn good, better than he'd ever expected.

Ratchet's voice, still a bit staticky with distance, sounded concerned. _:Is he still online?:_

:He's out cold: Wheelie stood up with a groan of discomfort. _:Probably a good thing. He was way past the point of being able to fight.:_

:We're five minutes away.: Silverbolt reported. _:Hang in there.:_

The night was quiet, except for the distant crackle of flames. Ironhide's instincts were now telling him the fight was over. There were many unknowns: who had attacked them, and why. What were they doing in the middle of the Nevada desert? Were the strangers Decepticons or others?

He didn't know.

But, somehow, with the instincts born of tens of thousands of years of war, he knew _this _battle was over. He relaxed, just a little bit, and watched the night. It was just one more battle in a long, long war.

Except there was the sigil. He twisted back briefly to glance at the black-circle-and-flames sigil on the strange mech's chestplate. In hundreds of thousands of years of war, and close to a million years of living, Ironhide had met nearly every Decepticon alive. He had an eidetic memory. He had never seen that emblem before, and did not recognize the mech bearing it. Granted, his people tended to change their forms on a regular basis, but certain styling cues generally remained the same. He had once recognized Optimus at twenty miles when Optimus's alt mode was a boat solely based on Optimus's paint job. There wasn't even a ghostly hint of familiarity there when he surveyed their captive.


	42. Chapter 42

Author's notes: I didn't fully appreciate the technical difficulties of writing a character who exists in two bodies until I was dealing with one as a main character. I hope I can manage to avoid confusing anyone.

* * *

The sound of an internal cooling fan in his Camaro half's cooling system automatically kicking on woke Bee at a time just past dawn, a few minutes before a timer have would booted his processor anyway. Bee roused in alt mode, and was briefly disoriented by the strange feeling of his other half still asleep. He could distantly feel the comfort of warm, fuzzy blankets and there was a slight awareness of music playing in the bedroom, and the clinking of dishes in the kitchen. His mech half could easily hear Mikaela and Sam talking through the thin walls of their portable home, though they were speaking very low.

"I'm worried about him, Sam," Mikaela said, "they ask too much. They asked him to split his soul in half. And he _did _it. Willingly. And he's hurting so bad now ..."

_Time to get up, _Bee thought, wincing in reaction to her worries. Truthfully, he felt much better. As Ratchet had promised his new code had integrated overnight, and he found the process of rousing his second protoform nearly instinctive. There was a little bit of vertigo (in both forms) as sensory input outpaced processor speed, then he figured out how to dial down a few unnecessary streams of data and solved that problem. He still had the sensation of a ghostly presence poking through his memory core, caused by dual processors writing to mirrored drives, but it was ... better. Less unsettling. He suspected he'd never be entirely comfortable with the feeling, but he could deal with it. The benefits outweighed the unpleasantness.

In the bed, he opened his eyes and regarded the ceiling for a moment while he ran a long list of diagnostics. There were no major errors. His bladder needed emptying. His electrolyte balance was a bit high; he should consume some water. His blood sugar was a tad low, which meant he needed to eat. His respiration seemed normal. Temperature normal. His immune system reported a very minor infection in his sinus cavity, which it was efficiently dealing with; this was normal and he had been forewarned to expect to deal with regular issues involving opportunistic germs. There was no major pain other than that from a few bruises. The goose egg on his head from last night had subsided.

Then he discovered that the nerves of one foot had stopped responding to input. He was lying on his side and could not feel the wonderfully soft blanket against his skin from the knee down.

Crap.

As complex as the protoform was, issues were to be expected. It was, of course, nowhere near as hastily built as the humans were assuming. Stasis fields could be rigged to worked in reverse, though sadly not in areas large enough for any practical work to be done. That knowledge was _thoroughly _classified because the technology was too close to weapons tech for comfort. It had taken years, not days, to grow the protoform: it had been locked in an accelerant chamber for that entire time, except for brief moments over a few real-time days when they had pulled it out for testing. Lots of testing.

Still, problems were to be expected.

Bee sat up, poked the foot, and found the skin numb. He couldn't wiggle his toes. Nerve damage, certainly.

He sighed, and swung both legs over the edge of the berth -- bed -- and experimentally stood up. The leg was definitely experiencing some sort of glitch, but he could bear weight on it somewhat. It wasn't responding to motor commands either, from about the knee down.

... a warning tingle of pain errors suddenly made him freeze in place.

He hissed in surprise. The foot cramped, and then exploded in pain. He groaned and grabbed for balance with a hand on the dresser. The noise made the two humans in the next room stop talking about him. Both were simply agreeing that they were concerned. "Bee?" Sam called.

"Slag!" He responded back. It hurt. Ever-loving Primus, it hurt. Every motion made pain explode in that foot, and yet it seemed almost irresistible to curl his toes and twist his foot about and that just made it worse and he just wanted it to _stop _hurting! "_Slag!"_

Sam and Mikaela flung the door open together, scrambling through in a tangle of limbs. They nearly fell down, and both shouted words of concern at him that he wasn't entirely tracking. It hurt so bad that the pain was triggering some sort of autonomic reflex, and the fluid that lubricated his eyes was overflowing. Tears, he realized. His eyes were watering.

"What's _wrong_?" Sam demanded, his question finally breaking through to Bee's agony-stunned processor.

"My foot!" He ground out.

Mikaela crouched, and reached to touch his bare toes. "I don't see anything wrong with it ..."

"It was numb when I woke up, and now it hurts ..." The pain was beginning to fade, though clearly, anything that agonizing had to indicate a serious malfunction.

Sam snickered.

"It hurts!" he repeated, wounded.

"You woke up with a numb foot, and now it hurts." Sam folded his arms. "Feeling better yet?"

"A little."

"Google 'my foot fell asleep', nimrod." Sam swatted Bee in the chest with the back of one hand. "I thought you were hurt."

"I cannot Google anything right now." Bee folded his arms and summoned every ounce of dignity. Then, chagrined, he added, "But I believe I understand what you are saying, and you are likely correct."

Mikaela, in a slightly kinder tone of voice, asked, "How are you doing this morning?"

He considered the question, then said honestly, "Much better. I heard you talking, both of you. I appreciate how very concerned you are."

They traded a slow look. Sam ran a hand over his face and said, "Sorry, Bee. Sometimes I forget how well you can hear. Did we wake you up?"

"You have nothing to apologize for. You were simply concerned about me." He shook his head, "And you did not disturb me. The heat did that. It's going to be very warm today."

They exchanged another glance, then Sam said, "Ratchet said for you to head to the med bay for an eight AM appointment, to make sure you do your morning maintenance before you go, and to eat something. He wanted to make sure everything was functioning properly."

"The appointment was for seven AM."

Sam sighed. "He's probably busy and pushed it back. There was a fight last night."

"Decepticons?" Bee asked, alarmed. The thought of Decepticon trouble when he was weakened and vulnerable made him nervous.

"Mechs," Mikaela said, with a shrug. "But not Decepticons."

Bee gave her a puzzled look. There were only three types of mechs: Autobots, Decepticons, and neutrals. By definition, neutrals wouldn't be attacking anyone. That was a very short process of elimination. If it was mechs attacking Autobots, he assumed it would be Decepticons.

Mikaela returned his gaze with a hesitant shrug. "That's what Ratchet said when he e-mailed me this morning. He said it wasn't 'cons."

By sheer reflex, Bee tried to activate his comm to get more information from Ironhide. A stinging error popped up. He wouldn't get his comm enabled until he saw Ratchet, and he could get the identity of the enemy clarified at the same time. He ran a hand over his face, then said, "Who got hurt?"

"Windy and Wheelie."

"Frag. How bad?" Windy was so delicate, it scared him. Wheelie wasn't much better, either. However, Wheelie had a fairly sturdy duryllium structure and at least some decent armor. Windy's struts were mostly aluminum, with a few titanium bits mixed in. His armor was carbon fiber and aluminum. Aluminum was was frighteningly easy to bend or tear and titanium had a melting point way below the temperature of burning energon. And to top it off, they'd favored lightness over strength and redundancy. He could float on a breeze like a hawk, but his struts were frighteningly thin and hollow and his armor so fragile it could be bent with a simple, casual blow.

"Windy pretty bad," Mikaela put in, something that didn't surprise Bee. "I walked over to the med bay earlier this morning. He's awake, and Grip was machining him new struts and not letting anyone else near the equipment. And he's shouting it's _his _med bay and that Windy is _his _crew."

"Oh, Primus." Bee covered his face with his hand as he envisioned Ratchet's likely reaction. Bad enough that Windy'd been hit; that would put Ratchet in a foul mood to begin with. If Grip was being stupid, Ratchet's temper would be exponentially worse.

Technically, Grip was correct that he had some rank over Ratchet in the med bay, because Grip was the Ark's medical officer. With everything else going on, they just hadn't had time to sort out personnel issues. Grip, additionally, was refusing to swear allegiance to the Autobots. There was one other mech on the Ark who didn't want to enlist either. They were really not sure what to do with two neutrals on Earth. He didn't even want to think about the havoc they could cause if they decided to go their own way. The Autobots would have no authority over them, and explaining that to the humans could be interesting.

Worse, Grip was a fragging _medic. _He knew an uncomfortable amount about Cybertronian science. Medics had to be everything from programmers to quantum engineers. His advice, and he suspected Optimus's advice, to the human governments would be to ask the neutrals to leave, since the Autobots couldn't be responsible for their behavior. However, he suspected Grip could find sanctuary from any one of many individual human governments, all of which would be highly interested in the knowledge in his head. Granted, Grip might refuse to release weapons tech information on moral grounds, but most medics knew at least the basics of quantum engineering and force shield design. It was a small step from a quantum bridge generator to a planet-busting bomb, and an even smaller step from building a force shield to designing a pulse cannon. Even some of the more advanced Autobot alloys were justifiably classified as weapons tech, as was the nanotech Autobots used for transcanning and rapid structural redesign. He had no way of knowing if Grip would understand _why _that information was protected, or care if he did.

Even if Grip had authority over the med bay, however, Ratchet had authority over Windy. Manywinds was an Autobot now. Ultimately, Ratchet would win a test of wills over who was running the show, but things might get ugly before it was resolved.

_It's a war_, Bee thought grimly, _and we may have to explain to Grip at the point of a cannon that if he's not with us, he needs to leave this world. Primus, I don't want to do that. I completely sympathize with his ideals but he is not being pragmatic about the realities of our existence._

Instead of commenting on his concerns about Grip Bee asked a more practical and immediate term question, "How fragged off is Ratchet?"

"He threw a wrench at Doc in the main hangar," Mikaela volunteered.

"Pit." He would skip the appointment if it wasn't vital, and if he wasn't seriously missing his comm. The silence in his head was unnerving. He was so used to a background of radio chatter. Having the comm off was worse than the awareness that his weapons were offline, too.

He knew Ratchet had to be in a towering rage if he was turning his wrath on Doc. Doc would have taken the assault with grace, but his innate dignity generally also meant he was safe from Ratchet's temper. Ratchet attacked mechs who would fight back, as a rule, and Doc was just about as much of a noncombatant as was possible in this time of war. Bee had seen Doc enter the med lab once when Ratchet was in a towering rage, screaming at all and sundry, and Doc had calmly asked Ratchet a question, even using the affectionate nickname 'Ratch' that only his closest friends dared utter. Ratchet had calmly answered Doc's questions before going back to a raging tantrum.

_Nobody _got mad at Doc. At least, not usually. Doc had probably reacted to Ratchet's display of fury with one lifted eye ridge and a quiet retreat to his private office until Ratchet got done with his tantrum. Doc didn't fight back on the rare occasions when he was the target of Ratchet's notorious and sometimes irrational temper; he was as much of a true pacifist as Grip tried to claim to be.

Bee regarded both humans for a moment, wondering if Mikaela realized just how telling that report of Ratchet loosing his temper at Doc was, then gestured vaguely in the directly of the bathroom. "I need to, err, shower and do my morning maintenance."

He missed his comm. He couldn't demand his copy of the battle reports without it.

Mikaela said slowly, "Do you need any help?"

She probably still remembered how helpless he had been last night, how vulnerable. It made him uneasy to think of how frightened he had been. He was not embarrassed, exactly, but he was concerned that they would see him as weakened. He shook his head firmly, "Mikaela, I think I can figure out how to operate your wash rack -- your shower. May I use your shampoo, however? I am supposed to wash this hair daily."

"Yeah, sure. Use Sam's, though. Mine smells girly."

* * *

Bathing took less time than he had expected. The humanoid form was mostly sealed, and only the dermal layer needed to be scrubbed off. Compared to the lengthy process of removing armor and cleaning the complicated structures of a Cybertronian body, a process that required the help of at least one other person, a human shower was trivial. On the flip side, however, he would need to wash this form far more often. Its skin would naturally produce oils and leaked coolant, and even if he wasn't actually contaminated with dirt that created a biological residue needed to be removed. Otherwise, it would grow bacteria and smell badly, as well as become greasy.

The shower had been surprisingly pleasant, though. His skin was sensitive, more so than anything he'd ever experienced before in his life. The warm water had felt soothing, and he had -- very briefly -- enjoyed standing under the pounding spray. He had not actually been certain which bottle of shampoo was Mikaela's and which was Sam's. He picked the one he thought smelled better, somewhat amused by using that criteria for a choice, and washed his hair through. Conditioner was required too, he recalled from Doc's very detailed manuals for this form, and he applied a handful of the second viscous fluid then rinsed it out. Doc had inserted a note in the manual that he would have Bee's bolts if he damaged his hair through neglect, as it had taken some effort to convince Nebulan tissue to grow a realistic approximation of blond human hair. Nebulan "hair" was feathery.

The warm spray felt good on his skull; even the bruised tissue seemed less painful after he stood under the hot water for a minute.

Mikaela knocked on the door when he stepped out, then opened it a crack and stuck her hand through. "Doc just showed up with other stuff he thought you'd need."

She had a bag in her hands, plus a folded stack of clean fatigues. Bee took both. "Thanks, 'Kaela."

Mikaela answered him through the narrow opening, "He also said we're to go shopping for clothing for all of us for the party after your checkup, and then there's a command meeting planned for four this afternoon. I'll tell you, I'm enjoying this job. I've never had a boss tell me to go on a shopping spree before."

"You need specialized business and formal clothing to do your job. I don't see why it wouldn't be part of your work hours to obtain it."

"Alien logic there, buddy. Suspect it's because you guys wear armor instead of clothes that you think that way. The Autobot army provides your upgraded armor, right?" Mikaela grinned at him. "But I'm not complaining."

The clothes she had brought were basic; khaki pants, a desert-sand pattern camo t-shirt, socks, and boxers. He would look like an off-duty soldier, and he was not at all bothered by that. He was a soldier. The bag held a hair dryer, deodorant, toothpaste, tooth brush, comb, special rubber bands for his hair, and sunscreen.

Regarding the pile of supplies, Bee sighed and wished for access to Wikipedia. Though it was not always accurate, the online encyclopedia's exhaustive detail was tailor made for an alien race. He consulted his operational manuals again instead of the internet, figured out what he needed to done, and did well until he got to the toothpaste.

He'd never had a sense of taste before.

He had a sense of smell, which he assumed was similar. Taste was just tactile smell, right?

When the _way too strong _minty toothpaste touched his tongue, he gagged. It burned! Error messages popped up, and his pain centers reacted negatively. Saliva flowed in reaction, and he spit frantically, convinced there had been a mistake. Had somebody put a toxin in the tube instead of a cleanser? Alarmed, he grabbed the plastic cup from the back of the sink, filled it with water, and attempted to flush his mouth out. Water went everywhere as his panic overrode programming. He was startled by the feel of water splashing onto his bare chest, and an autonomic reflex took over: he sucked in a breath in preparation for vocalizing.

Enough fluid remained in his oral cavity that instead of air he inhaled water. This _hurt_, far more than the nasty tingly taste of the toothpaste had, and he gagged and coughed. The error messages hitting his processor were frantic now, warning him of potential respiratory damage. He coughed, and coughed, unable to catch his breath, as his reflexes worked frantically to rid his lungs of the water.

"Bee!" The door burst open, with Sam and Mikaela both rushing into the bathroom. It had been Sam that shouted, however.

He was still naked. He wasn't bothered by this, since clothes were not part of his culture, but both of them skidded to a halt at the sight, as he straightened up. He made a face, summoned his dignity around his bare form like a cloak, and said, "I inhaled fluid into my lungs. I'll be fine."

"Sorry!" Mikaela averted her gaze from his nakedness. She was embarrassed even if he wasn't.

He snagged a towel off the rack on the wall and wrapped it around his waist, a gesture which made the humans more comfortable. Privately, he was deeply amused by their reaction. His Camaro half never wore clothes. They were being silly. They _knew _he wasn't human, dangly bits or no dangly bits.

Sam's eyes regarded the toothbrush still clenched in one hand, the cup that had hit the floor unnoticed when he'd nearly drowned himself, and said, "Having problems?"

"Something's wrong with the toothpaste," he said, eyes narrowing at Sam's teasing tone. His lungs still burned, and he coughed again. Coughing was a strange thing; there was almost a pleasurable sense of relief after each spasm. More hardcoded programming, he thought, and he wondered if that was based on human reflexes. He focused on their words and said, "It tastes ... funny. It stings. A little."

Mikaela picked the tube up, squeezed a bit out onto her finger, and touched that to her tongue. To his surprise, she didn't react with any sort of gagging or real evidence of pain. She shook her head. "It's spearmint. I don't like that flavor either, but it won't hurt you. And yeah, I guess you could say it burns."

"Things that burn are generally dangerous to an Autobot. Corrosive." He hunched his shoulders a bit, feeling embarrassed now. "A little bit of burning generally becomes a lot of burning really quick if you're hit with acid or something. I thought I'd been poisoned. _Why _would you put something like that in toothpaste?"

"It's in candy, too," she pointed out, grinning. "Humans can be weird sometimes."

* * *

Five minutes later, he'd managed to struggle his way into the boxers, pants, and t-shirt. The t-shirt was a bit tight, stretched tautly across his chest. He plucked at the fabric, unsure he liked that look. He'd seen human men dress that way, probably to show off their musculature, but this protoform's build was thin and wiry rather than beefy. If he worked at it, he could cause the protoform's muscles to increase in size, but he wasn't sure he wanted to do that. He was trying to avoid appearing intimidating. If he needed to be scary and threatening, he'd just use his other half.

Absently, he made a mental note to discuss with Doc just how much physical training he could do before he started bulking up. There were notes in his manuals that he should establish an exercise program to prevent atrophy of the protoform's soft tissues, and to ensure digestive and respiratory health. Doc had speculated that a combination of daily jogging and weight training would be most efficient and least time consuming.

_I'll probably start jogging before I do my morning cleaning. I will produce extra heat if I run, which means I will sweat and then require washing._

He was beginning to wonder how humans got anything done, between their fragility, short life spans, and the blasted amount of fragging _time _it took to keep their bodies properly working and clean. He was also fervently glad he'd chosen a male identity. Makeup, hair styling, body hair removal, and fingernail painting would have driven him to distraction with the tremendous waste of time, effort, and money involved. It was all done for no particularly good reason beyond aesthetics. He didn't even pretend to understand the aesthetics.

_I can mimic them. We are born mimics. But I do not understand the _need_ he thought, vexed._

Boots in one hand, hair dryer in the other, he headed for the living room. Mikaela said, as he emerged from the bedroom, "Ratchet said you're supposed to eat something but it didn't matter what, as long as you had something in your stomach."

Bee nodded, "He's checking my digestive processes. They're quite complex and potentially error prone."

"Any requests?" Mikaela said, "We picked up all sorts of groceries."

Sam laughed, apparently deeply amused. "Mikaela is intending to feed you every single one of her favorite meals. I warn you, Bee, the moment she learned you're able to eat she started plotting menus months in advance."

He hesitated, then said, "Something simple and easy to digest. And -- coffee?" He loved the smell of the beverage.

Mikaela hesitated, "You might not like coffee."

"Only one way to find out," he said, brightly.

* * *

"I can't believe you like coffee and not toothpaste," Mikaela shook her head at him.

Bee was on his second cup, and regarded her over the top of it. And shrugged.

Eating was more difficult than he had expected. He'd choked on the first few swallows and nearly retched up what little contents there were in his stomach in an effort to clear the obstruction. The experience had left him wary of blocking his respiratory system. He was pretty sure that the fact that 'breathing' and 'swallowing' functions used the same tube counted as a design flaw. He had needed to write a bit of code to master chewing and swallowing food without blocking his airflow, and he was still wary of the process.

At least he wasn't going to suffocate on a cup of coffee. Probably. Though he had no desire to repeat the experience of inhaling a liquid into his lungs.

It didn't quite taste as good as it smelled, of course, but it was tolerable. After the intensely sweet pancakes and syrup Mikaela had served him, the sharply bitter taste of the coffee was actually a welcome counterpoint.

He finally explained, "The toothpaste _burned._"

"Tingled, probably," Sam speculated.

Bee sipped his coffee again, at least partly as an excuse to avoid saying anything. While the panicky feelings had faded, he felt distinctly out of sorts. Perhaps it was simply the setting; he realized in a moment of clarity that he was seated at Sam's kitchen table, sharing a meal with his best friends. It was a very human thing to do, and utterly alien to anything he'd ever done before in his life.

* * *

An hour later, after leaving Mikaela and Sam fast at work on guest list issues, both halves of Bee entered the med bay. He did so cautiously, wary of Ratchet's temper, but Ratchet wasn't anywhere in view when they stepped through the doorway.

Grip had Windy's detached legs, however, and was working on them at a bench. "Bumblebee," Grip said, by way of greeting. His glance in Bee's direction was disinterested at best.

"Is Ratchet around? My comm's out," Bee asked, somewhat nervously.

Grip grunted, but didn't answer. That was better than the alternative, Bee supposed, which was for Grip to launch into a tirade about Ratchet. He would prefer to let Optimus and Kup deal with Grip.

Teletraan's voice came from somewhere above their head, making Bee jump. He said, "I advised Ratchet that you have arrived. He's with Optimus right now. He said he should be able to see you in fifteen minutes."

Grip grunted again.

"Where's Windy?" Bee asked.

Grip didn't answer at all.

"He's in the room two doors down," Teletran offered, "and would probably be glad for a bit of company."

The medic muttered something under his breath that could have been obscene. Bee chose to ignore it, not wishing for the drama of a fight. Instead he went in search of slightly friendlier company, retreating out the main medical bay. Once they'd swished shut, Teletraan said from a speaker near Bee's shoulder, "I am sorry about Grip's attitude, Bee. I believe he sees Windy's injuries as proof of the folly of this war."

Bumblebee shot the speaker a sharp look, then said curtly, "I understand his viewpoint, but his approach to expressing that point of view is not helpful."

As Teletraan had said, Windy was in the room two doors down. Bee noted absently that the distance seemed much shorter to his taller half, and he wondered if the time spent jogging that Doc had suggested would truly be necessary. He was starting to get warning errors from his calves from just walking around. Doc had advised him it would take a bit to build up muscle strength and endurance, as the protoform's organic bits had basically been growing in a vat until recently. Electric stimulation of the muscles could only go so far to condition them.

Without thinking about it too much, he reached down and picked himself up, lifting the organic protoform to his mech half's shoulder. The view from his shoulder seemed somehow dizzying through his second set of optics; he'd written code to allow for a much shorter perspective on the world. The vertigo was startling, and he understood now why humans were made nervous by the distance from his shoulder to the ground.

Windy was awake, though Bee was rather dismayed when he saw the damage. Windy was lying on a table under a static blanket, propped up so he could see people coming and going. His lower body was entirely missing; he was just a torso and arms. He was so tiny that he took up a very small fraction of the berth, and one of the medics had piled equipment a few feet away on the same table. They had been watching his spark chamber integrity and energon pressure, based on the devices sitting next to him that he had presumably been connected to, and the monitoring equipment was bigger than he was. However, he was not attached to anything now.

He was all alone, though _he _presumably had access to his comm. Bee suspected that Windy had been chattering with everyone on the base, given his rather enthusiastically social nature. It had to be torture for the little flier to be left all alone in a room. However, it did say something about the progress Ratchet was making on repairs and maintenance that Windy was the only conscious Autobot in sickbay. Prowl was in another room, and would not have counted for company even if they'd been placed together.

"Hey!" Windy said, cheerfully, "Bumblebee!"

"Hey, you got slagged good," he walked over to the berth, reached up with one metal hand, scooped his organic half up off his shoulder, and set himself down so he was standing on the table next to Windy. "Does it still hurt?"

"Nah, Grip's a good medic. Everything's offline. I feel _fine_." Windy grinned broadly.

He was a little euphoric, apparently. That was a common reaction to the cessation of pain. He was far too chipper for someone missing half his body. Alternately, he was faking it. Bee sat his organic half down cross-legged on the berth, and his mech half leaned on the table, and he said, "I remember the first time I got hit in battle, Windy. I flinched every time I heard a loud noise for vorns afterward."

"I didn't think it would really happen." Windy covered his optics with one hand, bubbly enthusiasm abruptly vanishing. Bee decided that Windy had simply been trying to be positive, with the bright and happy greeting. The tiny mech said, in a low voice, "I mean, I knew it could, but I didn't think it would."

That was a much more appropriate reaction to being slagged in a fight. Bumblebee said softly, "You're so vulnerable, Windy. We're all lucky you weren't killed."

"Ratchet wants to put me in a bigger protoform. He and Grip had an enormous fight about it. I could hear them in here, and they were yelling in the surgical bay." Windy reached a hand out to touch Bee on the arm. "Ratchet's not listening to me."

"Windy," Bee said, very seriously, "I'm sure Ratchet understands your preferences, but his job is to keep us alive. The hit you took might have only scratched my armor."

He'd seen Windy's psych profile. He would have no issues with Manywinds owning the protoform of a very large, very heavily armed warrior. Ironhide's early assessments bore out what that old document said. Windy thought before he acted, he was very difficult to anger, and he kept his head during times of crisis. He was precisely the sort of mech that they liked to see holding the big guns.

"There aren't any big protoforms for fliers in the hold, and it will take time and resources build one that maybe we don't have." Windy sounded miserable. "I'm afraid they're going to make it an order, Bee, that I accept one of the forms we have waiting. And then once that is done, giving me wings would be low priority indeed. The Autobots have plenty of air support from the human Airforce, if it's needed."

He trailed off, and looked sharply away from Bumblebee and didn't complete the thought.

"Manywinds," Bee said, seriously, "Optimus might. What is better, your life or your wings?"

Windy picked at the static blanket for a moment. "You wouldn't understand."

There were so few Autobots left alive that every life was precious. Bee wanted to say that, but suspected Windy didn't want to hear about his duty to live for his people, even if that meant making great sacrifices. Instead, Bee said quietly, "It's reversible, you know. When the war's over ..."

"_If _the war's over." Windy met Bee's eyes with a bleak stare. "You've been fighting for hundreds of thousands of years. When I last left Cybertron, the population of transformers was measured in the hundreds of millions, spread across the stars. Now you tell me our numbers are measured in thousands. Two thousand Autobots. How many Decepticons? How many Neutrals? I don't think the war will end until there aren't any of us left to fight."

He stared at some point past Bee's shoulder; it took Bee a moment to realize that Windy was looking out the window, at the blue sky visible beyond. Windy said softly, "I don't want to die without my wings, Bee. I don't want to be trapped on the ground. It's as bad as being trapped in a coffin. The sky is freedom. I would rather die than lose my freedom."

Bee sighed, and both his halves ran a hand over their faces. He suspected that Windy's stubborn refusal to bend on the issue of being flight capable had as much to do with remaining in control of his life as it did with a love of flying, though every flier he'd ever known reacted badly to the idea of being grounded. The best way to deal with this would be to give Windy some options, and let him chose one of his own free well. "Let's talk to Wheeljack and see if he can't come up with some better ideas than just grounding you. Maybe he can modify something for flight."

"I don't _want _to be big." Manywinds huffed. "I wish they'd asked _me _about spark splitting. I'd have gone for it totally, in a heartbeat. You're lucky. You've got the best of both worlds."

Bumblebee blinked at Windy.

"I'd give _anything _to have an organic body," Windy folded his arms. "Why they asked you and not me, I don't know. I know more about organic life than anyone on this ship, I swear. And they give it to you."

"You're jealous?" Bee felt bad about that. Windy, actually, had a good point. However, the sort of very resource-intensive and tactically important procedure he'd had was generally reserved for the most trusted of officers. There were a myriad of reasons for that, ranging from his own commitment to the long-term maintenance required to keep the protoform operating properly to the fact that it would be a very bad thing if the Decepticons ended up with another Pretender. The uncrackable quantum-level communications between his protoforms was also something that would be best kept in Autobot hands.

He doubted Windy would change sides, but they didn't know him well enough to be sure yet. Windy had not even been in the running for the mod.

Windy shrugged. "I'm not upset at you. I'd take that sort of mod in a heartbeat. I see why you accepted. Just wish it was me."

"I'm sorry." Bee wasn't sure what he was apologizing for, though an apology seemed needed. He sighed, then offered, "Look, we're still sorting out teams. I think it's obvious that your skills are well suited for mine. That will mean you're going to spend a lot more time working with the humans than fighting anything. That should give you some time to explore some options for defense. And Wheeljack's good. He may surprise you with something you could live with."

Windy shook his head. "I've already asked to be put on Hot Rod's team. Optimus agrees."

"Huh-- why?" He was out of the loop. Decisions might have been made last night when he was out of commission, or Optimus might simply have forgotten to tell him. The boss was busier even than Bumblebee. And frag it, he couldn't even check his in-box for updates until his comm was unlocked by Ratchet. That frustrated him.

Windy smiled, a bit teasingly. "Because I'd rather spend time with you as a friend, without you being my CO."

"... Oh." He stared at the little flier, who shrugged again.

"I like you, Bee. Life's too short. Witness exhibit A in front of you about the fragility of life. Figured I'd make my interest clear up front. You can do with that knowledge what you will, but I didn't want chain-of-command issues getting in the way if you wanted to return anything." Windy's words were frank, and delivered with a quick smile.

"Oh."

"On the other hand, if you're going to shoot me down and tell me you're not interested at all, I can get that changed around." Windy grinned at him. "I wouldn't mind working with you, but I'd rather ..."

Bee cut off whatever Windy was going to say with a short, "I'm not looking for partner."

"Funny, Teletraan showed me some video where you confessed to liking me."

He had? Bumblebee pictured a deep and meaningful talk. He was certain he hadn't had a discussion like that with anyone, nor did he plan to.

"You were talking to Lennox."

Primus, he had said something to Lennox in an off-guard moment. And the worst part was, it was true. He was caught dead to rights. Later, he might bitch at Teletraan, though Teletraan had been reasonably within his rights to tell Windy what he'd heard. It amounted to no worse than gossip since he had been talking in a public place. Teletraan would give a mech privacy if he remembered to ask, and Bee had no doubt that Teletraan would be discrete if he'd overheard classified or truly sensitive information. This was not either. It had just plain been good gossip and he fought down the urge to groan. He should have kept his vocalizer silent.

He must have looked, as the humans said, like a deer in the headlights. Windy snickered. "Teletraan is my best friend forever, aren't you, buddy?"

"Of course," Teletraan said.

"Windy ..." Bee sighed, and trailed off. He wondered if Windy had any clue about how many mechs Bee had turned down over the years. There were at least a few who Bee regretted refusing, now. He'd always kept to himself, had always been cautious, and had sometimes been left wondering about what might have been. There was no use dwelling on the past, but he liked to think he learned from his mistakes.

And he liked Windy.

He really did.

Honestly, he had since their first meeting. It had been an instinctive reaction. He'd figured out early on that they were a lot alike, in many important ways. There was just something about the little mech; something about his intelligence and enthusiasm, that caught Bee's interest.

It would be very easy to rebuff Windy's interest. To explain that he liked Windy, but that he was not interested in more than friendship. That it would hurt too much if he lost a partner. That he was wary of a partnership with someone so far below his rank, that it might not be proper and that he wasn't sure if he should confide in an enlisted mech -- and by definition, partners confided in one another. He wanted to tell Windy that a partnership would put him in danger. Bee was very far up on the Decepticon's list of high value targets, and the 'cons wouldn't hesitate to slag his partner to hurt him. He wanted to say he was simply scared, because he'd never even tried to have a relationship with anyone before.

Windy said quietly, "You're not saying anything."

Bee sighed. "I'm ... not very good at this sort of thing, Windy. The war started when I was too young for relationships. After it began, there was one mech I was a bit interested in. He died in the battle of Tyger Pax. He was in my command. I led a strike force into the battle and he died in front of me. It hurt so bad, and I decided I wouldn't do that to myself again until after the war was over."

"You had a partner?"

"I said I was interested, not that he was my partner." Bumblebee ran a hand over his face. "There are other reasons, too. But you're asking me to give you something I've never given anyone."

"Err, sorry?" Manywinds sounded baffled.

"I've said 'no' most of my life, and not for lack of interest. There have been a few times I was a fool for refusing someone's interest." Bee closed his eyes, and shuttered his optics, and both of him were very still for a moment. Did he really want to go the rest of his life without at least trying? It would hurt so bad if he lost a partner. It was awful enough when friends died. Jazz -- who had, indeed, asked him just once if he might be interested -- was a loss he'd mourn to the end of his days. He wished he'd taken Jazz up on that long-ago offer. He had said no, and Jazz had shrugged cheerfully and never asked again.

_Primus. That was fifty thousand years ago. If I'd said yes, if I'd taken him up on his offer to interface that one time, would we have been compatible? Would I have had fifty thousand years with him as a lover rather than a friend?_

He would never know. He would always wonder.

"Oh." Windy looked sharply away and plucked at the static blanket over his torso. "I see. I guess you've had some pretty awesome offers, a lot better than me."

"Huh?" Bee snapped both sets of visual sensors open. "I didn't mean that."

Windy shrugged. He didn't look exactly hurt, but his expression was depressed.

Bee considered, for a moment longer, then said slowly, and a bit shyly, "Okay."

Windy's smile was enormous. "Really? Really?!"

"Really." Bee grinned. That reaction, Windy's enthusiastic and awestruck response, made him feel warm to the core of his being. He'd made Manywinds very happy with that simple, "Okay". Okay, he would consider it, he would see if Manywinds might turn out to be more than a friend. It was all he could offer, but he would try. _Which means we'll need to interface to find out. He's got thousands of years of experience. Wonder what he'll say when he realizes I've never lowered my firewalls to anyone but a medic or a mentor? Hope he's a good teacher. _Primus_, _the thought left him nervous.

Well, that could wait. The first step was simply to get to know Windy, he supposed. If they weren't trying to kill each other inside of a week, if he remained fascinated and fond of the little flier after spending time with him, they could let things evolve from there. He was in no hurry.

"Primus, I can't wait to get out of here. Want to come flying with me? I'll show you why I love it so much. I can carry your short half, easy, no problem." Manywinds waved his hands in the air. "Primus, Bee, I can't believe you're really interested in me."

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Bee said, a bit perplexed. Windy's disbelief and delight was flattering, but it left him confused.

"You're a Prime! And you're a war hero, and you're an accomplished xenospecialist in your own right -- in my time, you'd have been a renowned scientist for what you've done studying other languages and cultures and stuff." Windy waved his hands in the air. "And you're awesome! You're just awesome! I'm just a scientist, I'm nothing, I'm just an ordinary researcher. I'm not a warrior, I haven't done anything spectacular, I just sit around studying bipedal tetrapod evolution, and what are the factors that cause an organic species to evolve sentience. It's a geeky subspecialty of a specialized area of science that most mechs find _weird _and if Vermin hadn't sponsored me I never would have gotten a chance to do anything but look at animals in zoos."

Bee blinked, and said slowly, "That is what I've done. That is not who I am."

"I know that, but you're just _cool_." Manywinds grin was infectious, and Bee found he was smiling again, in both forms. He suspected Windy would have been bouncing on his toes if he had legs to bounce with. Then, suddenly, Windy went really still for a minute, optics unfocused. "Hey, Ratchet says to tell you he's going to be a bit late. It's some sort of power meeting over the prisoner we took."

"Oh." Under normal circumstances, Bee would have certainly been part of that 'power meeting.'

"He says fifteen more minutes and he'll be there. They want your input. Hey! He says it wouldn't hurt me to go to my quarters really quick, if you'll take me. I want to water my plants." Windy started to shove himself upright.

Bee hastily slid one large metal hand under Windy and scooped him up, static blanket and all. "I can carry you."

"I know." Windy fit comfortably into the crook of his arm, and once arranged, he patted Bee's Camaro bumper chest plate. "Let's go!"

Bemused, Bee smiled down at the very tiny mech in his grasp, then headed for the door. He actually got as far as two doors down when a furious bellow made Bee skid to a half and spin about.

"WHERE do you THINK you're GOING!" Grip stormed towards Bee.

Bee offered in surprise, "Windy's quarters?"

"Put him back. Now!"

"Ratchet said it would be okay," Manywinds said, sounding unamused. "Grip, cool down."

"If he drops you, or bumps your circuits, he could damage you worse!" Grip rushed towards Bee. "Hand him over. Now! Are you insane?"

"He's stable," Bee said, quietly, but in a tone of voice that those who knew him would recognize. He was not happy with being yelled at, and there was warning lurking behind his calm words. "Ratchet cleared it."

Windy caught Bee's understated reaction, and commed him, _:Grip's an idiot. He cares about me, but he's an idiot. He's not going to back down. You're either going to have to pull rank on him or give in.:_

:I can't give in,: Bee replied, _:Primus. I don't want this fight.:_

And Bee couldn't pull rank on Grip. Grip was likely counting on that. Grip wasn't an Autobot. He was, however, one of the ranking officers on the Ark. Kup hadn't removed him from command yet, and the CMO was always just below the Captain himself when it came to chain of command. Slagging hells, this was a fight he'd been trying to avoid.

"He's not Ratchet's patient!" Grip actually tried to grab Windy from Bee. He grabbed Bee's arm with one hand and reached for Manywinds with his other. Windy grabbed a tight hold on Bee's chest armor, a gesture that Bee did not miss. Grip persisted, pulling Bee towards him and trying to close his hand around Windy.

"Let go," Bee said, warningly, blocking Grip's hand with his elbow.

"Give me my patient!" Grip held on to Bee's shoulder armor with one hand, and raised his free fist high into the air as if he was going to hit Bee over the head with it.

"I would not recommend doing that," Bee said.

Grip swung down, hard enough to do damage. Bee had anticipated that blow and in one smooth move, broke Grip's hold by stepping towards him and knocking him off balance, twisted ninety degrees away so that Windy would be protected in his grasp, and aimed his pulse cannon at Grip across Windy's body. Grip's forearm hit Bee's battle mask, which had snapped shut reflexively. The blow was glancing, and Bee was unhurt. His capacitors whined, charged to a hundred percent, and Grip suddenly stared down the barrel of the weapon, frozen in place. Windy was protected by the bulk of that pulse cannon, too; it was a trained response that he'd practiced a million times with Ironhide. If you had precious cargo in your arms, a large pulse cannon made a decent shield and you could still fire it without harming whatever it was you were protecting.

"You can't shoot me," Grip sneered, "you're not supposed to use deadly force on us. Just on Decepticons."

Bee noted calmly, without lowering his gun, "You're not an Autobot. I've killed a few Neutrals in my time, if they were a threat to us."

The medic's eyes were focused on Bee's gun. The muzzle was three feet from his head. The inside would be glowing blue, Bee knew. What Grip didn't realize was that Bee had released all the programmatical safeties and was one quick thought from offlining him. By attempting to physically manhandle Bee, Grip had crossed a dangerous line. Bee was incredibly unhappy with this situation, but Grip's comment about 'force' went both ways. As a soldier, an officer, and now a Prime, he _could not _allow a Neutral to physically shove him around. This was particularly true because he was younger and smaller than many of the mechs he dealt with, and he had enough difficulty maintaining command over soldiers like Sunstreaker or Gears or Mirage. There were no witnesses but Grip and Windy (and Teletraan) but as Teletraan's gossip to Windy had demonstrated, mechs could easily share video.

Grip was not backing down. He said scornfully, "You won't shoot me. What about your ethics, your code of honor? All life is precious, and all that?"

The gun clicked as Bee disengaged the manual safety. Windy heard that, and said frantically to him, _:Don't kill Grip! Don't!:_

:I won't kill him, Windy. But I will take him offline right here and right now.: Bee wasn't angry, exactly, but he was profoundly unhappy. He waited with a hair trigger to see what Grip would do. One wrong move and he'd take Grip's head off, which would put him into instant stasis lock without actually being deadly.

_:But we can use him! He's ...: _

Bee ruthlessly cut off Windy's comm. He couldn't afford the distraction right now. Then he realized abruptly, _My comm and weapons are working! :Ratchet?:_  
_  
:Bee, I remotely released the medical overrides. Teletraan told us what's going on. He's streaming video to us. Take him down if you need to. I'm sick of the idiot.: _Ratchet's voice was a blessed thing of beauty to Bee, who was suddenly not-alone in his head anymore. Being without a comm was so terribly isolating. Transformers were social creatures to the very core of their being, and not being able talk over the radio was literally like being deaf. He'd been minus a sense. _:And you better not glitch out.:_

_:Ratchet, thank Primus. I really don't want to shoot him.:_

:So? Do it anyway.: Ratchet's response was cranky. _:He's just a complete fragger. There's no medical reason Windy can't go for a walk with you. I've seen his reports. Windy's perfectly stable. Grip's got his processor core swapped around with his exhaust manifold and I'm tired of it.: _

Grip ground out, "_Give me my patient_!"

Bee could hear footsteps coming from behind him. By sound, he identified Ratchet's firm, assertive treads, Ironhide's heavier footsteps, and the long stride of Optimus. Elita was with them; her footfalls were lighter and quicker.

"Now!" Grip ordered Bee. Bee lifted an optic ridge in reaction.

They were at least a minute away, and they were running.

"Grip," Bee said, trying for calm, "You have a choice. Back down now, or I take your head off."

"You wouldn't do it." Grip's optics narrowed. "I'm a medic. I'm a noncombatant. I'm not part of your blasted war. I want none of this. Your _stupid _war has nearly killed Windy. I won't let you do it again! Give him over! Give him!"

Bee wondered if he should just shoot Grip now, or wait for Grip to make the first move. Grip was within Bee's personal bubble of space, standing only a few feet away, fists clenched, and a plethora of capacitors powered up and whining within his sturdy frame. Grip might not have weapons, but he was obviously ready to move with lightning speed. Even noncombatant medics were often built for power, as they had to lift and move patients that might weigh tens of tons. Grip was taller than Bee, heavier than Bee, and poised to strike.

_Let's get some distance from him, _Bee decided, and took a step back. A few feet could give him the advantage he needed. He didn't think Grip could move faster than he could react and fire, but he also had no desire to test that theory. He also shifted his organic protoform to the side, not wanting to step on himself in a fight, if it came to that.

Grip clearly took Bee's movement as submission from Bee; a smirk touched his lip plates. "Give him over, _I _decide what happens to my patients."

_No. No, you don't. Not when they're Autobots and Ratchet's okay'd it._

Behind Grip, mechs were running down the ramp to the bridge, which was several hundred feet and a sharp left turn away. Bee thought he recognized Kup's and Wheeljack's strides, and this was proven correct when Kup barreled around the corner with 'Jack right behind him.

Kup barked, "Grip, what in the _Pit _are you doing!"

"He won't give me my patient!"

Wheeljack rolled his optics while, simultaneously, Bee detected a quick, encrypted communication between Windy and Kup. Kup snorted. "Your patient doesn't want you. Stand _down_, Grip."

"Frag!" Grip's voice hit a new frantic note. "Kup, they're going to get Windy killed! After everything, they're going to get him killed!"

Kup said quietly, "It's possible."

"He's lived through enough!" Grip shifted his weight, and Bee's optics narrowed.

Bee moved his organic half farther back, having no desire to be squished or hit with the nimbus of a blast. He really thought this was going to come down to a very brief fight. Grip was just being irrational.

During the beginning of the war, he'd met a few mechs with mindsets like this. Most seemed to think that if they insisted they weren't part of the war hard enough, if they refused to take sides or pick up arms, the war would pass them by. He had not run into anyone who thought like that in a very long time, however. Either they'd chosen a side and and learned to fight, or they had died.

"There were five hundred million mechs in the universe four million years ago!" Grip snarled. "Now there's just thousands of us left! You've fought each other nearly to extinction! You've destroyed the Allspark, the source of our life! And it's all stupid and it's senseless and Windy's given enough in his lifetime. He's not _designed _for this, and deliberately so! He was never supposed to fight again -- he fought for our kind for a million years and he had just plain had enough! It's not his war, and it's not mine, and _give him to me!_"

Windy said softly, "But Grip, don't you see we have no choice? Because we are so few, because we are dying, I have a responsibility to my own people to contribute what I can. The war won't go away if we turn our backs on it. But maybe, if I try hard enough, I can help save the last remnants of my people. How can I _not _join this war?"

"You'll die! You're too fragile, too small!"

_:He's right,: _Windy noted, to Bee alone. The tiny, broken, fragile form in Bee's arms suddenly emitted a low keening noise. _:Primus. I was only thinking of myself. Bee, if I die because I want to fly more than I want to live, if I die because I want to be small and non-frightening around the humans, how does that help my people?:_

Bee tightened his grip on him. _:I'm sorry, Manywinds. I really am.:_

Grip took a step towards Bee, and Bee, without hesitation, fired his pulse cannon at Grip's head. The noise within the confines of the hall was deafening, and caused both sets of Bee's auditory sensors to temporarily offline. Even at twenty feet away the wash of heat across his organic skin was painful. Not damaging, but not comfortable. It made him jump in surprise.

Grip, circuits sparking, and not much left of his cranial sensors, flew backwards. Windy buried his face in Bee's chestplate, and keened again. _:He was my friend, he was my friend, he was my friend ...:_

:I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.:

The others arrived, Optimus in the lead. Optimus leveled his gun at the twitching body on the deck. "Make sure he's out," he directed Ratchet. "Are you injured, Bee?"

"No, sir."

"Manywinds?"

"No, sir." Windy's voice was even and controlled. "I'm sorry, sir. I wish he'd not done this."

"Not your fault, Windy." Kup stepped over Grip's body, and ducked around Ratchet. He ran a hand over his faceplate, then said, "Is he in stasis lock, Ratchet?"

Ratchet stood up. "Yeah. I need to stabilize him, then I think he's going to take a very, very long nap."

Optimus said quietly, "I hope it's not a very long time, but I fear it might be. If he is so determined to live in a peaceful world, I believe it would be best if he remains offline until we can grant him that wish."

_:Is he being sarcastic?: _Windy asked Bee.

_:No, actually, he's not.: _Bee was not sure that Optimus knew how to be sarcastic.

Mournfully, Windy said, _:I'm going to miss him. He was an overbearing idiot, sometimes, but he cared, and he and Starknight were very close. Grip told me a lot about him.:_

:Odd pairing, there.: Starknight was a nigh legendary career warrior. Grip's stubborn brand of pacifism seemed at odds with that.

_:Not so much. Ever notice Grip's got weapons mounts?: _Windy's voice across the comm turned sardonic. _:He wasn't always a medic. Starknight and Grip were partners, before Starknight was assigned to the Headmasters program. You think he's got an attitude about war? Apparently, Grip went AWOL and followed Knight to Nebulos against orders, and Starknight disapproved and repudiated him. Then Starknight chose t'Grethi over Grip. Grip blamed the military, and war, for separating them. He believed that if not for war, Starknight would never have met t'Grethi, much less be forced into a gestalt interface with him.:_

:Ouch.: That explained a lot.

_:A whole world of ouch. It gets worse, but I should tell you that later, when we've got some time alone.: _Windy sighed. _:The thing that I think Grip never truly understood was that Knight was loyal to Stellar Prime to the very core of his being. Stellar asked him to serve on Nebulos in the Headmaster project, and Knight saw it as his duty to do so. When Grip went after him to try to 'rescue' him from the project, Starknight saw it as treasonous.:_

Ratchet straightened up from examining Grip, and groused, "Of course, he never stopped to think that if he got kacked, it'd delay Windy's repairs. Windy, are you hurting at all?"

Windy shook his head. "He shut off my pain sensors from the waist down."

Windy didn't have much of a "down" below the waist, at the moment. Bee winced at that reminder. He tightened his grip on the little flier protectively, in reaction. Ratchet didn't miss that gesture and said to Bee, _:Why don't you get him out of here, Bee, and stay with him. Take him to his quarters for at least half an hour, and stay with him. He may not want to be in the med bay until we're done powering Grip down and have him stored away. We need your other half in the command room for a meeting. Do you think you can manage being in two places at once?:_

:I can do that. I'm doing much better this morning, Ratchet:

:We wouldn't ask, but it's serious.: Ratchet exchanged a troubled glance with Optimus. _:I want a privacy field up on the room before we discuss anything.: _

Bee had an inkling that he was not going to like what they had to discuss. He hadn't seen Optimus look that worried in a couple of years. He sighed. They just didn't have time for any more problems, but it looked they like they had one.

He nodded to Ratchet and said, _:I'll be there.:_


	43. Chapter 43

Windy was quiet on the walk up to his quarters. Bee, who didn't really know what to say, was grateful for that. It gave him a chance to compose himself, as he found he was rather rattled by the whole thing. He suspected he'd just off-lined Windy's good friend, and perhaps a better friend than any of them had realized. All he'd seen of Grip was his anger and bitterness, but Windy knew him far better. Bee thought there was more to the medic than just a bad attitude.

Unfortunately, they couldn't afford Grip's attitude. They simply couldn't. Not now. One uncontrollable neutral could derail all their careful and hard-earned progress with the humans. Plus, Grip had assaulted Bee with no respect for either his rank or the simple fact that he was a Prime. Bee didn't ask for special treatment, and certainly didn't want to be viewed as better than the others, but it was true that Primes by every social law of their people were given an extra modicum of authority.

Grip had not honored that, and had been disrespectful in ways that indicated he was a loose cannon. They simply could not accept the liability of a rogue neutral, held to no one's laws. Anyway, he was not dead, just offline until the time was right to wake him.

When they reached Windy's cabin, and the doors had swished shut, Windy said softly, "Bee, I am sorry."

"Are you okay?" Bee set the little flier down on the edge of his berth, which was built atop the ledge that a normal sized mech would use as a sleeping platform.

"Yeah." Windy caught Bee's hand, fingers wrapping around two of his digits. "I'll miss him. Thank you for not killing him."

Bee shook his head. "I've killed enough mechs in my life. Killing Grip wasn't on my agenda. I just couldn't let him .... _damn_. All he had to do was back down and we'd have solved everything somehow. If he'd just been reasonable, we could have found a way ..."

"That lack of being reasonable was why he was a problem in the first place," Windy traced a finger down the back of Bee's hand. "He cared about me, you know? He built this protoform for me, from scratch, with t'Grethi's input and he did it because he agreed with t'Grethi that I shouldn't be a fighter again. Starknight hated war, but was good at it. That I should not be a fighter in this lifetime was perhaps the only thing they ever agreed on. I guess I'll have to be a warrior again, though."

Bee sat down on the edge of the ledge, careful not to damage any of Windy's possessions. Windy had more _stuff _than any mech Bee had ever known since the war began and they had become nomads by necessity. His hip was a few inches from Windy's miniature berth, and he was also within easy reach of the collection of plants.

Windy sent him a quick data file showing how much to water each plant, then continued the conversation, "Grip and I were a couple for awhile."

"Really?"

Windy shrugged. "We hadn't interfaced yet, but it was getting to that point. He can be an unreasonable idiot sometimes, but he also has another side. He's one of the most skilled medics and engineers I've ever known, and he was passionate about it. He wanted to _fix _people. He spent half his life killing, then turned his back on it in horror and disgust when Starknight was assigned to the Headmaster program. I think he felt very betrayed by Starknight, when Starknight forgave Stellar Prime for the cruelty done to him in the program, and when Starknight chose to stay with t'Grethi over returning to Grip. Even after Grip was pardoned by Vermilion Prime for leaving his post, Knight wouldn't speak to him because he saw Grip as being treasonous."

Bee made an encouraging noise then picked up a watering can between two fingers and very carefully poured out the required amount of water. Windy's notes had indicated the angle he should hold the can, and the time to pour the right amount of water into each little clay pot. The plants were beautiful, thriving under a bank of special lights, with many blooms on the orchids and lush foliage on the ferns. He let Windy talk as he watered them, figuring the little flier needed to tell someone about his past after what had happened.

"Starknight died. That's the easiest way for me to think about it. Legally, he did. His memories were lost. I'm a new person, with a new life. People tell me our personalities were similar, but that Starknight had darkness in him, and a very bad temper, that I don't. I guess that was because Knight had such a hard life, and a lot of regrets. Me, I've always been a scientist and an explorer. I've never really known ..." Windy fell silent for a moment. "It's hell, waking up to this world. Everyone I ever knew is dead. I just want to go home to Nebulos, and that _is _my home. I've got dual citizenship. I've been to Cybertron, but Nebulos is my home."

Bumblebee made an encouraging noise, and hoped he hid the dismay he felt over those words.

"Maybe someday ... I haven't even asked, are we still allied with Nebulos? I mean, I know everyone I ever knew was dead, but I'd love to see the world again. Four million years ... there's probably nothing left that I'd recognize, even geological features would have changed in that time. But I love the Nebulan people and I want to go home."

The fate of Nebulos was common knowledge among mechs. Too many had died there, and it had been too bitter of a loss, for them not to be aware of what had happened. It was a dark story told by the other galactic races as well, one that rarely cast any Cybertronian in a good light. Windy would find out the truth, likely as soon as he brought the topic up in conversation with another mech. There was no good reason for Bee not to tell him now about Nebulos's fate. There would be no homecoming for Manywinds.

However, he thought Windy had lost too much in the last few days, so Bee simply said, "I was stationed there for several thousand years and enjoyed it. I had many Nebulan friends."

"Are any of them still alive?" Windy asked, innocently. "Maybe the two of us could visit them someday."

"It was a twenty thousand years ago, planetary time." A non-answer. He knew they were dead. So was their world. _I will not let the same fate befall Earth_. That was an unspoken vow shared by the Autobots. They would never retreat from a battle again, not ever. Not now that they knew the depraved depths to which their enemy would stoop.

"A long time, even with Nebulan nanyte tech," Windy noted, "but some could still be alive."

"They're dead," he said, gruffly, hoping Manywinds would drop the subject. Nebulos's fate was personal, to all the Autobots. Close friends had died. An entire world of people who had long considered them not just allies to Autobots, but a kindred race, had been destroyed. It wasn't something Bee liked to think about, even now, so many thousands of years later. Sometimes, Bee envied humans and their fragile, friable memories that degraded and faded over time as cellular connections broke down and chemical imprints faded, and other experiences became more important to their lives.

"That's the problem with loving organic creatures," Windy noted, tone very sad now. "t'Grethi lived almost twenty thousand earth years -- not bad for a species whose natural lifespan was originally forty or fifty, less even than humans. But they're so fragile. In the end, it was simply an accident. He crashed his fighter, and the neural damage from the G-forces was too much for any possible repair. I let him go, then. We could have renewed his cerebral core, but he would not have been t'Grethi and his soul was gone."

"I'm sorry." He could picture that damage easily. Even with nanyte reinforcement, at a certain point of inertial stress, organic neural tissue simply liquefied.

Windy shuttered his optics, and was very still for a moment. "He loved me, you know, more than he loved himself, through two lifetimes. Starknight found peace with t'Grethi. t'Grethi was calm. Nothing ever ruffled him, and he was so sure of himself and what he believed in. He was a born leader. Starknight was angry, bitter, and had given up on himself when they were paired together. He'd been torn from Grip -- who he loved -- and forced into a gestalt bond with an alien man who by the design of their prototype could control Knight's life. Oh, Knight was angry. However, t'Grethi won him over. t'Grethi told me he certainly wasn't looking for love, he was just trying to put Starknight at ease and win his trust."

"He cared," Bee inferred.

"He truly did, and Starknight had never known anyone who _cared _that much about him, personally, and who genuinely liked him simply for who he was. t'Grethi said that the moment he entered the gestalt with Starknight the first time, he fell in love with him. It took Knight a long time to return those feelings, but eventually he did, and then it was wholehearted." Manywinds traced the outline of one of the sensor pads on Bee's thumb with one of his small fingers. It was an idle gesture, but it made Bee snap his head around and look at Windy because of the casual intimacy.

They weren't to that point. They barely knew each other. What was Windy doing? He didn't mind, exactly, but he'd never had anyone play with his fingers like this before in his life. It was the sort of thing lovers did, not two almost-strangers who had decided they liked each other enough to _consider _the possibility of more. He restrained himself from yanking his hand back because he didn't want to hurt Windy's feelings, but he felt confused and out of sorts.

Windy seemed oblivious to Bee's reaction, and continued speaking, "t'Grethi was genuine, and confident, and he had faith in Starknight even when Knight doubted himself. I think it was inevitable that Knight fell in love with t'Grethi. Who wouldn't? I know it didn't take _me _long to know I loved him when I was reformatted."

"That must have been tough for t'Grethi, losing Starknight."

"He was about the same age as your Sam when he met Knight, and Knight was almost a million years old." Manywinds met Bee's gaze finally, looking up from Bumblebee's hand. "Where t'Grethi got his wisdom from, I don't know. Humans would describe t'Grethi as an old soul."

Bee nodded his understanding of that. "They grow up fast. Even a few months ago, I would have described Sam as a child. He's not, now. Something changed in him, in Egypt."

Windy didn't know about Sam's chat with the Primes, or that the ancestral Primes had returned Sam to life. That information was classified, at least partly because they simply didn't want to deal with humanity's reaction yet. There was so much he couldn't talk about to anyone but Sam, Mikaela, and the other officers, and he was only comfortable with really talking to his human friends. _It will be awkward, _Bee thought, _if this thing between me and Windy goes anywhere. There are so many things I cannot speak of. He's only a private. It will be a very long time, if ever, before he has the security clearance needed for me to really tell him about some of the things I've seen and done._

"War does that," Windy noted. He'd gone back to fiddling with Bee's hand. Now he was pressing his small palm to Bee's, comparing the size difference. "When I was reformatted and brought online as me, as Manywinds, t'Grethi was there. When I was young, he was always around. He said to me once that it was as if Starknight had been given a second chance to be the mech he always could have been, and he was fascinated to watch me grow up in a time of peace and plenty. He kept his distance, he was never improper, but he couldn't stay away. He always wanted to know how I was doing, what I was up to, and who I was hanging out with."

Windy laughed, lightly, "I was a good twenty years old myself before I found out I was a reformat. My mentor didn't want me to know, and neither did t'Grethi, but Grip told me. Grip actually confessed he still loved me. I was _twenty_, Bee, and that was a heady thing, because Grip could be very charming when he wanted to."

Bee managed not to growl. Windy seemed only amused by that memory, but he couldn't help but interpret it another way. Grip, having lost Starknight in one lifetime, had probably made a move on Manywinds in his new life as soon as it was legally justifiable but probably not yet morally right. Twenty years was incredibly young by Cybertronian standards. Some mechs, at that age, would be considered adults but others would definitely be younglings. He had a sneaking suspicion that Windy fell into the latter category, slow to mature.

Windy probably should not have been told so soon about his past. Bumblebee could easily see the logic in keeping that sort of secret for awhile. It was best to let sparklings develop naturally, free of such weighty concerns as 'who was I in a past life' and 'can I ever live up to that reputation.'

"I was pretty shaken up by the news." Manywinds sighed. "At least partly because my mentor misled me about my past. He outright lied to me, albeit with the best intention."

"Who was your mentor?"

"He's long dead, I'm sure. He was a friend of Starknight's and t'Grethi's, a scientist. I checked with Elita and Magnus, just for kicks, and nobody had ever heard of him and he was never listed in the Autobot rosters nor recorded as a Decepticon or neutral." Windy couldn't quite keep the pain from his voice. "Mind, Grip did mean well when he told me. However, I was pretty messed up for a bit, more because people had _lied _to me than anything else. However, t'Grethi found out I was having a bad time of it, and took a leave of absence from the military. He came to see me."

Bee nodded encouragingly.

"t'Grethi made time in his life, and simply talked to me, and more importantly, he listened to me when no one else would. They all told me what I should think, and what I should do. t'Grethi asked for my opinions and validated my feelings. He treated me like an adult. He also gave me some memory files he had of Starknight, and some of _Starknight's _memories that t'Grethi had saved because Knight had transmitted them to him. t'Grethi was more Cybertronian than Nebulan, at that point. He had an organic core to his mind, but numerous cybernetic enhancements. I'm sure you know how Nebulans upgrade themselves."

Manywinds made a static-filled sighing noise, clear sign of aggravation. "I fell in love with t'Grethi during that time, all over again. t'Grethi, of course, was convinced I would do better with someone else. Also, he saw me as a child even though I was growing up. He was my friend, however, and we spent a lot of time together. The more I knew him, the more I wanted him -- Primus, Bee, I wish you could have met him. He was one of a kind. I loved him so much."

Bee gave a questioning chirp when Windy trailed off.

Windy continued, after a moment, "I never knew he truly loved me back, you know. He never let on. He denied himself what he could have had with me for almost thirty years. I had a few serious relationships with others in that time, but none that lasted ... and then Grip came back to Nebulos."

"Oh."

"Indeed. Grip's an aft, but like I said, he was a charming aft when he wasn't fragged off about something. I wanted t'Grethi so bad, but I couldn't have him, and Grip was there, and available, and he clearly wanted me. He was pursuing me with pretty obvious enthusiasm." Windy picked at the blanket. "I called t'Grethi to tell him that Grip and I were getting serious. I used to tell him everything, you know, even before we partners. He was just so easy to talk to -- kinda like you are."

_Me? _Bee thought, in surprise.

"You seem a lot like t'Grethi. So calm, so confident. So sure of yourself." Windy smiled shyly at him.

_Me? Sure of myself? Which mech is he talking to, because it's surely not me! _Bee thought, with some amusement.

"So here I was, about fifty years old, and getting serious with Grip. Then t'Grethi just showed up at my door, stomped inside, and told me that if I was so hell-bent on ruining my life by pairing off with an old soldier, he was a better option than 'that crazy medic'."

Bee snorted. "I bet Grip loved that."

"I felt terrible, Bee. I really did. I liked Grip, and I would have partnered with him -- though I suspect it would not have lasted. I was young, and dumb." He ran a hand over his faceplate. "I broke Grip's heart that day, for the second time in his life, but I chose what was best for _me_. And t'Grethi was who I'd wanted all along, more than anything else in the universe. The first time he dropped his firewalls and we linked together, I knew I was right. And the best thing was that t'Grethi loved me for me for who I was. Grip just saw me as an alternate version of Starknight."

Manywinds shrugged, when Bee made another chirp, and continued, "t'Grethi saw me as _me_; he'd buried Starknight a long time ago. t'Grethi was at a point in his life where he needed someone in his life who wasn't a soldier and who was not touched by darkness. That was me. In some ways, our roles were reversed. t'Grethi had pulled Starknight back from the brink when they met, and then there was me, and I gave _him _hope and reminded him that there was more to life than war and fighting. And that's why he was so dead set against me ever fighting again. He said _he _fought to defend his world so that people like me didn't have to."

Bee nodded. "He sounds like he was a good man."

"Really, he was." Windy sighed. "I miss him so much. I wish he was here now with me. He'd make sense of this crazy time I've woken up in. He had this gift for seeing through to the heart of a matter ... of getting the big picture. After he died, I was so lost. Grip came around again, and I wouldn't partner with him, but we did end up friends. You know Grip truly did love Starknight, but he wanted me to _be _Starknight only without being a warrior, and I'm not him."

"No," Bee agreed, "you're not. I wish I could have known Starknight, though; there's some memories in the matrix of him that are amazing."

Windy's eyes lit up. "Could you share those? I'm always curious about the things people remember of him."

Bumblebee considered that request. "Yes, but I'll need to review them and discuss it with Optimus first. Knight had a very high security clearance, and I don't want to send anything to you that's classified. When Vermilion Prime and Stellar Prime met with him, they often discussed sensitive information."

"It's been four million years."

Bee shrugged. "I would still prefer to clear it with Optimus."

"You're quite the paladin, you know that?" Windy teased.

Bee had to search for the reference, but when he got it he smiled a bit. "I'll take that as a compliment, though I think I'd rather be an elf. The other me would fit the role better."

Windy burst out laughing. "He is definitely a pretty boy."

"Deliberate, I assure you." Bumblebee rose, and extended a hand out to Windy. "Let's go. They're about to start the meeting, and I'm not sure I can track two conversations at once yet and really process both. However, we can continue this tonight."

"Tonight," Windy agreed, with a very bright smile.

* * *

Bee had never truly understood why humans flinched back from him. He had seen all of them do it. Even Sam, who so clearly trusted Bee with his life, sometimes took a few steps back and gave his mech half plenty of room. He'd seen every single human at the base eye Autobots warily when working in close proximity to them, despite the fact that Autobot sonar, optical sensors, and reflexes made it vanishingly unlikely they'd ever step on anyone.

However, he was now roughly on eye level with Optimus's ankle joint. That realization gave Bee a whole new perspective, in more ways than one, on human reactions to mechs. Optimus outweighed him by several hundred times, and if Optimus made a wrong step Bee would be crushed or kicked. Yes, he knew Optimus wouldn't do it, but that didn't mean he wasn't instinctively wary. It was purely self-preservation.

Bee trotted after the other mechs, and his lungs arched and his muscles burned from the exertion despite the fact that they were walking deliberately slowly. Ratchet commed him, _:You'll be able to keep up easier in the near future. Cardiovascular fitness is going to come first. Muscle growth is second. If you were human, bone strength is the last thing to build, but fortunately, you have titanium struts.:_

:I have a whole new appreciation for the humans.: Bee grumbled. He was starting to sweat, which was an unpleasant sensation. _:I think I'm going to offer rides to them more often. This is hard work!:_

Ratchet snorted, because Bee had attached a video file of his perspective of Ratchet's calf pistons to the comment. Without a word, Ratchet reached down, closed a hand around Bee, and lifted him up. Bee was unceremoniously dumped on Ratchet's shoulder, and he grabbed with startled urgency for a hold on a random bit of armor. "Warn me, next time," he grumbled. He had not actually been angling for a ride, though apparently Ratchet had interpreted it that way.

"You'd say no, and I don't plan on fixing you if you strain something." Ratchet sounded as grumpy as Bee felt.

He fell silent, not wishing to provoke Ratchet's ire any further. Still, it was annoying. The rule of 'don't grab Wheelie without his permission' had been firmly enforced by Optimus, and had become habit among most of the mechs. Now he understood Optimus's reasoning; it was both undignified and an unwanted personal invasion of his space when others picked Bee up when he didn't want it. He trusted Ratchet not to hurt him, but he really would have preferred to have walked to the meeting room under his own power. Also, you just didn't get into another mech's space and stay there like this without being a _lot _better friends than he was with Ratchet.

Ratchet probably didn't care or even notice; Ratchet spent most of his day getting in people's space, as his job required it. It made Bee uneasy to sit on Ratchet's shoulder, but he couldn't think of a polite way to ask to be let down. _That is probably another reason why Optimus is always after us not to pick up Wheelie without his permission, and then to do it with an open palm. It's an invasion of his space, even if we don't mind ourselves because he's so small. He's getting close to adulthood, however, and he's earned more respect than we would give a sparkling._

At the meeting room, Ratchet set him down on the table and retrieved a datapad from a subspace pocket attached to his thigh armor, then grabbed Bee's wrist. With nimble fingers, Ratchet popped the plate of silver armor open and attached the datapad. Bee found he was gritting his teeth in reaction to the device's quick access and scan of his processor.

_:Hnnh. You had nightmares going into recharge yesterday?:_ Ratchet had directed the datapad to access the log of his medical recharge.

"I'm fine," he replied, a bit warily.  
_  
:You know, I could archive and lock that memory for you. It's becoming a problem.: _Ratchet's commed words were more heavily encrypted than usual. The other officers were assembling in the room, and Ratchet was being very mindful of Bee's privacy. He didn't think anyone would be so rude as to decipher their private conversation, but it was the appearance of things that mattered. It was for his comfort.

Locking the memory could be done, and Bee knew it was an option, but it would mean he wouldn't be able to access the files at all. In effect, he would 'forget' about the events under Hoover Dam. He would be left with a factual description of the events in the form of a text file that he would write to himself first, as per standard psych procedures, but he would no longer be able to relive the very vivid memory files themselves.

_:I'm dealing with it.: _Besides, he'd probably just have nightmares about the hole in his memory, or the contents of the text file. Having a vivid imagination was not always a good thing.  
_  
:You can't, not alone.: _Ratchet met his eyes, expression going soft and concerned. _:Bee, this is the sort of thing you need to talk out with someone.:_

:I am,: he said, defensively, and then Bee shot memory files of both the time when he'd stopped at Hoover dam on vacation, and of last night when both humans had held him, at Ratchet. Both incidents had been deeply personal, but he also knew the medic would not let the issue drop. _:I know I can't deal with this entirely by myself, Ratchet. You know me. I'm pretty realistic about what I can, and cannot, handle myself. It's not the first time I've been shook up by something, and I've always dealt with it appropriately. It just takes time to retrain my neural pathways not to trigger that memory when anything similar crosses my sensors. We both know this.:_

:You're confiding in the humans?: Ratchet's tone was a bit questioning, but not condemning.  
_  
:They are both good listeners.:_

:It's a lot to put on them. Do not forget that they are adults, but very young ones.: Ratchet's tone turned worried. _:And both have been very stressed lately.:_

Bee had looked away from Ratchet's gaze, but now he turned back. He thought he knew his humans better than Ratchet did. If anything, worrying about him would distract them from their own troubles. A good thing, Bee thought. _:I nearly killed Sam, and his reaction was simply concern for me. He wasn't even angry. And if Mikaela is concerned about me, it is a good thing for her. I do not believe she's ever had someone she could confide in before Sam and I, and it will help her become comfortable with talking to me if I talk to _her_. They are good confidantes, Ratchet, and good friends, and I have no worries about giving them more than they could handle by talking about this issue with them.:_

Ratchet sighed static aloud, then said, _:Bee, are you certain you wish to pursue things with Windy?:_

Unspoken was Ratchet's knowledge of just how much Bee loved the humans. He'd seen and heard it, a few days earlier, and Bee figured the medic wouldn't soon let it drop. Bee's feelings were strong and had probably made a profound impression on Ratchet. Knowing Ratchet, he would be like a dog with a bone, unwilling to give up the topic.

He shook his head, _:I would do them more harm than good were I to ever let them know how I truly feel. They would both react badly. And I like Windy, Ratchet. I truly do. He makes me smile every time I see him.:_

:There is liking and there is love. Do not confuse them, Bee.: Ratchet disconnected the datapad and said aloud for the benefit of the rest of the officers, "Bee, you've got a few errors that I need to write some new code for, and one or two functions I would like to talk to Elita and Doc about optimizing better, but you're cleared for duty. Nothing is critical and it can wait until next week."

"Thank you," he said.

Optimus made a throat clearing noise, and Bee glanced up at Prime. Even though Bee was standing on the table, Optimus towered far, far above over him. He was somewhat used to that perspective, since he only came up to Optimus's elbow in mech form, but this felt different. Optimus's hand was bigger than his whole body, and when Optimus rested it on the table next to Bee, it was all he could do not to step away.

Sam might have a problem with flinching due to one specific incident. Bee, by contrast, had spent most of his life in the midst of a war, and had been struck, kicked, stomped on, and clobbered with a vast assortment of objects many, many times. Never in a million years would Optimus hurt him ... but his battle routines were still running a bit hot after his encounter with Grip, and the subliminal effect of being vastly smaller than everyone else was to make him nearly paranoid with a lifetime of half-buried memories of vicious blows and stunning injuries.

The fact that the others were crowding around the table didn't make it any better. It was vaguely claustrophobic. All the officers with a high-level security clearance were present: Elita, Magnus, Ironhide, Ratchet, Grimlock, Silverbolt, Wheeljack, and Doc. The latter surprised Bee a bit; Doc's clearance was substantially lower than the others, and he was generally not part of war meetings unless the topic directly intersected with his specialized knowledge base. Hot Rod was also there, optics wide and looking like he was scared into starstruck silence. Bee, who well remembered the first time _he'd _been pulled into a meeting like this, sympathized with being young and overwhelmed. There were still times when he looked around himself, at who he was keeping company with, and was left dumbfounded that they considered him one of their peers. Hot Rod, as a new Prime, was legitimately a part of this sort of meeting but he was also a very young officer whose military rank had only recently been bumped up from roughly equivalent to 'ensign' all the way to 'commander' overnight.

Magnus said something in a quick, encrypted burst to Roddy and Roddy blinked and giggled and relaxed a bit.

Bee forced himself to stand calmly next to Optimus's hand and said, "So, what Decepticons did we kill last night?"

"That's the problem, 'Bee. They're not 'cons." Ironhide ran a hand over his face, even as Kup arrived.

Kup too? Bee wondered. This was serious, then.

Kup had been given a rank of commander in the Autobot armies; some of the N.E.S.T. humans had wondered how they could so quickly trust a strange mech. The simple truth was that all six Primes had Matrix memories of the old soldier, and all of them were positive. He'd held a similar rank once, in the Cybertronian Guard, serving a long-ago Lord High Protector before he had been given his civilian position as the Ark's captain. They might not know him personally, but past Primes had trusted him, and they more-or-less trusted their predecessors' opinion. It said a great deal to all of them that Vermilion Prime had trusted Kup to lead the Ark's crew, in a time when the talent pool of available officers had seemed infinitely deep.

It was now simply a matter now of figuring out how he would fit into their social structure. Given his age and knowledge, and his experience in past wars, he deserved respect, but he did not have seniority, and he didn't have tens of thousands of years fighting in the trenches with the others. The two thousand Autobots remaining knew each other on a personal level in ways that Kup, and the other newcomers, did not. The Autobots were not used to taking commands from strangers. Yet, it would not have been appropriate to bring him into their army as anything other than an officer; there was ample precedent from the early days of the war for Kup to receive a rank approximately matching that of his service to past Primes.

For now, he was reporting to Hot Rod, and that might become permanent. Roddy needed a staff of officers that wouldn't take advantage of his youth and inexperience, while still giving him wisdom and knowledge that he could rely on. Assigning him 'bots of his own to command would be a tricky thing, and Bee suspected they would start with easy-to-comman mechs like Bluestreak or Hound. There wasn't a chance in the universe that Sunstreaker or Gears would accept Kup's rank before a huge fight and a lot of posturing.

Still, it was very surprising that he would be invited to sit with the other officers at this stage. They knew him by reputation and memory file, but not personally. His loyalty could still potentially be questioned, more because he didn't know _them _and he didn't know their war. It wasn't unheard of for a silver-tongued Decepticon to sway new Autobots to the other side. The reverse had also happened, more than a few times.

"Now that we're all here, I'd like to recap the events of last night," Optimus said, as he took a seat on a chair. Magnus passed out encrypted datapads to Bee, Kup, and Doc.

Bee scanned his, faster than a human eye could have followed, decrypting the information with a very, very high level key as it hit his processor. They were being super cautious, not transmitting this information over the comms because even high levels of encryption could be solved eventually. The Ark's conference room had a security shield but leaks happened. Therefore, the data was optics-only, and he had no doubt that the datapads would be slagged when this was done. He knew it was serious before he even read the information.

Teletraan spoke up suddenly, "Sirs, I am aware of the basic events of the night before as I was included in the mission debriefing earlier. Do you wish me to leave the meeting now?"

If asked, Teletraan would shut off all of his sensors to the room. A quick check of his scanners showed Bee that the privacy shield was already up; he could detect no transmissions or sounds from beyond the walls.

"Stay, Teletraan," Optimus said, "your input is valued."

_Frag_, Bee thought, as he scanned over the the information, _Nebulans?_

That was a surprise, to say the least, and not exactly a welcome one given the very delicate political situation for the Autobots on Earth. _Fraggit. If they talk to the humans, we are so screwed._

* * *

Fang sat on his haunches, internal heaters blasting against the cold Siberian wind, as the warship touched down in a field of frosty grass. He was alone except for Deathwheel's looming presence behind him. Death had quickly become Fang's personal bodyguard, servant, and analyst all rolled into one; Fang knew he needed more staff but finding people he could truly trust was slow going. The Autobots had fragged far too many of his loyal mechs during the battle a few weeks ago; his plans to upgrade some of his smallest supporters like he had Death had all been shot to the Pit.

At least Death was loyal, and someone he could trust to watch his back was welcome. And Death, at twenty-five feet of heavy armor and reinforced struts, and armed with the biggest pulse cannon Fang had been able to find him, was formidable backup indeed.

And he was good company.

And he was _smart_.

Winter was coming soon, and he would be glad to leave this world. The Nemesis's arrival was welcome indeed. Beautiful though the Siberian steppes were, the cold made his lubricants sluggish, his joints stiff, and an recent injury to his hip -- he'd tangled with Skywarp again and won, but with injuries -- more prone to painful errors. The cold joint rubbed on an imperfectly welded break that went right through the socket. The pain made him miss Wheelie. Wheelie had been small and barely trained, but he had been meticulously neat with his welds where it counted. The medic who'd fixed that battle damage had been harried, impatient, and annoyed to be dealing with exotic alloys rather than the standard duryllium.

_Wonder if we could kidnap Ratchet for a few days? _Fang thought, mind wandering a bit. _I'd submit myself to his tender mercies in a heartbeat if I could get my hip fixed, and all my maintenance done. He always viewed my atypical structure as a fun challenge._

He didn't trust the Decepticon medics, on two counts. Firstly, they weren't nearly as well trained as the Autobot medical staff. Secondly, he had not yet had a chance to figure out who was loyal to him, who was loyal to the old guard, and who didn't give a damn as long as they got paid on time and nobody fragged them. Though word had it that a few of category number two had become category number one, fans of his, after he'd instituted a strictly enforced 'no fragging the medics' rule.

_Treat people right, and they're a lot more loyal. Simple. I don't understand why Megatron and Starscream never understood that._ Fangface had long ago come to the conclusion that eliminating his opponents and being nice to his allies and friends was the best way to keep his own aft intact.

The Nemesis settled down onto the landing field with a low thrum of engines that shook the very ground, drawing his attention back to the arrival of their transportation off this world. It was not as big as the Autobot's new starship -- and he would readily admit to being jealous of the Ark -- but the Nemesis had far more firepower. It was a sleek craft, built for speed and maneuverability. The Ark had a higher top speed, but the Nemesis could turn, accelerate, and brake quicker.

He waited while the hatches opened. The captain, a mech named Bloodshine, stepped out into the afternoon sunlight and said, _:Lord Fangface, it is good to see you.:_

:Mmm, welcome to Earth, Shiner.:  
  
Bloodshine was reasonably loyal to Fang. The previous captain of the Nemesis had not been, but Shiner had been his third in command and he and a few hand-picked conspirators had taken the rest of the officers out of commission. All over the Decepticon fleet, similar coups were being staged. Some had been planned long in advance, but Fang had also been pleasantly surprised by a a few impromptu rebellions by crews that were sick of the past regime. He had fans he didn't even know about, though most were likely supporting him for the sole reason of, 'He _can't _be worse than Megatron, and he's not an Autobot.' The rest were probably just going with the flow, swearing allegiance to him because his supporters had been slagging his opposition and most 'cons were keenly interesting in staying alive.

_Eventually they'll support me because I'm a good option, rather than the best of a bad lot. _He vowed that to himself every time he dealt with the attitude of 'well, he's better than what we had before.'

Bloodshine stepped down the ramp. _:Pretty world.:_

:Yes, it is.:

:Resource rich, too, I hear.: Shiner said, with a note of speculation in his words.  
_  
:It is.: _Fang agreed, though he couldn't help but think the resources on this world would be too expensive to claim, on many levels. If they tried to steal them, the humans would react with brutally effective aggression, backed by a few dozen Autobot warriors. The cost in lives and repair bills just wasn't worth it. Decepticon technology was vastly more advanced than human, but there were eight billion humans on this world and they regularly killed each other in vicious wars. Fang had sized _that _situation up and decided he really didn't want to test the odds, particularly since they had nukes of their own and a proven willingness to use them in battle against their own kind. They also had Autobot allies. The 'bots were currently refusing to provide the humans with advanced weapons tech, but he was pretty sure if the choice was 'Decepticons win' or 'humans get pulse cannons' Optimus would chose the lesser of two evils.

Fang hadn't forgotten Nebulos either, and thought Megatron had made a tactical error there, twenty thousand years ago. He'd eliminated the Autobot's primary base of operations and wiped out a few billion potential allies, but now the Autobots would fight to the last mech before ever ceding the Decepticons another world. That grief-ridden fury on the Autobot side would make his goal, actual victory and an end to the war, that much harder now.

Legitimately trading with humans for the resources might be possible, but that was not a concept he was willing to introduce to his supporters just yet. They'd be confused by it, certainly. The profit margin on honest trade was lower than that of theft. Also, the Autobots would likely object. Strongly.

He could steal some resources and run, but that would violate the spirit of the truce. He was damned well going to keep his word. It was tactically useful to have the Autobots trust that his word was good.

Shiner studied him for a moment, and looked like he was about to say something, then shook his head. "My crew will be glad for a chance to disembark for a bit."

"Walk with me," Fangface said, as he turned towards Starscream's former lab. The hip gave him several errors. Ruthlessly, he ignored them and made a point not to favor the joint. He didn't want anyone to know he was injured. "But before we're under a privacy shield, can you summon one of your crew? I'd like a meeting with him after I'm done briefing you on the situation."

"One of my crew?"

"A scout. His designation is Lieutenant Counterpunch."

"Oh, him." Shiner's face darkened with irritation. "Troublesome bastard. Only reason I didn't deactivate him is he's too popular with the crew. I don't think he's loyal to your cause; he loved Megatron a tad too much. What do you want with him?"

Fang shrugged. "We know each other from before the war, and we've got a few things in common I want to talk to him about."

"Heh. Well, make sure your enforcer there," Shiner jerked his chin up at Death, who responded with a grunt, "backs you up."

"Deathwheels, my enforcer? Never." Fang grinned up at him. "His personality's far too sunny and cheerful for that."

Bloodshine snorted an amused laugh. "His reputation proceeds before him. Skywarp says he's the one who pulled the trigger on Soundwave."

"Soundwave tried to turn him into a cassette. He took it personally."

"Heh, don't blame him. Creepy little fraggers." Shiner shuddered. "I understood he reprogrammed them to be utterly loyal to him, and stuck a quantum link in their spark chamber so that he was _always _interfaced with them. Creepy, I tell you."

"I'd tend to agree." Fangface had no problems with speaking ill of the dead.

While maintaining a perfectly straight, dull, uninterested expression Deathwheels sent an encrypted comment to Fangface, _:Maybe you should let me change my designation to Fluffybunnies. The name Deathwheels may be giving them the wrong impression.:_

:Ah, I do love a minion with a sense of humor. No. You may not change it.: Fangface didn't let a trace of amusement onto his own features either, though Bloodshine could certainly sense the exchange between them. Shiner waited patiently while they completed their private conversation. Fang figured that the captain would assume he was giving Deathwheels directions rather than simply enjoying a little banter.  
_  
:And here I thought you valued me for my brains.:_  
_  
:That, too,: _Fang assured him. _:I forgot to thank you for that analysis of our security leaks, by the way, that pointed us to Counterpunch. A hundred thousand years' worth of process of elimination. Most impressive.:_

:You're welcome, Boss. You are _going to let me back you up when you talk to him, right?:_

:Maybe. If you're really, really good and beg for it.:   
_  
:Pretty please can I keep your aft alive, because you're the best boss I've ever had, please please please please PLEASE?: _Deathwheel's voice hit a note of high-pitched whine that could have broken glass were it said aloud. That playful sense of humor was _why _Death was Fang's favorite lackey, as well as, currently, the only member of his inner circle. If he was going to spend large chunks of his time with a mech, he wanted to at least enjoy his company. (Fang had sometimes speculated on the reasons why Megatron and Starscream had lived in each other's orbit for so very long, given their real contempt for one another. He had a few theories, but he and Death had agreed that mutual masochism was most likely.)  
_  
:Good enough.: _Fang shot him a quick look, not smiling -- though Death certainly knew him well enough by now to recognize the amusement in his optics. Then he said to Bloodshine, "It sounds as if you're not very fond of Counterpunch. Do you mind if I take him off your hands?"

"Are you going to kill him or keep him?" Shiner asked, with evident curiosity.

"Do you care?"

"Not really. I don't trust him."

"I'm honestly not sure." Fang shrugged. "I'll decide after I have a little chat with him."

* * *

The meeting with Shiner was basic; Fang didn't have much to tell him that hadn't already been covered in communiques already. They were evacuating Earth on September 30th, and most of what needed to be done now was just logistical.

The Nemesis, however, was short on Energon, and Bloodshine had suggested trying to obtain it from Nieryl Six, which meant racing the Autobots there, and attacking the base before the Ark arrived. That would violate the ceasefire treaty thoroughly, though he had no doubt Megatron would have done precisely this. The Autobots were sure to take every drop of Energon with them when they departed, and they would then frag the refineries past the point of repair.

He suspected the Ark would win the race, anyway.

Fang frowned, staring at a datapad that Bloodshine had left. The Nemesis needed other raw materials, too. They were short on helium, notably, used both for welding and for the ship's pulse cannons and quantum engines. Only the energon shortage was critical, but it would be nice if he could solve the other problems before he departed Earth. Maybe a raid somewhere ... no. That would be violating the spirit of the cease fire.

_If nothing else, I want the Autobots to know they can trust my word when I say I won't shoot. _

"You wanted me?" A low voice said from the doorway of Starscream's former lab.

"Come in." Fangface didn't rise from his chair. If he stood up after sitting for a long time, his hip was sure to seize. He wanted no one to know he was injured.

Counterpunch stepped through the doorway and took in the room with a quick, alert scan before his optics settled on Fang. A faint frown touched the mech's face. Fang wondered if that expression was because of who he was, because Counterpunch couldn't be enthusiastic about meeting with Fangface. Or was it simply because of the makeshift appearance of the lab-slash-office?

He had cut a few feet off the legs on a lab table and turned it into a desk, and he was sitting in a chair that was far too big. At fifteen feet tall in protoform, was shorter than almost all of the officers in the officer and was still trying to find appropriately sized furniture. Like most predacons, he was built for speed and agility, not power. Death had the same problem in reverse. He was not taller than many mechs, but he was wide and heavy, and the enormous tires on his hips and mounted on either side of his head didn't even fit through some doorways on the base. He had to turn sideways to fit through. There were very few chairs that would fit him, and he often sat on the floor to do his paperwork.

The desk faced the door, and Fang rested his elbows on it in a deliberately casual pose. "Shut the door after you."

Counterpunch was not a large mech, though that was relative. He had a good five feet of height and several tons of mass on Fang. He was lightly armored, with backswept doorwings and small, bright red optics that reminded Fang of nothing so much as the sights on weapon. He was a scout, a known snitch, and an officer in Megatron's force. Fang's ascension had certainly been to Counterpunch's detriment. He had seemed too loyal to Megatron for anyone among Fang's guard to trust him, and he'd apparently been playing the role of a disgruntled and faithful old-guard supporter since Fang's coup. That was smart, Fang thought, because if he changed his colors too quickly people would become suspicious.

Counterpunch stepped into the middle of the room, and stood with his arms folded and a distinctly hostile look on his face. "What did you want?"

He didn't offer any sort of honorific to Fang, and Fang noted he hadn't even called him by name.

Fang leaned back in his seat and regarded Counterpunch thoughtfully, "I'm putting together my support staff. Your name came up."

"What makes you think I'd serve you?" Counterpunch said, suspiciously. There wasn't a trace of excess interest in those little red eyes. In fact, they'd narrowed. However, Fang figured Counterpunch had to be silently delighted.

"I've killed one of your compatriots, you know, and sent three others back to the Autobots. You, however, I've got other plans for." It was a bald-faced admission, and behind Fang, Death's weapons capacitors clicked on and started to whine as Death readied himself for a potential fight. Counterpunch was thoroughly outmatched by either of them. Together, he had zero chance of winning, and he had to know it. He made no aggressive move.

"_Slag._" Counterpunch gave Deathwheels a sharp look, then ran a hand over his face, demeanor abruptly changing. "If you try to get any information out of me, I'll reformat myself."

"You can do that?" Fang said, impressed. He lifted both optic ridges.

"I have the code already installed." Counterpunch's words were sharp,and angry. "How the _slag _did you figure me out? Did someone talk?"

"It took me awhile. I had to cross-reference every known security leak with who had access to the data, and I finally came up with five names." Fang grinned, cheerfully taking credit for Deathwheel's work. Death, who completely understood why Fang was claiming responsibility for the research and expected Fang to do so, didn't move a millimeter in reaction to Fang's words. Without glancing back, Fang knew that Death had Counterpunch fixed with a dull, emotionless stare. That expression was frankly disturbing, and if Fang didn't know Deathwheels was probably secretly amused by the whole proceedings, he would have been bothered by the idea of the enormous mech being behind him within striking distance.

Counterpunch said nothing.

Fang held up a hand, reassuringly. "I've no intention of trying to hack you, Counterpunch. I'm actually most impressed by how very long you have pulled this charade off. I never would have guessed you were a spy, except that I was looking for spies in general and your name just happened to turn up."

"What are you going to do?" To his credit, Counterpunch wasn't trying to argue Fangface's conclusion that he was an Autobot agent. He likely knew that he would not be standing before Fang if the evidence wasn't convincing.

Fangface shrugged. "Like I said, I'm looking for staff."

"You want me for your staff." Counterpunch fixed Fang with a sharp look, small red optics narrowing even further. "You've obviously figured out I'm an Autobot. What game are you playing?"

Fang pointed a clawed finger at him. "You're an Autobot who's a good enough Decepticon to pass unsuspected for tens of thousands of years in our ranks. I need a liason to the 'bots that the 'bots will actually talk to. Seems like the perfect job for you."

Counterpunch blinked his optics, unfolded his arms, and planted both hands on the top of Fangface's desk. Deathwheels moved, shifting his weight with a creak of joints and a rustle of armor. Counterpunch glanced up at Death, but didn't retreat. He stated, "You want me to be a diplomat."

"Liason. Not diplomat. And I don't need to trust you in this role, beyond the assumption that neither of us will frag the other without good reason."

"Define the difference between liason and diplomat."

"Deathwheels?" Fangface prompted.

In a bored tone of voice, Death explained, "Fangface prefers staff who will state their opinions to him, albeit only in private. Do not challenge him in a public setting. Use encrypted comm chatter if you need to make a comment in the hearing of others to him. Diplomatic and politically correct mechs who dice words and refuse to voice their thoughts out of fear of giving offense drive him insane. He's offering you a position of Autobot liason not only because of your resume, but also because you have a reputation for intelligence. Additionally, you are known to be a mech of few words. You speak up only when it is important, but your superiors note that you generally have something smart to say when you do."

Counterpunch stared up at Death. Fang wondered if he would have looked more surprised had a piece of furniture spouted poetry.

Death added, "Though getting an honest opinion out of Fang can sometimes be a challenge, not because he's afraid of what people may think, but because he likes to keep people guessing. He finds it tactically useful."

Fang snorted. He did adore Deathwheels.

"Why do you even _need _an Autobot liason?" Counterpunch finally asked.

Fangface lifted an optic ridge but didn't answer the question. Counterpunch could figure out his own answers. They may or may not be correct, and really, Fang had a few different and competing plans for galactic domination. It always paid to have alternatives. In any event, however, having a real and open line of communication with the enemy could only be helpful. And that meant he needed people who could speak to them without either insulting them or being shot by his side as a traitor.

"Who knows that I am a spy?"

"Just Deathwheels and I. It wouldn't be prudent for more to learn of this." Fang stopped, and waited for Counterpunch to think his proposal over and give him a real reaction to it. Right now, Counterpunch was in a bad position, having just been discovered, and was likely running on battle routines alone and not actually _thinking_. His cover had just been discovered, unexpectedly, and yet nobody was actively trying to kill him. It had to be a complete paradigm shift for him.

Red eyes regarded Fangface suspiciously for a long, long moment. "If I say no?"

"I send you back to Optimus."

"Alive or dead?" His optics narrowed suspiciously.

"Oh, alive." Fang waved a hand in the air. "You haven't done anything to piss me off personally, and there's no tactical advantage to killing you."

"Well," Counterpunch noted, "except for the fact that I've got a head full of Decepticon data I haven't managed to get out to my superiors, and I'm a skilled scout and warrior who would be an asset to the Autobot side were I to rejoin their ranks."

Fang grinned. "And I'd still let you go. Alive. Unharmed."

"Why?" Counterpunch wasn't letting it go.

"Because I'm evil." _Because if I let you go alive, it will influence Optimus's opinions of me for the better. I will need his trust and warm regard someday, to end this war._

"That makes _no _sense," Counterpunch complained.

"Welcome to my world," Deathwheels murmured, though Deathwheels was aware of Fang's grand plan.

The mech ignored Death and regarded Fangface for a very long moment without saying a word. "I need to talk to my superiors. _Maybe _I'll do it. It will be up to them."

"Ah, good." Fangface leaned back in his chair, then he activated the speakerphone on his desk -- he wasn't about to share a comm channel with a pissed off Autobot spy who had 'hacking' as one of his known skills. He was paranoid, but paranoia had kept him alive. He dialed Prime's cell phone number.

"What are you doing?" Counterpunch demanded.

"Arranging your meeting with your superiors."

Counterpunch made a startled noise, just as Optimus picked up. Prime snapped, "Fangface, I'm in the middle of a meeting. Is it important?"

Optimus's voice made Counterpunch straighten up from his position looming over Fang's desk. Real surprise lit his face, then this was rapidly followed by narrowed optics and a tensed frame. Fang smirked at him, knowing Counterpunch was expecting to be fragged while Prime listened in horror.

He let sarcasm touch his words to Optimus. "Eh, I'm just calling to discuss the weather. Are you in a location where you can switch to video?" He supposed he'd earned that impatient greeting. The last two times that Fang had called Prime it had been to ask for tickets to the Autobot Ball (denied) and to offer Optimus a peace treaty with laughably unacceptable terms just because it would make Deathwheels snicker. (Ignored.) Optimus was probably tired of the chain letter e-mails he'd been sending, too.

"I can support video here," Optimus replied, voice very reserved.

There was a moment's pause while both of them transferred the call to video conferencing equipment. One of the monitors on the lab's wall flickered to life after a bit of work, revealing Optimus Prime and what looked like every single Autobot officer on Earth, bar none, plus one human and the Autobot's organic medical expert. The human was standing on the table between Optimus and Ratchet. He didn't recognize all of the mechs present, and the human was an entirely new face.

"Heh, must be serious. Wasn't anything _I _did." Fangface regarded the group with raised optic ridges. "I've been a good boy, really."

"You have honored both the spirit and letter of our agreement. I appreciate your restraint." Prime was good about giving credit where credit was due. His gaze flicked towards Counterpunch briefly, but he gave nothing away. The other officers also remained unreactive, though Fang suspected only a few of them knew Counterpunch was a mole. Prime demanded, "What do you need, Fang?"

"I was just having a little chat with Counterpunch here, about his relationship to the Autobots." Fang enjoyed the look of frustrated irritation that crossed Prime's face. Surprisingly, his reaction was less dramatic than Fang would have expected. Optimus pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge between two fingers. Ironhide groaned, Ratchet looked pained. The human covered his face with one hand. The rest seemed clueless, exchanging puzzled glances.

"Punch, how were you discovered?" Prime didn't sound upset at Counterpunch, but he clearly wanted to know the answer to that immediately.

"Statistics, sir. Fang crunched the numbers and found us by process of elimination."

"Us." Prime sighed.

"I don't know who yet, sir, but more than me."

"We need to have a chat, Prime." Fang propped his elbows on the desk again. "Today."

"Send Punch back alive, and we'll set up a meeting," Prime replied, bluntly.

"Okay." Fang's response was easy and relaxed.

" ... Okay?" Optimus, by contrast, sounded like he didn't believe the audio he was hearing. The assembled officers exchanged looks of startled bemusement, as if they didn't think it could be so easy. Fangface would not be at all surprised if they weren't already discussing rescue plans over the comm on their end.

"I was going to send them back anyway. Counterpunch is here on Earth; the others are scattered throughout the galaxy and it will take me longer to deliver them. I'll send you a datafile with the details. I had one executed because he was working as a double agent, but you can have the other three back." Fang shrugged. "If you won't shoot Thundercracker and Skywarp, the five of us can be there in fifteen minutes."

Optimus Prime rubbed his forehead with two fingers for a moment. Then he asked, "Five?"

"He's the brains of the outfit." Fang hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Deathwheels.

The human observed, "Given Decepticon standards, being the brains of the outfit is not much of an achievement."

"Bumblebee!" Optimus said sharply, "Now is not the time for insults."

_:That's not an insult, that's a statement of fact,: _Death told Fang, and Fang shot him a textual smiley face back. Megatron had eliminated anyone who showed much intelligence, because he felt threatened by it. Fangface was working on finding more intelligent minions, as well as loyal ones, but it was slow going because of years of deliberate promotion of dumb violence over intelligent evil. He actually regretted slagging Starscream after getting a good look at some of Screamer's research, and was seriously contemplating bringing him back. He had Megatron's Allspark shard, which Megatron had stored on base after his revival. It was possible to do. He just wouldn't let Starscream within a few lightyears of any sort of command position, and would lock him in a lab with instructions to be creatively evil.

_That's Bumblebee?_ Fang regarded the human on the monitor with some surprise, as Opimus's words registered. He teased, "Get an upgrade, little Bee?"

"Yes, actually." Bee's expression was remarkably sour. Bumblebee had no love lost for Fang these days. He had certainly made an enemy there, though admittedly, Bee made nearly as entertaining a foe as he did a friend. He couldn't help being amused by the musical insults -- and, occasionally, musical questions.

_Bee suspects what I am. I wonder if he's told the others yet? He may sit on the knowledge until he's certain, so as not to look foolish._

Optimus nodded curtly. "You granted me safe passage to your base. I do not see why we cannot do the same for you, and I am grateful for Punch's safe return."

"Heh. Well, when you find Megatron's spies, just return the favor," Fang replied in a cheerful tone of voice. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes."

He cut the communication.

"We have spies in their ranks?" Deathwheels said, surprised.

"Of course we do." Actually, as far as Fang had been able to find out, Megatron didn't have any double agents on the Autobot side. However, it deeply amused him to think of Optimus trying to find non-existent spies.

_:You're simply evil.: _Death said, after a moment, having worked out Fangface's logic, such as it was. It pleased Fangface that Deathwheels could figure him out so easily, too. They really did work well together.

_:Of course I am. Comes with the job description for 'leader of the Decepticons.:_

:Heh. Whatever you say, Boss.:


	44. Chapter 44

Thundercracker and Skywarp created a space/time bridge that opened na hundred yards from the Ark's main hatch and a safe fifty feet off the ground. Fangface had his battle routines fully activated and both his laser rifles charged. Death hit the ground anastrosecond after Fang did, making a much larger crash of armor, and cracking the concrete he landed on. Much lighter and more nimble than Death,Counterpunch nailed a gymnast's landing beside Fang.

TC and Skywarp both drifted down on their thrusters, looking curious and darkly amused, respectively. Thundercracker regarded the Ark with interest. Primus knew what had triggered Skywarp's odd sense of humor. Fang really didn't want to know.

"Big ship," Fang said, crouching a little in alt-mode as he waited for an attack that _probably _wasn't going to come.

Ironhide, Grimlock, Sunstreaker _and _Sideswipe appeared from the interior of the ship, weapons bristling. Fangface lifted an optic ridge and said cheerfully to the lot of them, "That's a much less friendly greeting than I gave Optimus."

Ironhide grunted. Sunstreaker looked brightly interested in everything, but that didn't fool Fang, who'd fought at Sunny's side a few times. Sunny had been known to laugh his way through combat to the death. Sideswipe smirked beside Sunny, and he could sense a steady stream of comments between the two of them. The transmissions were highly encrypted and probably too much trouble to be worth cracking; the few times he'd bothered in the past, the two had just been trading snide remarks and cutting observations. His amusement had not been worth the effort.

Then Grimlock said, "Owe Fang big smash."

Well, that was fair. Grimlock had a rather sizable reason to resent Fang. They had been friends, Fang had betrayed him, and he had been tortured nearly to death. Brightly, Fangface pointed out, "Well, I made sure you got home. Eventually."

Grimlock rumbled menacingly. Deathwheels, in his usual position looming behind Fang, was radiating tension. He asked, _:You sure they're not going to frag us?:_

:Positive.: He responded with far more conviction than he felt right at that moment.

"Grim," Optimus descended the ramp behind them, "Stand down."

"Yeah, you can't eat the kitty, Grim. He'd give you indigestion." Sunstreaker snickered.

Optimus regarded them for a moment, then said, "Punch, please report to the med bay. First Aid will want to see you immediately."

"I've not been harmed, sir," Counterpunch -- or Punch, apparently -- said slowly, "Nor hacked."

"Protocol, Punch. We're going to check anyway."

"Yes sir." Punch, after a backwards glance at Fangface, headed into the interior of the ship.

Optimus turned his attention to Fangface and said, "You have my word of honor that you will not be harmed. Your staff must remain outside, however."

Fang didn't mind leaving the seekers outside, and the seekers would probably prefer to avoid the claustrophobic confines of a ship, but Death was another story. As far as Optimus knew,Deathwheels was just his bodyguard. He hesitated, because Death was a lot more than that, and their strengths were complimentary. Aside from his concern that theAutobots would attack him, he could use Death's input if matters turned technical and scientific.

He pinged Optimus with a request for an encrypted exchange. Optimus gave him a wary look, then opened a comm line. _:What do you want?:_

:TC and 'Warp wil be happiest outside anyway, but Death's my bodyguard. You're asking me to walk into an enemy ship without anyone to watch my back.:

Prime gave Deathwheels a level look -- and it was truly level, because Death was nearly the same height as Optimus. Death returned Optimus's gaze with a deceptively dull expression, mouth slack, eyes vague. _:He stays outside, Fang. You have my word that we will treat you honorably.:_

"Sorry, Death," he sighed aloud.

_:You're going to leave me out here?: _Deathwheels wasn't happy with this development.  
_  
:You have the seekers for company.:_

:Oh, thanks much. They think I'm dumber than a stump.: Death was not worried about being bored or lonely, he was worried about Fang's safety among the Autobots. They both knew this, but Fangface wasn't about to admit he was worried too. The Autobots had their own brand of ruthless pragmatism when the mood struck them.  
_  
:You could always enlighten them.: _It was true that the two seekers were cliqueish, tolerating Fangface as their leader as they had Megatron, but not really desiring to socialize with his other staff. He needed to work on them more, draw them out and get them to trust him rather than simply obey him, but it was slow going. He'd killed theirtrinemate, after all.  
_  
:Tried. They laughed. And I've got a few astrogigs of processor power on Skywarp, too, blast him.: _Death sounded peeved._ :Arrogant blasted seekers ...:_

:Skywarp's probably a lost cause for now, but pay attention to TC, will you? Watch how he looks _at things sometimes. I think there's more to him than just another sadistic Decepticon.:_

:If you say so, boss.:

:I do say so.: He was intrigued by Thundercracker's potential. TC had made a few comments indicating he'd disliked Megatron immensely. Fang was trying to figure out the root of that hatred, and see if it was something he could work with. TC was smarter than the average seeker, and a little less savagely violent than the average Decepticon. That combination could be useful._ :I won't ask you to bond for life today with TC, but do me a favor and find out how bad Grim's processor core damage really is. I've a suspicion he's not nearly as impaired as he pretends. Ratchet would have replaced his core, if that was the case. He's always been a cunning bastard.:_

:How am I supposed to do that?:

:I dunno. Be creative.:

:That's your _skill, boss.: _Death was good at crunching numbers. He was not so hot at coming up with clever mind games, though he was more than decent when asked to play a role in one of Fang's schemes.  
_  
:Well, then, you can't go wrong by pretending you're me. And I'd be flattered.:_

:Fragger.: Death's tone was friendly. _:I'll think of something, boss. Be careful.:_

:With that sort of comment, one would almost think you're worried about me.: Fangface rolled his optics.  
_  
:Not worried about you, precisely. Worried about who would replace you if anything happened to you.: _Another mech might have smiled, after replying with those words. Deathwheel's tone had turned teasing, though his face still bore no expression at all beyond bored disinterest.

_:But a new boss might allow you change your designation to Fluffybunnies.:_

:In that case, I wish Optimus good aim.: Death finally cracked a smile, turning his head to fix Fang with a look that was distinctly affectionate. That, too, was part of his cover. The only person Death ever publicly showed a smile to was Fangface. _:Do be careful, Lord Fangface. I don't trust them.:_

He nodded acknowledgment of the latter sentiment, then turned his attention up to Optimus. "It's settled, he'll stay out here. If anyone hurts him, I'll kill them the first chance I get."

_:Who's guarding who again?: _Deathwheels teased, but he sounded pleased by Fang's bluster.

Inside the Ark, it was forty degrees cooler than the furnace-blast of late summer Nevada heat. Optimus, with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe flanking him, led the way quickly through the ship's halls to the conference room. It was a strange feeling, Fang thought, to walk between those two as an enemy. He'd enjoyed fighting at their side for that brief period he had been an Autobot, years ago. Their approach to combat was similar to his: kill it quickly, at close quarters, with sharp objects. They used swords. He was designed from his core outwards to kill with his own teeth and claws.

Now, he watched the twins with wary caution, and was on his best behavior.

He knew his limits. Fang was a formidable frontliner. The twins were built for the same role, with power and speed in equal measure. Optimus was not, Optimus was originally a civilian model who had been heavily modified. However, he'd more than proved his mettle on the battlefield and Fang had a healthy respect for the sword he carried in a subspace pocket on one wrist. Fangface put his odds at beating the three of them fairly low, if it came to a fight, and that was before he factored in the rest of the crew and one sentient ship, as well.

He pinged the ship's spark.

_:Should I even be speaking to you?: _Teletraan's response was wary.

_:If I tried to take out the officers, would you frag me yourself?:_

:Yes.:

:Figured.: He wasn't precisely sure how the ship would achieve that, but even civilian-model ships generally had plenty of internal defenses. Hostile boarding of a sparkedstarship was generally an exercise in futility. Even the inertial dampers, doors, and climate control systems could become weapons if a ship chose to fight back. The general approach to seizing a ship like the Ark was either to take some of the crew hostage and use them as a bargaining chip, or frag the ship's spark as the opening move of a battle. The latter tactic generally required an inside job. At the moment, he knew of zero Decepticon moles in the Autobot army.  
_  
:I'm reporting this question to Optimus.: _Apparently, Teletraan had disappointingly little sense of humor.  
_  
:Oh, do.:_

Optimus immediately shot him a sharp look. "Leave Teletraan alone."

"But I was just teasing him!" Fangface gave Optimus a quick grin, then sauntered through the conference room doors ahead of him, stopped, and regarded the assembled crowd. "Oooh, look, the gang's all here."

The doors slid shut, locking the evil twins out. He figured they would take up positions on either side of the door, ready to spring into action if Fang made trouble. However, their help might not be needed, as he was looking at several large mechs, plus Doc and the blond, humanoid version of Bee who was sitting cross-legged on the table and had pointedly not risen when Fang entered. Nobody stood up. Fang didn't warrant that honor byAutobots.

Ratchet reported, "Prime, First Aid says Punch checks out fine on preliminary scans. He wasn't hurt."

"Thank you," Optimus said, to Fangface. "Now. What do you want?"

"All the Primes but Grimlock are here, yes?" Fang asked, grabbing the chair at the head of the table. It was probably Optimus's seat. Optimus blandly took one of the empty chairs along the middle of the table's longer length.

"How did you know that we'dfound the Matrixes?" Optimus Prime demanded. Likely, he was wondering where the leak was.

Fang considered letting him worry, but then discarded the idea. He didn't really want to piss Optimus off anymore than he already had. It was a fine balancing act between amusing himself by irritating his enemies, and getting Optimus angry enough that he got tossed out of the Ark on his aft. "I made a guess, actually, based on analysis of your recent battle against my former superiors, and knowledge of precisely what was in that cave in Egypt."

"The cave." Optimus rubbed his forehead. "Save Grimlock, all the Primes are here, including the missing one."

Elita blinked. The rest looked puzzled, except for Bee, who he knew had already figured him out. Bee asked, with a smirk, "So what are we going to call you, Fang,Dentalmaximus Prime?"

Fangface snorted. "Funny, Bumbler Prime."

Bee ran a hand over his adorably human face and said, "I take it you're 'fessing up, and we can stop wondering where the sixth Matrix ended up."

"Yeah, might as well. I belong to your precious little club. What are you going to do about it now?" He leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs out under the table and lacing his fingers together behind his head. He was a bit disappointed by the lack of an explosive reaction. Ratchet rolled his optics, and a few sharp glances were exchanged between the others, but they failed to demand he return it, or to try to kill him, as he'd half hoped and half feared.

"Nothing," Optimus said, calmly, answering his question. "If the Matrix deemed you suitable to be a Prime, it is not our place to dispute this. We are not friends, Fang, but by the oldest beliefs of our people you are equal to myself and the other Primes. We will grant you the respect you deserve."

"I feel the love already." He steepled his fingers together and leaned forward, deciding to come right to the point. He didn't have the patience for social niceties and subtle negotiations. "So here's what I want. I want aliason and courier between us. My suggestion is Punch. The only people on my side who know he's an Autobot are myself and Deathwheels, and I trust Death to keep his trap shut. My side thinks Counterpunch is a Decepticon. That'll _probably_ keep him alive long enough to be useful. Yet your side will trust him. I think he's perfect for the role, and he can help us open a few bridges of communication that we've never had before."

The Autobots were silent, for a moment, and then a flurry of encrypted radio chatter erupted around him as they discussed his proposal with, likely, stunned disbelief and heavy suspicion. Optimus just looked at him for a moment, then raised a hand and silenced his people. "It is a very good idea, Fangface, and one I never expected to hear come from a Decepticon leader."

"Bluntly," Fang said, "we've fought to the brink of extinction of our people. I want to stop this as much as you do, and I'm done playing games. I'll speak frankly for the moment -- something you won't see me do often, so feel privileged."

"Thank you." Optimus's tone was dryly amused, but there was something lurking in his expression that Fang didn't like. The leader of the Autobots seemed troubled, though he was hiding it well behind a politely unruffled gaze.

"However," Fang held a hand up, much as Prime had, when the 'bots started to chatter amongst themselves again. No one was more astonished than he was when they actually shut up and looked at him. He definitely had their interest. "We can't just drop the war, sign a peace treaty today, and call it quits."

"I suppose not." Prime rubbed his forehead again. "I can see several complications that we'd have to work through. You do not have the control you need yet of your forces ..."

Fang started to protest, then thought better of it. Optimus was right.

"... they would rebel, quite strongly, and likely depose you. I actually have no desire to see the Decepticon army implode."

"Really?" Fang said, trying to figure that one out. Sometimes, the way Optimus thought just left him baffled. He would have assumed that Optimus would be delighted by the prospect.

Optimus wasn't smiling at all when he said, "_You_, I can work with. My assessment of your power structure is that if you were taken out of the equation we would be left with several competing factions. Each rival Decepticon leader would then work to make a name for himself in order to attract more followers, resulting in a disorganized and messy field of combat. We do not have the numbers to protect all the worlds and tactically important locations that would end up under attack, but we would be forced to try. Combating an enemy with multiple focal points of power and unpredictable behavior is much more difficult than dealing with a well-organized army that behaves in predictable ways."

Fangface planted an elbow on the table, rested his chin on his fist, and said, "Continue. I had not thought much on this. I'm interested in your conclusions."

Multiple officers gave him dirty looks, likely because of the fact he'd just use a command voice with the 'continue.' Optimus, however, gave no sign of being annoyed. He simply said, "The Decepticon forces would be sufficiently weakened by the inevitable chaos as to render our sides equally matched again. The end result would be multiple devastating battles, a high death count -- likely higher, on your side -- and possibly the reduction of the numbers of bothAutobots and Decepticons below the point of no return."

"We're a dying species anyway. No Allspark." He waved a negligent hand in the air to disguise how rattled Prime's words had left him. _Primus. As if I didn't have enough reasons to keep my aft intact, I now have the fate of my entire species riding on my future. _Optimus's words had the ring of truth to them. Fang wasn't about to let on just how unhappy he was about them.

Prime quirked an optic ridge upwards. "I do not know about your plans for the future, Fang, but it has not failed to escape my notice that ourMatrixes each contain a schematic for a new Allspark cube."

_Mine does_? Fang ran a quick search of his Matrix. The thing unsettled him, because every time he touched its vast and endless knowledge, he realized just how inadequate he really was. Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone else. It certainly did contain the schematics Prime had mentioned. "Well, yes," he said, hiding his surprise with a sigh, "but the resources required are beyond our current ability to produce."

"Which is why we are seeking allies who may someday be able to help us, and attempting to make a home here on Earth." Optimus sounded tired. "Obviously. Fang -- you are correct that peace is going to be very difficult between our factions. Aside from the reaction of your troops, _my _people will be very unhappy about the idea. I have control over the forces here, but I am sure you are aware that the Autobot army has been scattered across the universe for eons. I cannot guarantee that they would follow me if I ordered them to stand down and cease fighting Decepticons."

Fang smirked. "You can't even guarantee an intact supply chain, and aside from your core force, they find your orders negotiable at best."

Optimus didn't dispute the truth of Fang's words. Instead, he continued mercilessly, "Additionally, our human allies are important to us, and I am concerned that a peace treaty with you could impact our fragile relationship here. I am not certain how they would react were we to make peace with the enemies who nearly destroyed Earth."

"I had nothing to do with that. I wasn't even on this world then."

"I am well aware of that. They are not." Optimus sounded purely exhausted now. "There's a fourth factor that I am concerned about, too, and it is one you may be unaware of. I am not sure."

"Prime ..." Ironhide said, voice low and distressed. He added a transmission across the comms that Fang saved; likely _that _might be worth decrypting.

Optimus nodded his head at Ironhide. "A valid concern, old soldier, however, we cannot find out if Fang knows anything if we do not ask him."

"Like he'd answer honestly anyway," Bee muttered. He'd moved down the table and was seated as far from Fang as he could get, betweenIronhide's elbow and Ratchet's hands.

"Try me." Fangface grinned at Bumblebee. "Sometimes the truth is more amusing than games."

"Fang," Prime said, in that quiet and calm voice he used when he had something important to say, "I am aware that you were not atNebulos when the world was destroyed, and you were scarcely more than a sparkling then, but you are aware of what happened, correct?"

"Pretty much everyone is." He gave Optimus a surprised look. He had not been anticipating the discussion to turn in that direction.

Wheeljack groaned in disbelief. "He's going to tell him."

Optimus said quietly, "Last night, three unknown mechs attacked a force of my soldiers. They deactivated two, and captured one. The unknown mechs are of Cybertronian style, but not Cybertronian manufacture. We have been able to ascertain via an analysis of the radiometric decay of his spark that our captured enemy is no older than five hundred years of age."

"Huh -- what, he was in stasis?" That made no sense. It was an impossibility.

"Stasis leaves a molecular signature at the quantum level. He has been in stasis for no more than two hundred years. As I stated, he is not of Cybertronian design," Optimus repeated. He handed Fang adatapad . "I'm interested in your input on two counts, Fang. Firstly, have the Decepticons encountered anything like them before? And secondly, what do you make of this design? You have at least a fair amount of scientific knowledge and engineering ability yourself."

"Wheeljack's better than I am by far," Fang said, mouth outpacing his CPU as he thumbed through the data at a rapid pace. Normally he would never have admitted that, but it was several moments before he even registered what he'd said, and then only becauseOptimus's next words broke through his concentration. The data was fascinating.

"Wheeljack is better because he has a few tens of millenia of experience on you, Fangface, and he has had time to advance his knowledge rather than fight for survival. Additionally, I have always encouraged him in his scientific endeavors whereas I suspect you have had to hide much of your intelligence from your superior officers to avoid being labeled a threat to them. You yourself know that you have the potential to be far more than just another Decepticon warlord -- or an exotic prototype war machine. I was very impressed with the work you did helping Wheelie, and Wheeljack has confirmed you've got a gifted hand for upgrades and modifications after reviewing the work you did on Wheelie."Optimus's serene speech made Fang look sharply up, then stare at the Autobot in frank surprise.

Tartly, he retorted, "I'm not just another Decepticon warlord, I'm the one who's going to end the war by defeating you lot."

The room exploded in protests at his rude response, some aimed at him and some buzzing across the comms between mechs. Only Optimus remained unfazed, and he put a stop to chaos with a _loud _ping at everyone that got their attention and silenced the uproar. "I've heard similar statements from Megatron," Optimus noted calmly, "though generally he simply claimed he was going to defeat us. Ending the fighting was never part of his game plan. He planned to conquer the universe after he defeated us."

"Defeating the Autobots is the only way for there to ever be peace, you know." Fang was distracted again by the information in the datapad. He said almost absently, "Neither side is going to be willing to set down arms and make with the hearts and doves. And as far as conquering the universe after I conquer you, well, we don't have the troops to do it with. -- Wheeljack, you're right this isn't a Cybertronian design."

Half the room was yelling at him. He ignored that, though he kept a wary peripheral optic trained on on Ironhide, who was half risen out of his chair. Bee also stood up and had his fists clenched and a furious look on his face.

Prime was simply looking at him, calmly. The leader of the Autobots had his head tilted fractionally to one side, as if he was thinking hard, but his face bore no trace of rancor or even irritation with Fang. Finally, Prime said, _:You could always surrender to us, you know. I could give you better terms than you offered me.:_

Optimus Prime's tone was flat-out teasing. Fang _stared _at him. He'd served under Optimus for a few short years, respected him, and had seen him on the other side of battles as well, both before and after his time as an Autobot. He had never heard Optimus make a joke, not once, and it floored him. For Prime to do so now left Fang stunned. The rest of theAutobots were shouting half-heard insults at him, and Optimus found him funny?

_Optimus _got Fang's sense of humor, well enough to return it? Who woulda thunk it. Thoroughly rattled by this, Fang now focused on the datapad in an effort to avoid doing something stupid like gaping at the large mech in open-mouthed shock. Over the noise in the conference room, Fang said, "This is a very primitive design. It reminds me of records of the very earliest transformers, prior to the first Golden Age. I believe the biggest question, however, is where did the spark come from?"

_And why did you tell me this? _Fang was deeply puzzled.

Then reality hit him, and he set the datapad down with a sharp click. "You're jacking with me."

Prime's eyes widened. "We are not. The data is real. The surviving mech is in our sickbay now."

"_Why _would you give me information that would imply a second Allspark exists somewhere?" Fangface balled his fists up and half rose out of his chair. "It makes no sense!"

"You're telling us," Ironhide muttered.

Prime glanced significantly at Elita, who was seated at his side. She explained, "I've hacked and decrypted the cores of both dead mechs, withTeletraan's help. From that, I have learned some significant information that may impact both Autobot and Decepticon forces. Prime believes, and I agree, that this information needs to be shared with you, because _you _need to be ready. We are a dying race. We have no desire to see the extinction of the Decepticons, because your people and our people are all Cybertronian. In this, we are setting aside our differences for the moment."

Optimus said, "Turn your attention to ..." and he stated an address in Cybertronian, directing Fang to a file in the datapad.

The datapad, which had heard Optimus's words, already had that file address lit on the screen. Datapads had very rudimentary artificial intelligence at best, and were certainly not self-aware, but they were programmed to be helpful. He tapped thefilename with one finger and scanned through it quickly.

Elita had focused on what she was terming 'cultural awareness' in this file. Her notes indicated that the late mechs had been part of a culture with a heavy military influence. Lifespans were a few thousand years, no more. They died of spark degradation, if injury ornanyte infection did not kill them. ( _Primitive_, he thought, stunned by that. Nanyte infections? _Really_?) They believed in a God, and that life came from their God's worldly presence, described as a golden cube. That information was something that sent a chill down Fang's spinal struts, because he _knew _what that must be. He immediately wondered if it would be possible to capture the cube, and to use it to grant life to Cybertronianprotoform shells.

Both dead mechs had memories of a world full of their own kind: Millions upon millions of mechs. Towering buildings, vast industrial complexes, residential centers bigger than small human cities. Millions of mechs. Millions. Elita had entered a note stating one of the mechs had actually read some census information in anewsfile, and the number was somewhere around one hundred and fifty-seven million mechs.

They had quantum starflight mastered, and there were video files pulled from the late mechs' memories of vast orbital shipyards.

They had one primary world, five lightyears from Nebulos, and six colony worlds, all colonized in the last two thousand years. Fang didn't think there'd been a Decepticon ship in that part of the galaxy in fifteen thousand years, at least, though he'd need Death to verify this. The population of aliens had exploded under their noses, missed because the Cybertronian forces on both sides were stretched so very thin. What was the point of patrolling a distant world, when the focus on both sides was finding theAllspark and beating on each other, goals which were given about equal levels of importance, and they'd already verified the Allspark and the Autobots weren't there?

The alien mechs had reacted to their first contact with Autobots with the cry of 'Die, Cybertronian!' in Nebulan.

Elita said quietly, "The world they're from is where we believed the few surviving Nebulans had fled to. We were not sure if any had survived. They asked us not to follow, after the fall of Nebulos. We honored that request."

"Clearly, they did survive."

"And prospered far more than we had ever hoped." Elita set her own datapad down with a click on the metal surface of the table. "Our belief is that sometime in the intervening twenty thousand years, Nebulans managed to create an Allspark-like cube. They then set about creating a race of transformer-like mechs, based on our people, but working with inferior technology. They were our allies for over four million years, evolving in parallel with our own species. We traded technology between our worlds, and lived in true harmony with them. At the time of the destruction ofNebulos , their technology was on par with ours. However, it appears they slid backwards a long way and are only now beginning to reach anything similar to the level of science they had before."

"One hundred fifty-seven million mechs," Optimus repeated. "Even if they have a technology level substantially below ours, we cannot fight them"

"Do we have to?" Fang said, with a grin. "They're not Autobots. I'm perfectly happy to make nice."

"We destroyed their _world_." Elita picked the datapad back up, and looked down at it, perhaps to hide her emotions. "They may not be willing to 'make nice'."

"Well, you didn't destroy it, and neither did I," Fang noted, "Megatron did, as revenge for Nebulos siding with the Autobots."

"He believed it to be tactically important, from what I understand, to make sure Nebulos did not fall under Autobot control again," Optimus replied, a hint of cold anger finally reaching his voice.

Fang lifted his head up from the datapad, then shook it and corrected, "Megatron did it for revenge. He was just that evil."

"Hnh." Optimus's response was surprisingly nonverbal, and Elita glanced over at him, optics going bright with concern. The large mech ignored his partner's glance and folded his arms and said, "TheNebulan mechs had been indoctrinated with a rather profound hatred of our race. It permeates their datafiles, their culture, even their art. This does not distinguish between Autobots and Decepticons. _We _destroyed their world, and they view us much as humans might view mythological demons, except their demons are real, and they are us. The closest analogy I can think of is that they view us the way we view Unicron or humans view Lucifer."

"You sent out a beacon summoning Autobots to Earth," Fang noted.

Prime inclined his head in acknowledgement of that.

"And now they are here, having detected it."

"Apparently so."

"Looks like you've got a bit of a problem on your hands," Fangface said, cheerfully. He sure didn't want to deal with this. The thought of an enemy race with one hundred and fifty seven million mechs, and likely a few billion organics as well, made him cold to his core. They would have vast resources and far more brute force than the 'cons could ever muster. "Think you can talk your way out of this one, Prime?"

"I intend to send a diplomatic mission to their world," Optimus said, quietly. "I do not know if we can abate their rage, however. We can only try."

"They have a _cube_," Fang breathed.

"Attack them," Optimus growled, "even _think _about attacking them, and we will die defending them even if the shots come from behind us, from those we defend, as well as from Decepticon forces. Do not underestimate how serious I am about this."

Fangface held up a calming hand. "Easy, Optimus. I understand why you've brought this information to me, now, and you have my agreement to cooperate as much as I am able. I do not wish to see my Decepticons destroyed by aliens any more than you want to see yourAutobots dead."

Optimus seemed to visibly relax, shoulders lowering a bit and tension leaving his tall frame. He rested the backs of both hands on the table, palm up, and said, "Which brings us back to Punch, and your idea to have aliason between us. Punch is not exactly the most diplomatic of mechs, but he is a good start, and for the reasons you cite. What else can we do tode-escalate tensions between us?"

He was being tested, Fangface suspected. Optimus probably had a few ideas of his own.

Fangface ran a hand over his face, then stroked one of his long namesake fangs. "We need energon, helium, and some duryllium blanks for the med bay. Bloodshine wants to stage some raids on earth, or attack Nieryl Six before you evacuate. -- And before you look for a spy there, I'm just assuming you will leave. After the truce ends, I would have no hesitation in taking the moon from you, and I can do it easily enough. It's tactically important, and I'd be a fool not to. However, I'm being on my best behavior at the moment, so I'll confess to having no spy in your ranks providing that information, rather, just making an educated guess."

Optimus nodded. He said slowly, "Would you prefer to trade for what you need ... rather than fight for it?"

He sounded as if he expected Fang to shoot the idea down entirely, to mock him, to laugh aloud at the sheer audacity of the idea.

"You'd really _do _that?" Fangface dropped his hand down to the table. The thought that Optimus might be frankly willing to work with him, rather than refuse to deal just to make life more difficult for the Decepticons, was stunning. He had just said that he would attack Autobot forces if they lingered onNieryl Six. He had the ship to do it with, too; the Nemesis would be an even match for the Ark, and he had more troops for ground fighting.

Optimus actually smiled. "I would be honored to, Fang."

"Honored?" He reset his audio receptors, wondering if he'd misheard.

"Honored, because it could be considered the first real step towards peace. We have all of those resources. What do you have to trade?" Optimus was watching him, clearly waiting to see what his response was.

"Err."

"Primus, Optimus, I think that's the first time anyone's ever rendered Fangface speechless." Ratchet grinned in delight at Fang's discomfiture.

"Ratchet." Optimus's rebuke consisted only of the medic's name, delivered in a stern tone. Ratchet didn't look particularly apologetic, but he subsided.

"I just said I'd attack your forces," Fang pointed out, finally, floored by the suggestion. It was radical, audacious, and entirely too much like something Fangface himself had been thinking of. He was more than a little bothered by the fact that Optimus had proposed it first. Suspiciously, he asked, "What do you have in mind for a trade?"

"Were our positions reversed, I would do the same regarding Nieryl Six." Optimus met Fang's wary gaze with level blue optics. "I stopped taking Decepticon attacks personally eons ago, particularly when they make tactical sense. We're at war. Battles happen. In this case, I owe you for the warning in advance, so that I can evacuate my troops without loss of life."

"You're going to frag the manufacturing plants and refineries, aren't you?" Fangface considered the problem. Optimus's response made sense.

"Of course."

"That means it will take us decades to rebuild. I know Mirage. He's _thorough._" Fang rubbed his nasal ridge with two fingers, then realized he probably looked like he was copying Optimus when he did that, and stopped.

"Well, we're certainly not going to let you have them. That'd be dumb." Ratchet folded his arms, speaking up again.

Fang found he was rubbing his faceplate again. It was _his _nervous tic, damnit, and he wasn't going to stop this time. He sat for a minute, fingers working the flexible metal plating below one optical sensor, then he said, "What if I let you keep the moon, and you give us a percentage of theenergon in return?"

"A bribe to avoid being attacked." Ratchet's words were flat, and angry. "You're suggesting we pay you in energon to avoid being bullied off the moon. That was the sort of behavior that began the war in the first place, Fang. The strong preying on the weak. It's wrong."

"Well, I _am _the bad guy here," he said, but he found he was uncomfortable with that pronouncement under the suddenly hostile gaze of the Autobot officers. To a mech they looked like they wanted to murder him for what had seemed like a reasonable suggestion. "I'm not a bully. I've _never _been a bully."

"Yeah? And just how did you get to be leader of the Decepticons?" Bee demanded.

"_Not _by bullying people. By making them want to follow me!" He protested the accusation with a vigorous slam of one fist onto the table. The 'bots almost all jumped;Ironhide's weapons capacitors started to whine.

"Stand _down_, 'Hide." Prime's words were firm. He was the only one who had not reacted in surprise to the loud bang of Fang's hand on the metal surface of the table. "Fangface has a problem here, I believe."

"Yeah." Fang glared at them sourly, suddenly feeling resentful and angry. "If my soldiers see me _trading _with you, they're going to think I'm weak. It'd practically be treason to Decepticon ideals."

Optimus inclined his head in acknowledgement. "This is very true, and you are wise to realize it. Trading rather than theft of the resources would be both pragmatic and just, but would probably create an insurmountable political backlash. I suspect you have a number of enemies working against you. It would make you appear weak and vulnerable, unable to even defeat a fewAutobots on a small, remote moon. They would use it against you."

Fang shrugged. Optimus was correct. Both of them were willing to trade, it seemed, but politically it was difficult.

Optimus leaned back in his chair, and regarded Fang with that keen, level gaze. He appeared relaxed, surprising Fangface. Fang was a wired bundle of nerves, profoundly uneasy under the hostile gaze of theAutobots. Then he realized that Optimus's posture was probably calculated; Optimus had been playing political games for eons before Fang's creation. He smirked at that realization, and forced himself to return to a similar pose. He'd been trying to look casual earlier, and had lost his poise somewhere around the accusation by Bee that he was a bully.

"You know," Optimus said, "it's the appearances that matter, not the truth of our agreement."

"I won't do anything under the table that the Decepticons would consider traitorous," Fang cautioned, "because you could use it as blackmail, or it could come back to bite me when I really didn't need the slag."

Prime considered Fang's words carefully, and to his credit did not pretend that the Autobots wouldn't use blackmail. After several tens of thousands of years of war they'd given up on some of their loftier ideals from the past. "We must be very cautious of the perceptions of our side, as well."

"So what do you suggest?" Fang asked, half because he was curious what Optimus might come up with, and half because he was hopeful that the other mech might have ideas he didn't. He was somewhat at a loss. He had grand plans, of course; he wanted to see theAutobots surrender to him someday, and merge with the Decepticons to become one people. He believed it could happen, and that he was in a great position to make it so.

Those grand plans were not nearly as practical as they were idealistic, however.

Optimus rubbed his temple. Fang, who was similarly massaging his forehead, changed his focus to nibbling on a claw instead. Finally, Optimus said, "The moon's not as tactically important as it was. We can makeenergon on Earth now. It's not worth the political risk on either side to try to bargain with you over it."

"Prime!" Ratchet tried to argue.

Optimus held a hand up, stilling Ratchet.

Fang frowned at his claws. They needed sharpening. He'd been too busy, he didn't really have help he trusted that close to him, and it was difficult to do by himself. He said without looking up, "So we're back to youfragging the energon refineries on Nieryl Six before you depart."

"I don't believe that's a negotiable point," Optimus said, a sudden steely glint touching his eyes.

"Pit and blast. You just have to make my life more difficult." He tapped his claws on the table, sharp tips making a ringing noise. "Well. You will help me out with the little problem I have withenergon and resource shortages, yes?"

Optimus inclined his head. "And again I ask, what do you have to trade?"

Inspiration struck. "The Nemesis has six virus-glitched former Autobots among the crew. Bloodshine would probably be delighted to see them gone, I could say you guys were begging to have them back, and they're worth the energon."

"That would be ransom," Optimus noted.

"I'm a Decepticon. What did you expect?"

"No." Optimus's words were firm. "It would give you incentive to kidnap and infect my soldiers in the future. We are not able to repair the damage done by that virus. We do not pay ransom."

"We would appreciate the return of our people, though," Ratchet said, dryly. "As a good-will gesture."

"If you're trying to appeal to my better nature, I don't have one," Fang replied with a grin.

"You're a liar, as well," Ratchet retorted.

"Perceptive as ever, Hatchet." He snarled and shot the mech a dirty look, then thought the meaning of Ratchet's words through, realized Ratchet had accused him of lying about not having a good side, and felt stupid for snapping at Ratchet with real hostility rather than replying with banter.

"See me after this meeting's over and I'll fix your hip," Ratchet said, after making an expressive snort in reaction to Fang's dirty look. "What'd you do to it, anyway? It must be pretty bad if you're actually limping in front of enemies."

"I'm _not _limping." Was he? Damn. He hadn't thought it was obvious. He'd been staying in alt-mode as much as possible, but had transformed to talk to the other mechs above eye level with their crotches.

"I'm a medic. You're limping."

"I can fight just fine," he glowered.

"I don't doubt it. You want me to fix it, or you want those scrappers you call medics to work on it?" Ratchet pointed a finger at him. "I agree with Prime. We want you alive."

"Hnnh. Fine. Fix my hip and you can have your mechs back. And as far as the energon goes, I've got a couple pounds of gold in Starscream's lab. I give you that, you give me the energon, I tell my people the energon was a ransom for your mechs. Everyone's happy. That work?" Fang expected they'd shoot him down again. They didn't really want to trade, he thought, but were just playing some sort of game.

"How much gold precisely?" Optimus asked, and Fang gave him an exact measurement down to the microgram, plus purity levels. Then, likely because he couldn't access the 'net through the room's privacy shield, Optimus asked the ship's spark, "Teletraan, what is the current value of the gold?"

Teletraan provided a prompt assessment, including a margin to allow for costs associated with the sale of the gold to humans. He added, "You might be able to earn substantially more funds for it by forging it into jewelry and providing a certificate of authenticity of the off-world origins of the metal."

"What would be the value of energon, calculated from raw materials and time, effort, and supplies requried to refine it, per liter?" Optimus asked.

Teletraan's response was equally prompt.

Optimus steepled his fingers together. "I am willing to provide you with an equal trade based on the raw material cost of the gold."

"Teletraan just observed it will be worth more because it's from offworld," he said, in irritation. Optimus was trying to _bargain_?

Optimus considered, then said, "Plus fifteen percent to allow for the increased value of the metal."

_How much of a premium would anyone place on off-world gold anyway?_ Fang wondered. He shrugged, and said, "I'd agree to that."

"A pleasure doing business with you," Ratchet said, tone just full of snark. "Optimus, we really should save the record of this meeting for historical purposes. It's the first time I've met with a 'con leader and only wanted to kill them, without actually trying to do so."

"The day's not over yet," Ironhide chuckled darkly.

"Teletraan, I believe I do not have to tell you to encrypt the record of this meeting under your highest security protocols," Optimus's response to their joking was very dry. "Some of the information discussed here today could be quite politically damning to Fang were it to be revealed."

"Heh." Fang took that as his cue to stand up. "I'm a historical figure. I think I like that."

"You're the villain," Bee said, voice so flat it was hard to tell if he was teasing or not.

"Ah, but the victors get to write the history files," he replied, a broad smirk crossing his lips. None of the Autobots seemed to see the humor in that statement, but that didn't matter. He was perfectly happy to amuse only himself sometimes. Anyway, Death would laugh later, when he shared the transcript of the meeting with him for his input.

* * *

The two seekers had transformed, and twin Tomcats sat on the tarmack beside the vastly larger bulk of the Ark. They were chattering between themselves but excluding Deathwheels from the conversation. He wasn't particularly upset by this; he'd decrypted a few conversations between the two and the discussion had generally fallen into two categories: 'bitching' and 'lover's chatter'. He wasn't interested in either. The day that 'cons stopped complaining about everything from their duty shift schedules to the color of their leader's paint job (silver on silver, too close toMegatron's some claimed) was the day that the universe ceased to be.

Grimlock stood in the shade of the ship, a solid and impressive presence. He had at least Deathwheel's mass, and he was a _Prime_. The lack of visible weapons didn't fool Deathwheels one bit; the mech was currently in his dinosaur alt-mode and almost anything could be hidden under his bulky armor.

_Find out how bad his processor damage is, Fang says. Be creative, he says. Hah!_

Death regarded Grimlock discretely, from his position standing beside the two seekers. He wasn't bored, precisely, but there wasn't much interesting to do. He'd been standing by for an hour, and his few attempts at engaging the mech in conversation had been rebuffed with a, "Grimlock smash. Grimlock not chatter."

Deathwheels wasn't much of a conversationalist either.

_Wish I could just play a few rounds of Quattra with him. ... Well ... why not?_

He pinged Grimlock, and earned himself an uplifted eyeridge and a sideways look from the tyrannosaurus rex. However, Grim responded by opening a comm channel. Death sent him a visual image of a Quattra board and a question mark.

It took so long for Grimlock to respond that Death thought the mech wasn't interested. However, Grimlock finally sent back an image showing an opening move.

Deathwheels, delighted to have something to do besides stand around doing nothing, shot his response back.

Grimlock gave him a narrow-eyed look, "Grimlock Quattra _champion_."

Deathwheels said in a dull tone of voice, "Guess you'll beat me, then."

"Deathwheels no fool. Give good game." Grimlock paused, then added challengingly, "Me win."

* * *

Ratchet led the way into to appeared to be a rather well-equippped med bay surgery. The Evil Twins trailed after them, just near enough to be disrespecting Fang's personal space without being so close to Fang's heels that they were blatant about it. Ratchet pointed at a berth and ordered Fang, "Sit.""

He cheerfully hitched himself up onto the table. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker exchanged a quick comm, then Sideswipe took a position up on one side of the table, and Sunstreaker on the other. They were still practically on top of him.

Ratchet frowned at Fang for a moment, then shook his head. "Don't envy you your job, you idiot."

He considered a flippant response, then said nothing at all. Ratchet glanced at the twins, then said, "Out."

"Ratchet ..." Sunstreaker practically whined. "We don't _trust _him."

"I don't either, but he's not going to frag me when I'm wrists-deep in his hip." Ratchet's voice was stern. "Go. I'll be fine."

The twins, with a couple backward glances at Fang, retreated. Fangface was pretty sure that they'd only gone as far as the hall, but that would be far enough for privacy. After the door had swished shut Ratchet said, "So what did you do this time? You weren't limping at the Pizzeria, so this is recent."

"Had to take down Skywarp a few days ago." Fangface sighed. "You want me in alt mode? It'll be easier to get to that joint."

"Transform."

Fangface obliged and shifted into his feline form, then sprawled out on the berth on his side. He flared the armor up over the damaged joint, closed his eyes, and relaxed. He was truly at ease, too; Ratchet was not on the list of mechs that he actively mistrusted. Ratchet was nearly as dangerous in battle as the two young soldiers he'd dismissed, but he was not the sort to put a knife in your back after making a friendly overture. They weren't in the middle of a battle, so he was completely safe with Ratchet.

"Skywarp attacked you?" Ratchet said, sounding interested.

"For the third time. He's dumber than the average seeker."

Ratchet snorted, and slid his fingers under the flared armor plate to unhook the catches and remove it. "Optimus had some good points in there, Fang. Do you thinkSkywarp will try a fourth time? I'd really rather deal with you than any other Decepticon I know."

"Thundercracker's promised to keep him in line." Fang unshuttered one optic when Ratchet said nothing. Ratchet was just standing there, looking at him with a keen stare. "What?"

"You made some good points in the meeting too, kiddo." Ratchet's endearment was an old one. They had been friends once, during one brief but fondly remembered time in Fang's life.

He closed his optic again, and was unsurprised when Ratchet's hand suddenly rested on his leg armor in a gesture that was definitely in his space and not the slightest bit suggestive beyond the intimacy it implied. Ratchet was like that; when he wanted a mech's full attention he'd invade the soldier's personal space with little restraint. Fangface was astonished by how often Ratchet got away with that, too. He had no inclination to object to the touch. Ratchet said, voice very low, "I thought you were a traitor, Fang, of the worst kind. Now I'm not so sure."

"You could always join my side. I could use you."

Ratchet laughed aloud. "That _would _be treason, and you know I'd never even consider it."

"Pity."

"You betrayed us. You betrayed _Grimlock _and he was your friend." Ratchet's nimble fingers were deactivating pain sensors. The sudden lack of error input from the joint made Fang go limp with relief, something Ratchet didn't miss. Voice still unusually soft he said, "That was really bothering you, wasn't it?"

"There's a break right through the socket," he replied, taughtly. "Skywarp slammed me down on my back legs at an awkward angle while I was in alt mode. It jammed the head of the femoral strut into the joint and cracked it. Hurt like the Pit when it happened."

"Yet you still beat him." Ratchet's nimble fingers stilled for a moment. "And let him live."

"I need TC." Fang explained his rational, wondering why he felt defensive. "TC loves him. I could have legitimately deactivated him, but I'm trying to get Thundercracker on my side. Skywarp's a lost cause, though Thundercracker's going to keep him better behaved. We struck a deal. I spare Skywarp, Thundercracker serves me and keeps 'Warp in line. 'Warp attacks me again, I get to kill him."

"Given what you did to Starscream, I suspect either of them would frag you in a heartbeat if they thought they could get away with it."

"I killed their trinemate, yeah." Fangface again wondered if he should bring Starscream back. Would that put Skywarp on his side, or would it just give him two enemies? Starscream was smart in dangerous ways. He was even worse at long term planning than Fangface was, but he was a cunning, treacherous fragger when he was pissed off. Fangface was certain he'd wake up angry. "But I think Thundercracker will forgive me for it someday. Right now, he's just interested in staying alive."

_He'd probably defect to the Autobots if not for 'Warp, which is the other reason I didn't kill him -- not that I'd tell Ratchet that._

Ratchet said nothing in reaction to Fang's words, but this time his silence was due to the fact that he was concentrating. He had disconnected several pistons and tension wires. Now he leaned most of his weight on Fang's joint, and Fang tensed automatically as battle routines interpreted this as an assault. His undamaged joint pinged a few errors at his processor from the weight, making him hiss. He forced himself to remain still, knowing that the work that Ratchet was doing required considerable physical force.

Fang felt a sharp _thunk _that reverberated through his body as Ratchet finally subluxated his femoral strut out of the damaged socket.

"I _know _you're tougher than that," Ratchet snorted at him, in reaction to his clenched teeth and the low noise he'd made. The medic scanned the joint with adatapad, then shook his head. "Your medics must hate you."

"I hope not," Fangface lifted his head up. "I've been trying to get on their good side."

"Hnnh. The weld's not just rough, it's about to crack through." Ratchet picked a grinder up. "You really need the entire socket replaced. Do you have any blanks of your alloy at your base? The machine shop here's good enough to craft a new socket, but you'll have issues with electrolysis if I useduryllium."

"No." He was out, entirely, of the raw materials to make his own spare parts and didn't know where he would find any.

Ratchet shook his head, then fell silent, clearly thinking. "I can fix the weld, but it'll probably still give you trouble. Getting the perfect fit you need is going to be difficult, because your alloy contracts as it cools and that will warp the surface of the socket. What I can do is take a piece of the same metal from a strut somewhere else in your body and cut a new socket from it. Then we can convince your nanos to fill in the area I cut out with molecules scavenged evenly from the rest of your body. They can't fix the weld because you keep putting weight on it, and I'm betting that getting you to stay off that hip for several days is not going to be possible. Plus the scar from a nanyte repair is going to be in a fragging bad area anyway."

He regarded Ratchet thoughtfully. "How long will that take?"

"Several hours."

"I don't have the time." Eventually, his mechs would begin to wonder why he was spending so much time at the Autobot base. The official story was 'truce negotiations' but if he was gone for several more hours it would be suspicious. The Decepticons were used toMegatron spending fifteen minutes yelling at the 'bots, and then storming off to plan an attack if his demands weren't immediately met. Fangface figured reasonable negotiations did take longer, but the 'cons would need to be introduced to the idea of of measured diplomacy slowly.

Today was not the right time to pretend he'd been in a meeting all day while the Autobot medic fixed his injuries.

"Figured." Ratchet sighed, and picked a grinder up. He patted Fang on his side again, comfortingly. "I'll work on this as best I can, Fang. If we get a chance I can repair it better, later. Or figure out a way to immobilize that leg and stay off it for several days and your nanytes will fix it for you."

Fang lay still for a moment, soothed by Ratchet's hands. Most mechs would rather avoid Ratchet's med bay. The medic was abrasive, argumentative, and occasionally violent. Fangface had liked Ratchet from the beginning.

The first time Fang had met Ratchet, he had been near death from his injuries. His first impression of Ratchet had been of an Autobot medic who had been kind and caring towards a critically injured Decepticon soldier. Only later did he learn that Ratchet's attitude only softened when he was actually worried about someone and in the beginning, he had been _very _concerned about Fang. Fangface's memories of those early days in the med bay were fairly disjointed, but he did have a strong recollection of Ratchet and his kind hands and gentle voice. Only later had he met Ratchet-the-Hatchet, and he'd seen through him in a heartbeat.

That Ratchet had been concerned about the fate of an enemy frontliner had spoken to Fang's very spark in ways he couldn't begin to define. It had been in the med bay, during one of many sessions with Ratchet crafting repairs on his mangled limbs, that Fang had decided to defect to the Autobots.

Ratchet patted Fang's leg armor gently. "You're a good patient."

"Meaning I don't move, and I don't argue, and I follow directions." Fang shut off his optics again, wishing things were as simple as they'd been so long ago. Bee had found him in stasis lock after a battle, left behind by his own troops to die. Later, he'd learned the order to abandon him had come fromMegatron himself, who had not seen it worthwhile to expend the resources necessary to repair an exotic prototype. Fang had been useful until he had been broken, and then he had been thrown away.

The Autobots, by contrast, had actually staged a raid into Decepticon territory to get the alloys they needed to repair him properly. He would have completely understood had they left him in stasis lock, and would have been delighted if they'd done the minimum necessary and made jury-rigged repairs. However, they had been horrified by the Decepticons' abandonment of one of their own. They had reacted with what he would come to learn was predictable sentimentality by vowing to fix him, nevermind that it had been one of Bluestreak's missiles that had nearly killed him to begin with as he'd made a too-reckless leap towards Prowl.

During his rather extended period of repair Ratchet had cared for him in ways no one ever had before. Fang had sworn the Autobot oath without hesitation, at the urging of Bee, Prowl and Ratchet, and Optimus Prime himself. Back then, he had thrown himself behind their cause. He had valued the friends he had found, and the sense of cameraderie, and had believed in their ideals. And Ratchet had been the first to reach out to him.

Ratchet picked a welder up and began to make a neater repair on Fang's hip. His free hand was a comforting weight on Fang's side, and his mass looming over the smallerPredacon felt protective. Ratchet was easily twice Fang's bulk, and four times his weight. Despite this, Fang had never felt threatened by Ratchet, not even when Ratchet was furious and throwing things at him. Some of the mechs were frightened of Ratchet. Fang had generally greeted Ratchet's displays of ire with amusement, easily recognizing the feelings behind them.

It had not been easy, at first, for Fang, after he'd sworn his oath. Though he'd made friends, some of the Autobots had been suspicious of him, and those suspicions had hurt because his oath had been taken with genuine intent. Ratchet -- and Bee, Prowl, and Bluestreak, among others -- had rallied behind him. Ratchet had spoken up for him dozens of times, and had defended him with vigor. He had never had anyone who had stood up for him before, and they had. It was a lesson he had learned well, and one he turned around and used now to inspire loyalty in his own troops.

Then they'd lost a series of battles, with shattering results. Slingshot had died in the gravity well of a gas giant. Prowl had been captured behind enemy lines. Several others had been deactivated. It had been an eye-opener, to say the least. He realized that theautobots would lose, and he and his new friends were going to die, but not before his both sides nearly annihilated each other. There seemed to be no way out. TheAutobots would never yield to Megatron or his forces. And yet the Autobots could not win, and yet they would fight to the last mech rather than give in. They were determined to fight to the end, because they felt thatMegatron's blind ambitions would destroy not just the future of the Autobots themselves, but counless and untold other sentient peoples. The only way Megatron would destroy another Nebulos would be over the dead bodies of the Autobots sworn to stop him and his army.

Unfortunatly, that last scenario had seemed probable.

And then, on a scouting mission into Decepticon territory, Fang had been captured. The 'bots thought he'd crossed sides. He hadn't. It had been an accident, and he had been surrounded by vastly superior firepower. However, rather than slagging him,Megatron had offered him a deal: survival, in exchange for information.

He should have said no. He should have let them torture him to death. It was the Autobot way. You _never _bargained with the lives of your fellow 'bots.

_I didn't want to die, _Fangface thought, desperately, _and I thought I'd make it up to the 'bots as a whole. I figured the rest of the team was fragged either way, because he had to know they were out there when he captured me, but I whined and groveled and made a great show of being a properly cowardly 'con, andMegatron took me back into the Decepticon army. I was repaired, and useful, and I told him I'd only been lying about my allegiance to them.  
_  
Ratchet replaced the welder with the grinder again, doing something to the socket. The vibrations were uncomfortable, and Fang set his jaw and resolved not to complain. He was grateful that Ratchet was doing this. His own medics had sworn they couldn't do a better job than they had. He would have fixed his own blasted hip, but he couldn't see the joint well enough to work on it.

Several thousand years ago, his plans were to become a mole for the 'bots. However, the first time he'd tried to make contact with a 'bot, the mech -- Sideswipe -- had shot at him. They believedGrimlock dead and with complete justification blamed Fangface for it. Several additional attempts to pass information safely on during battle or chance meetings had been met with open and naked hostility. He'd grown a bit bitter and hostile over their unwillingness to bend. Meanwhile, he had discovered that he could make people _like _him if he treated them in the same way the Autobots had treated him, and this worked well as long as he was careful not to overdo it.

He'd fought his way up through the Decepticon ranks, accidentally mirroring the rise of Megatron with one exception: he had not killed every mech he'd defeated. More often than not, he spared their lives, and then made a pointed effort to earn the respect of the 'cons he'd bested in fair combat. Anyone who cheated or who seemed likely to stab him in the back later, he slagged, of course. Those mechs who did not come to see him as a friend within a few years he pointedly offed in a second round of combat, making sure that everyone knew he had been sorely provoked ... in whatever way the offending mech had provoked him. He wasn't above inventing offense if necessary. He had developed a keen fondness for protecting his own aft, and the other 'cons very quickly learned it was much better to be on his good side than his bad.

He had a good side. That was the one thing that distinguished him from Megatron, and Starscream, and the other officers. He was ruthless when he had to be and deadly when it was required. Only Decepticons would find the fact that if he killed it was generally in cold blood reassuring, but it was true. Compared toMegatron's violent rages, Fang's lack of a temper was completely reassuring. If he fragged someone, he always had a reason and he never lashed out in a blind rage or, worse, for his own personal amusement.

To his superiors, he seemed loyal, efficient, and very, very good at getting stellar performances out of the mechs he was assigned to lead. He had won multiple battles against 'bots. He had killed 'bots he had called friends, once. With a firm goal of getting more respect from the brass, he'd come up with vicious and victorious battle plans. At first he had led small groups of mechs, but as he had proven himself a _good _leader, he had found that they were granting him ever-more-important missions.

Megatron didn't trust anyone, but Megatron had come to expect that Fang would win when given a mission. And Megatron liked winning.

Fang sighed, suddenly, and lifted his head, and said quietly to Ratchet, "I never betrayed you. Not really."

Ratchet didn't say a word. He was welding again.

"Ratchet, I didn't." He wanted it to be true.

Ratchet stopped welding. "You did, Fang. You broke your oath to us. You nearly cost Grimlock his life, and you've directly or indirectly caused the deaths of many other Autobots in battle."

The medic set the welder down, picked up a jar of nanyte-infused grease, and smeared the substance around the head of Fang's femoral strut. Then he hooked his hand under Fang's leg. He gave a hard yank, and the joint _clunked _back together. Without a word, the CMO picked up a bottle of lubricant and a vial of repair nanytes from a table beside the berth, then drew a little of each up into a syringe. He wasn't saying anything, even though Fang was waiting with a stricken expression for more harsh words from Ratchet.

When it was clear that Ratchet wasn't going to say anything more, Fang said softly, "I'm sorry it worked out this way."

He'd called Ratchet a friend once. Ratchet's simple words hurt, and it was worse because it was true.

"Don't be."

Fang couldn't see, precisely, what Ratchet was doing to his hip but he assumed the medic was squirting the mix of fluids into the lubricant reservoir for the damaged joint. "Don't be?" he inquired, softly.

Ratchet didn't elaborate. Instead, he busied himself bolting together the dismantled parts of Fang's hip. When he was done he said, "Your joint's not sealing completely because the flanges are distorted by the injury. That's part of the reason it hurts. You were running out of lubricant, and the sensor to tell you that you were low is destroyed. I don't have a replacement for it, so you'll just have to be careful to watch for friction errors in that joint." Ratchet walked over to a cabinet and retrieved two new vials of the nanytes, a large bottle of lubricant, and a handful of syringes. "Refill the reservoir every day, and clean off what leaks out. If you do anything strenous, like killing someone in gladatorial combat, you might need to do it more than once a day. Your nanytes will eventually remodel the damage and heal everything even if you use it, but it's going to be slow going because that's a high-stress point of wear. A week if you can completely immobilize the joint. Several months, otherwise. The scar may continue to bother you, but not at the level it is now."

"You said 'don't be'."

"Get up, I want to see you walk." Ratchet reactivated the limb's sensors, and feeling rushed back into the Fang's leg.

He complied, transforming and then sliding off the berth. Pain hit him as soon as his foot touched the ground. It was impossible to bear much weight on it. The errors were worse than before, though they were different now. He staggered forward, processor refusing to allow him to walk properly, and he nearly fell.

Ratchet stepped forward to block his fall, and he crashed into Ratchet's chest. "Sorry," Ratchet murmured, bracing himself against Fang's fairly inconsequential weight. "The joint's got to seat in again. It's going to hurt pretty bad for a few days. Normally I'd say exercise on it, but that could make the fracture worse. Just try to strike a compromise. Use it, but don't do anything stupid."

"You fragger, it _hurts_." He'd been expecting the pain -- joint repairs always caused pain -- but he still felt obligated to snap at Ratchet, simply because it was Ratchet. Calling Ratchet names was required.

"You've always been sensitive. Keep moving." Ratchet slid a hand over Fang's elbow, and gently urged him to take a step. He did, somewhat reluctantly, then two more. Ratchet didn't let go of his arm, and walked at his side, spotting him.

Gradually, the number of errors decreased to a tolerable level. They walked the length of the room twice before Ratchet stopped at the window. "Fang," he said, seriously, "I say 'don't be' because somehow, some improbable way, you've put yourself in a position to make changes. I can't forget what you've done, but maybe I can forgive someday. You've got so much potential to be more than just a villainous and evil Decepticon commander."

"That's my goal, you know." Fangface was in a mood to be honest, though he was mentally reserving the right to turn evasive again if Ratchet got too aggressive with the warm-fuzzy sentiments.

"I suspected as much." Ratchet met Fang's gaze, looking down at him. Then, suddenly, in a move that wasn't at all medical, or impersonally friendly, he rested a hand on Fang's shoulder and gave him a firm shake. "You can't undo the past, you can't change you've done some terrible things. You joke about being evil, and by my standards you _are_. But you can change yourself, and you can make a huge change for the better for the people of Cybertron. And you can make me believe in you again, you little idiot."

He reared his head back, startled by Ratchet's vehement words and the grip on his armor, and he tried to move away. His hip protested the backwards step, and Ratchet didn't release his grip. Fang's eyes narrowed. "Let go."

"Fang," Ratchet's voice was strangly gentle again. "Don't get killed. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah, it'd mean the end of our race. Everything's riding on my shoulders. Blah, blah, blah. I've gotten this far with my aft intact, I don't intend to get slagged now." He hid his own fears with a glare. "Let _go _of me."

Instead, Ratchet shook him again. "Don't get killed, Fang. You understand me? Don't get killed."

"I ..." He trailed off, because this was personal. It wasn't about tactics or the ramifications to the war if he died. It was purely sentimentality on Ratchet's part.

Ratchet finally let go. "Get out of here. Go on. Before your people decide you've turned traitor just because you dallied a few minutes too long."

It was a long moment before Fangface moved. Then, suddenly, he jerked his chin in a nod of acknowledgement, turned around to leave -- and put his full weight on his injured leg. Ratchet's hands steadied him again when he nearly fell from the pain. The medic said dryly, "You might try leaving in alt mode. You can walk on three legs, you know."


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

Author's notes:

See Masks: The Outtakes, Chapter 4, for an intimate scene between Deathwheels and Fangface. It was cut for a variety of reasons from the main story.

* * *

Mikaela reached forward and touched the radio's volume knob, and Bee let her silence a long string of_ Guns n' Roses_ ballads. He shot her a questioning look, however, eyebrows raising high over those too-bright-to-be-human blue eyes.

"You're awfully quiet," Mikaela said to Bee, echoing Sam's own thoughts. Bee had said little since leaving the base a half hour before. "Is something wrong?

He sat in his own driver's seat, one hand resting casually on the wheel. Bee's gaze, however, had been a million miles away and while he hadn't been impolite, Bee had not exactly been engaging with them. He answered her question finally with a simple statement. "There's a lot on my mind."

"About your new protoform?" She reached a hand out impulsively, and rested it on his shoulder. "You seem to be doing okay."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm okay with that." Bee lifted the shoulder she was touching up in a shrug. "Just ... disturbing news."

"Fangface was here earlier today," Sam said, from the back seat directly behind Bee. "I saw him leaving. What'd he want?"

"Energon." Bee shrugged. "We made a deal. No big problem there."

"Meaning the rest of what he wanted is classified," Sam leaned back in the seat, lacing his fingers together behind his head. "Right?"

"Highly." Bee shook his head, making his blond hair flow across his shoulders. With a note of real apology in his voice he added, "I can't talk about it with you two. I'm sorry."

"Was he here because of the fight last night?" Sam pressed. He was curious. None of the 'bots were willing to talk about who they'd fought, though clearly it had been a serious battle. Sam had seen Manywinds in the med bay earlier when he'd stopped in to let Doc look at his arm. He had teased Windy about having his aft shot off, and had been rewarded with peals of laughter from Manywinds and a scowl from Ratchet.

"Sam!" Mikaela scolded. "Don't press him."

"I cannot talk about it. Any of it. I'm sorry, Sam." Bee spoke firmly, in a tone that allowed for no argument.

"Yeah, Sam, you want 'cons after you again for the secret information in your head?" 'Kaela's words were barbed.

"Okay, okay." Sam held his hands up. "I yield."

"First stop's tuxes and a gown," 'Kaela said, changing the subject. "Then I need to get underwear and bras and crap from Wal-mart. Bee, you might want to buy ..."

"Wal-mart's politically questionable," Bumblebee noted, interrupting her. His tone was still slightly apologetic, as if he didn't want to argue with her at all. "The company is seen as being a bad employer, and bad for other businesses in the area."

"Yeah, well, it's also the best place to go if you just need to buy the basics." Mikaela sounded a bit needled by his objection anyway. "You need as much crap as I do."

"I'm thinking PR." Bee gave her a look sideways, probably in reaction to her peevish response, then added, "We're all recognizable. Even if they do not yet know this protoform is me, people will recognize the Camaro. The moment someone sees us our shopping spree will make the news. Let's go somewhere less politically fraught."

"Okay, fine, we'll go to the mall. It's close to the formal wear store anyway." She leaned back in her seat, folding her arms in resignation. "Guess I can afford it, though my dress is going to be expensive, and I really need two. One for attending the speech and one for the party. The store we're going to has secondhand designer stuff, but it's still going to be pricey. You and Sam can get away with one tux each."

"If you need additional funds," Bee said casually, as he made a left turn, "I have a few centuries of back pay coming, and some just got deposited in my account."

Mikaela shook her head. "Secondhand dresses probably aren't going to make me the darling of the fashion mags if anyone figures it out, but they'll at least be affordable. I should have enough to get everything else I need, given I'm not paying rent or anything."

Bee smiled at her. "Are you sure? We just got a sizable advance from a Japanese technology firm."

"How much are we talking about?" Sam asked, curiously.

"Billions, probably, on that deal alone, plus royalties. It's for Autobot holomatter technology. I don't have the exact figure, but since the primary use will be recreational, we're not going to sell ourselves short. We're being a lot more socially conscious -- affordable -- with the medical tech, with protective price controls set into end product." Bumblebee changed lanes. "The fun stuff's what is paying your salary, and my back pay, among other things."

"How much is your advance on your salary?" Mikaela said, clearly curious.

"Mikaela, don't be nosy!" Sam said, a bit embarrassed.

"I haven't been paid in many thousands of years, and it's okay, Sam. This isn't a taboo for Autobots like it is for humans." Bee chuckled. "And it's not for the pay that I fight, anyway. The advance was two hundred thousand."

"Buddy," Sam said, "you're buying lunch."

He replied matter-of-factly, "I had planned to."

"What do alien robots from Cybertron _buy_?" Sam wondered, his own curiosity piqued.

"Clothing, today." Bee grinned at him via the rear view mirror. "And this protoform will need many things that humans normally use. Additionally, my plan is to live among humans eventually, off the base, when the time is right. That means I'll need to find a dwelling with a really big garage, and some decent security to keep the Nobots away. That won't come cheap. We're social creatures, Sam, and while I like my own kind there's only forty of us. Sixty-five when Mirage's team arrives. Plus Prowl. I am going to make a real effort to assimilate into human society as best I can; if everything works out Earth _will _be my home for a long time to come, and that means making human friends, and that means I need to live where humans are."

There was something wrong with his math. Mikaela said, "I thought there were forty-one, counting Teletraan?"

Bee's expression darkened. "I had to offline Grip this morning."

"... _what_?" Mikaela stammered. "You killed him?"

"No, just put him into stasis lock. He'll stay there for the time being. Fragger." Bumblebee let out a slow breath. Sam figured that went a long way towards explaining Bee's odd mood. "He attacked me over Manywinds."

"Windy?" Mikaela said, confused.

"I thought he was just being glitchwitted, but from what Windy says they were a couple at one time, and Grip's had a thing for Windy for Windy's entire life. My guess is that he was jealous, and not willing to back down because of that." Bee ran a hand over his face. "And he tried to use his position as the ship's medic to bully me around. I can't allow that, and things escalated."

"Geeze." Mikaela shook her head. "He was jealous of you and Windy?"

"Windy and I are dating, I guess," Bee said softly, and with a sharp sideways look at Mikaela. The rearview mirror moved to point at Sam, even though Bee didn't look in it.

_Probably an optical sensor behind that glass_, Sam guessed, looking up at the mirror. He was well aware that Bee could see everything that happened in his cab. _Wait. What? He's dating Windy? What?_

"Really?" Mikaela said, with nearly the shock evident in her voice that Sam felt. "You're dating Windy?"

"That would be a fair analogy to human practices, yes." Bee changed lanes again, moving around a city bus. "Windy isn't being discrete about his interest in me, more like chattering about me constantly according to Ratchet and Ironhide, so I suspect Grip was well aware of it. He reacted very badly when I tried to carry Windy to his quarters for a bit."

"Damn, that's messed up." Mikaela shook her head. Bee's matter-of-fact reference to the smaller Autobot's constant talking about him was vaguely alien, in ways she couldn't define, too. Just when he seemed so human he would casually say something that betrayed he had an alien mind. Autobots weren't incomprehensibly strange, of course, but they were _different_. One important thing she'd picked up on was their complete lack of concern about sharing information that humans would consider personal. Everyone had everyone else's physical specs, they talked freely and shamelessly about each other (with generally very little malice, just matter-of-fact gossip) and they apparently didn't consider their salaries a secret either.

She asked curiously, "If Grip and Windy were an item once, is Windy okay with you, err, off-lining him?"

"Windy's fine, I think." Bee accelerated hard, darting around a slow-moving pickup truck and earning himself a relatively unwarranted upraised finger from the driver. He gave the driver a quizzical look over his shoulder, as if simply baffled why the man was angry about being passed, and then simply said, "Windy knew Grip well enough to be realistic about his behavior, and to not be surprised by what I had to do. He thanked me for not permanently deactivating him."

"Geeze, heck of a way to start a relationship," Mikaela said, "Hey, I put your ex in a coma. Let's go out."

"Human logic, there, 'kaela." Bee smiled faintly. She wondered if sometimes they seemed as alien to the Autobots as the 'bots seemed to her. "Windy doesn't see it that way. Anyway, I suspect that Grip was more along the lines of a pushy stalker ex who got what was coming to him, from Windy's point of view."

"So you're really dating someone?" Mikaela shook her head. "That's -- that's awesome for you."

"Are you okay with it?" Bumblebee asked, as they stopped at a light. "Both of you?"

Mikaela didn't answer, but Sam said quickly, "Sure, it's great, buddy."

"'Kaela?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Two 'no's," Bee said, softly. "Voiced in the affirmative. Sometimes your race's tendency to say one thing and mean another is frustrating. I know you're both bothered by this. Is it jealousy or fear you'll lose me?"

Sam leaned back in the seat again, "Geeze, damnit, Bee. Let me have a little white lie once in awhile. And I'm _not _jealous. Geeze!"

"This is major," Bee accelerated smoothly when the light changed, "and it does affect both of you, and our friendship. We've been pretty tight since we first met, over two years ago. The three of us have done everything together. And now I'm interested in someone else. It can't not bother you."

"It's okay, Bee." Mikaela sighed. "You deserve happiness. I just ... I don't like the idea of sharing you with anyone. I'll get over it, I guess."

"Sam?"

"I said it was great," Sam growled, feeling a little irritated. "I'm cool with it."

Bee didn't respond to their words for a city block. "Maybe this is a bad idea, with me and Windy."

"What?" Sam sat forward. Now he felt weirdly guilty. "How'd you get that?"

"You're my best friends. I barely know Windy. I don't want to hurt your feelings." Bee twisted around to look at Sam, and Sam nearly yelped at him to keep an eye on the road before remembering that the Camaro could drive itself. Bee's eyes studied Sam's face for a very long moment. He straightened up before stating plainly, "It would hurt a lot more to lose you two than to break off any romantic interest with Windy, at this point. We're just barely getting to know each other. I'd _like _a partner, I think I'm ready, and Windy seems to be a good choice. But -- you two are like a part of my spark these days. Partnering with someone of my own kind can wait, if it's going to bother you both."

"Shit, Bee," Sam reached forward and swatted him on top of the head. Bee ducked, but didn't protest the abuse. "Don't be stupid. You'll still be our friend. You're not going to lose us."

"Yeah," Mikaela said sturdily, "it'll be good to see you happy with someone. I hope it works out."

So quietly as to be nearly inaudible, Bee said, "Me too."

Then, in another clear change of subject, Bee said, "I believe it is time for me to eat something. Are you two hungry now?"

"Definitely," Sam said, and Mikaela was glad that they were off the topic. She echoed Sam's agreement.

* * *

Bee eyed the pizza warily, balancing it delicately on his fingertips and clearly trying to figure out how to eat it without making a huge mess. The top of one slice had already slid off with a plop onto his plate, and he'd consumed the cheese and pepperoni with a fork. He seemed to be cautious about swallowing, taking very tiny bites and chewing for a long time.

Sam smeared his piece through a glop of blue cheese dressing and wing sauce, and then folded it in half and bit down. "Like that," he said, around a mouthful of cheese and crust.

Bee quirked an eyebrow upwards. "Messy," he commented.

Sam realized he had something -- pizza sauce, dressing, maybe wing sauce -- smeared on his cheek. He grabbed a napkin and wiped it off, then shrugged. "We'll introduce you to ribs next."

Bumblebee tried to take a bite of the pizza, but didn't quite manage to bite clean through the toppings. The cheese stretched in a long arc between his mouth and his hand, then the toppings pulled off and went _plop! _on the plate again.

"_Pit_!" Bee said, and reached for a fork. "Learning curve. Why is _eating _so hard?"

* * *

Mikaela stepped out of the changing room, somewhat nervously. The dress was not her usual style; it was sophisticated, glittery, brushing her calves, with a conservatively high neck and bare arms. Normally, she went for skimpy or slinky, or better yet, both together. This was 'adult' in ways that she'd never tried before.

Bee had shaken his head at the first two offerings that the saleswoman had brought out, shooting both down because they made her look too young. She hadn't been offended by that. Bumblebee was right. She was only nineteen. She did not want to make her age obvious. Looking grownup was important, because she would be expected to act as a representative of the Autobots before the very important people at the party.

This time, he nodded with satisfaction, and said, "It suits you."

_He's assimilated enough of our culture to know the difference between 'little girl trying to look grownup' and 'sophisticated adult appearance', _she realized. That gave her a funny feeling. One minute he would say something that would remind her he was alien. The next, he would do something that spoke of just how well he understood people. That natural empathy, and his keen ability to quickly grasp the fine points of a culture, was one of his strong points. The other Autobots commented on it regularly. Still, this was proof of just how quickly he had managed to understand their world, and that rapid learning curve was, in and of itself, _alien_.

He was smarter than any human, in ways that were hard for humans to even comprehend. Sometimes, that made her wonder why he was even interested in them as friends. And yet he talked about assimilation, and emphasized that Autobots were social creatures, and casually mentioned (on a regular basis) how much he enjoyed Earth's culture. It was a paradox that left her pondering how the Autobots really viewed humans.

The saleswoman smiled. Her words distracted Mikaela from her dark thoughts, "You've got a very nice figure, Miss Banes. It does look good on you."

She met Sam's gaze, and realize he was staring at her with slack-jawed astonishment. She had seen that look from him before, of course, but it had been awhile since he'd gazed at her with raw masculine appreciation. Mostly, these days, there was concern in his expression, or affection, but not _desire_. He wanted her. She could see it in the look he was giving her.

"M-m-'kaela, yeah, that looks hot. Nice. I mean, really good. Like Bee said. It suits you. Umm."

Bee said dryly, "Sam approves too."

She looked in the mirror, wondering what was different between this dress and the last one from Sam's point of view. The last had a skimpy neckline, a high slit on one leg, and no back. He had said it looked good, though Bee had frowned at it. This dress showed a lot less skin, but it was sleek and flowing, accentuating rather than exposing. It clung in all the right places, showing her figure off. Her cleavage was just visible at the neckline and she was amused to note that Sam's eyes kept drifting downwards.

Bee's scrutiny of the dress, by contrast, was saved from being totally clinical only by the approval he'd given. He wasn't human. Sexy-sophisticated dresses probably didn't do anything more for him than her daisy dukes and crop top did. He was just interested in appearances, and making sure she didn't embarrass herself or her new employers, and he was verifying she was presenting the look she _wanted _to, which was 'grownup.' She probably could have walked around in front of him buck naked and his only comment would have been, "Are you cold?" or possibly, "Need some sunscreen?" He just wasn't wired to respond to visual stimuli.

She spun about, suddenly, making the skirt bell out. She liked the dress. It was sophisticated. That was the word she wanted.

Sam caught her fingers with his good hand when she stopped twirling, and led her into the steps of a ballroom dance, shocking her. Sam knew how to dance like that? What? How? They'd been clubbing a few times and she knew he had a good rhythm, but he'd never danced like _that _before. Even one-armed, he clearly had an idea of what he was doing. He pulled her in close, then spun her out, right into Bee's grasp. She was _not _surprised when Bee dipped her low, then pulled her up, and finished with a flourish that left the saleswoman clapping her hands and Sam laughing hysterically while leaning against the wall. "Never knew those lessons m'mom made me take when I was fourteen would ever pay off!"

"Dance lessons?" Mikaela said, interested.

"Bet your father _loved _that," Bee chuckled, elbowing Sam.

"Oh, yeah. He said my mom was going to make me gay." Sam shook his head, "They got in a huge fight over it. She finally won by pointing out that girls like guys who can dance. I actually enjoyed it, which I think disturbed my father even more, but it was fun, and there was this really hot chick ... who I always pretended was you, 'Kaela, so don't look at me that way!"

Her expression softened. She knew he was probably telling the truth. Sometimes, Sam's love for her left her feeling like she'd stepped into an alternate dimension, a better and happier place. How had she missed him, all those years? He'd watched her from afar, and she had never even known his name, and yet he had loved her. _Thank you, Bee, _she thought, _for getting us together. _

"We are _so _going to have to take Bee dancing one of these days," she suggested. Bee danced quite well in his Camaro half, though the clatter of his armor had a tendency to drown out all but the loudest of music. During the brief few moments he'd playfully spun her around, she'd noted he was just as coordinated as a humanoid. He might still be working on fiddly fine motor control, but he had the gross motor movements down just fine. Yeah, dragging Bee out to a few clubs would probably be fun.

Bumblebee grinned at the idea and grabbed her hands and yanked her into the steps of a very different style of dance. The Camaro, parked outside, started playing 'Flashdance' loud enough to be heard inside, and the saleswoman, who likely hadn't yet realized Bee wasn't human, shot it a startled look through the glass storefront.

Sam was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. The saleswoman, despite being confused by the sudden music from the car, smiled at them. When the song finished, the clerk asked, "So what's the occasion, anyway?"

"Autobot Ball," Sam wheezed, using the term the media had tagged the party with.

The woman's eyebrows rose in impressed surprise. "You have tickets to that?"

"We're throwing it," Bee said. "I'm Bumblebee, one of the Autobots. Mikaela and Sam are humans, but they're good friends of ours."

The saleswoman stared. Very slowly, and with a sharp look at the car outside she said, "I thought you were giant robots."

"We can be," Bee said, amiably. "You've probably seen me as a large yellow robot, or a Camaro, on YouTube or on the news. But this form's a little less likely to make people run from me in terror. I don't want anyone to be scared of me so, uh, I downsized."

The woman looked at the car again. Bee's mech alt mode was visible through a display of men's suits. Mikaela held her breath, wondering how much information Bee was going to share, but he seemed to sense that he'd given her enough of a surprise and that explaining 'two bodies, one alien mind' might be a bit much. Instead he said lightly, "And obviously, being an alien, I don't have much human style formal wear. So here I am, at your mercy."

The woman smiled tentatively. "You're really an _alien_?"

He held his arms up, displaying the metal armor that covered his forearms from just below the elbow to the backs of his hands. "Not even trying to hide it."

"Seriously?"

"You get to be the first store to sell an Autobot a tux." Bee grinned at her, his dimple indenting his cheek. "You can tell all your customers we were here."

The woman relaxed a little but said hesitantly, "You, uh, do have a checking account or credit card or something?"

Bumblebee nodded, handling this as if it weren't a vaguely rude question by a baffled clerk who'd never made a sale to an alien before. "We're legally treated the same as humans, as of last weekend. Congress signed the laws into place. That means I can have a bank account now in my own name. My checking account's good, but if you would prefer cash, I can go get some from the bank."

Mikaela had seen Bee's checks, and his driver's license, that morning. His legal name was officially 'Bumblebee Autobot.'

"Uhhh ..." The woman shrugged, then said. "Okay. Wow. I can't believe you're really here, in my store. Umm. Cool, I guess."

Mikaela impulsively fished in her pocket and dug her cell phone out. "I can take a picture of you with him if you'd like, and e-mail it to you."

Bee's grin was approving. Public relations. Everything was about public relations, and sometimes that meant making one friend at a time... the saleswoman's eyes lit up at the offer, and Bumblebee cheerfully posed with her. The woman tensed when Bee put a hand on her back for the photo, then glanced over at him and was rewarded by a sunny smile. She relaxed, then, and said, "Wow, wait until I tell my kids!"

* * *

Bee was all eyes at the mall, studying everything from the Halloween decorations (and a few early Christmas decorations) to the mall cops with evident interest. Sam, bemused, watched as they passed a music store with audible rock and roll -- an old Jackson song -- coming from the entrance. Bee heard the music and moonwalked his way past, doing the best Michael Jackson impersonation Sam had ever seen. The fact that he was holding six bags of clothing didn't seem to be slowing him down much.

Once Bee was walking normally again, and people had stopped staring, Sam bumped Bee with his elbow and said in amusement, "You're definitely mastering your new form."

Bee grinned, and didn't say anything, but hopped up onto the edge of a fountain and walked along the edge. Sam held his breath, expecting Bee to fall into the water or drop his packages, but he did neither. At the end of the low wall he simply jumped down.

People were watching them. They kept looking even when Bumblebee wasn't acting weird. There was just something about him that drew the eye. Sam tried to convince himself it was just the effect of a really gorgeous man (not that he was noticing) with long blond hair, wearing khakis and army boots. Perhaps it went beyond that, however. Bee seemed _alive _in ways that most people didn't. He was animated, looking all around, curious about everything, and hurrying from point to point at a speed just below actual running.

Sam covered his face with one hand, and moved closer to Mikaela. "'Kaela, I just realized something."

"What?" She was watching as Bee, having reached the end of the fountain, hurried ahead to investigate a sales display at the 'As Seen On TV' store.

"Oh, God ..." Sam moaned.

Bee lost interest in the Ginsu Knives and Sham-wows. The next store sold giant beanbags, and only giant beanbags. Beanbag "sofas" the size of VW Bugs, in intense neon colors, were arranged near the store entrance. Bee studied one curiously, then turned around and flopped gracelessly into it.

"What?" Mikaela repeated.

"He's Miles. I just didn't notice it when he was sixteen feet of alien robot."

"What?" Mikaela narrowed her eyes at Sam.

Bee had bounced back up and again ran ahead. They caught up to him at a video game storefront, where he had already racked up a huge score on a fighting game. Mikaela watched him, lips pursed, then said, "I think you're right."

Bumblebee said, with a laugh, as he handed the controller to a watching kid, "I promise not to embarrass you two by climbing a tree."

_Autobot hearing, _Sam thought, chagrined. Bee had picked their voices out of the chaotic noise of the mall, from fifty feet away, when Sam had been speaking in a near whisper.

"There aren't any trees around here," Mikaela noted, linking arms with both Bee and Sam. "C'mon you two, I need a piece of jewelry or something."

Both males' eyes lit up, and she wasn't oblivious to that, but she led them to the mall exit rather than a mall jeweler. "Where are we going, then?" Bee asked, as they loaded their packages into the trunk of the Camaro.

"Antique store."

Sam said, "As long as we don't buy any ancient pairs of glasses, I'm good with it."

* * *

Bumblebee had spotted a section of century-old books at the back of the store. He seemed intrigued by them, for reasons Mikaela couldn't explain given that he had unlimited access to the internet and could process the information in a book in a fraction of a second. Maybe it was just the novelty of the aged paper and worn covers, and perhaps the smell. He was sniffing them.

Sam watched him then muttered, "Miles. Totally."

Mikaela was absolutely sure that Bee could do a pitch-perfect imitation of typical human behavior if he really needed to. He was having too much fun to care, and she having too much fun watching him to be bothered by the occasional stares his not-quite-normal actions were getting. As long as he didn't _lick _the books, she supposed he wasn't hurting anything, and it was good to see him enjoying himself. His unhappy mood from earlier was gone, replaced by giddy enthusiasm for life.

She turned her attention to a display of old jewelry in a case by the cashier. From it, she selected a vintage amethyst and gold pendant and matching earrings for herself. It was distinctive and unusual, appeared handcrafted, and would go well with the sparkly white fabric of the dress she planned to wear to the party. A second piece, a simple pearl choker (real pearls, only $20 for the strand) would work with the more subdued dress for the speech.

Sam leaned on the glass, peering down at a selection of hair doodads. These mostly consisted of bobby-pins, but he pointed out a chunky silver clip with stylized crickets on it. Mikaela shook her head. "Not my style."

"Bee can't go with a rubber-band in his hair," Sam pointed out.

"Crickets?" She questioned the design.

"Jiminy Cricket. Ratchet was teasing him yesterday about turning into a real boy. He'll get it, I'm sure." Sam lifted an eyebrow at her. "Think he'd like it?"

"I think he'd like anything from you," Mikaela said, with a laugh. She was pretty sure it didn't matter what it was. Bee would be delighted by a gift from either of them.

"You give it to him." Sam shoved a fifty dollar bill at her. "It's weird, if I do."

"It's Bee. I seriously doubt he'd think it was weird." She stared at Sam. She wondered if she should remind Sam that Bee could probably hear him. She was tempted to cluck like a chicken at Sam, undignified thought that reaction would be. Sam, however, gave her pitiful puppy-dog eyes, and she sighed, and told the clerk, "The clip, too."

* * *

She gave Bee the clip in the parking lot, saying, "For your hair, for the party. It's chunky enough to be manly."

He held it up to the sun, admiring it. The antique piece of jewelry was definitely silver, with two inch long crickets facing each other and a blue stone between them that probably turquoise. "Crickets are good luck in some cultures," he said, even as he played a snatch of a Disney song from the Camaro's speakers.

Sam had been right that Bee would catch the reference.

He swept a hand up, freeing his hair from the rubber band, then turned around and presented that blond mane to her. "Can you put it in?"

She retrieved a comb from her purse, and hitched herself up to sit on the Camaro's hood before she did as he'd asked. His hair was silky, heavy, and very thick. It had just a little bit of a loose curl to it, and didn't seem inclined to tangle. "Why do the guys get the good hair?" she asked, combing it out a bit longer than was perhaps strictly necessary. It felt good to run her fingers through that hair, though she was careful not to make it obvious.

The clip was almost too small, but she snapped it shut. It was not going to go anywhere despite the weight of the silver. His hair had enough body for it to hold fast. It looked very good at the nape of his neck, in a metrosexual sort of way.

He took a step back from the Camaro, then twisted his head back and forth without turning around to face her. She realized he was looking at the clip with the Camaro's optics. "I like it."

Sam grinned like a fool.

Bee turned around, and to her shock, leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. It was a chaste kiss, brief and fleeting, but it left her stunned anyway. He seemed so human now. Insanely, she was seized by an urge to grab him and turn the kiss into something more, but that was all sorts of wrong and she did _not _want to go there. There was Sam, and there was the fact that Bee was an alien robot who was, actually, doing a damn good impression of a human man at the moment. He was still an alien and he didn't mean anything by the kiss but platonic affection, and she knew that, but _damn_.

"Thanks, Mikaela." His eyes were laughing.

Then Bee turned to Sam, who held up defensive hands. "Don't you dare."

Bee hugged him anyway, earning a muffled oath of protest (though Sam didn't try to get away) and said, "Thanks for the clip, Sam."

"He still has Autobot hearing," she pointed out to Sam, watching with absolute fascination as Sam turned the most amazing shade of tomato red after Bee let him loose. "He heard us talking."

"Look, uh, Bee, uh, I just thought, you know, it would look good, and you needed something for your hair, and I figured you'd forget, and didn't want you scrambling at the last minute, and, uh, crickets you know, and ..." Sam suddenly spun around and hid his face against the Camaro's window. He was shaking with hysterical laughter.

Bee let him ramble for a moment. Sam, she thought, was absolutely adorable when he got flustered like that. She wondered what Bumblebee was thinking; his expression was hard to read. Then Bee pointed out, "You realize you're snuggling with my doorwing?"

"Ack!" Sam straightened up. "I didn't mean, I mean, um, I wasn't snuggling, really. Oh, _God._"

Bee rested a hand on Sam's shoulder and repeated, "Thank you, Sam. It's a good gift. I'll wear it tomorrow."

Mikaela wondered if Sam would turn pink every time he saw the clip. Probably. She loved Sam for it, she realized; for that impulsive desire to make Bee happy, even though he risked his own dignity and man-pride to do it. She caught Sam's eye, and then pressed herself up against him and kissed him. He wrapped his good arm around her and held her close, and returned her embrace for a moment.

For a moment, she was lost in his arms. He was just so adorably perfect sometimes. Then Bee honked at them, and she realized that Bee had gotten into the driver's seat. Bee was grinning, though, as they scrambled into the Camaro. He observed with a giggle and a bounce in place in the seat, "You guys are sooooooo _cute_."

"Do giant alien robots even understand cute?" Sam growled, and flicked Bee in the head with his finger.

"This one does!" Bee ducked, then squirmed in place as Mikaela poked him in the ribs with a finger. He was backing out of the space and he stopped to protest, "And hey! I'm driving! Be nice!"

She pouted playfully. "What, the giant alien robot from the planet Cybertron can't drive and be tickled at the same time?"

"No!" He glared at her, though his dimple was trying to make an appearance as amusement warred with mock annoyance.

"We'll have to get him later," Sam suggested in a lazy tone of voice. "Better watch your aft, Bee. You can't run as fast in humanoid form."


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Author's note: Regarding the hair clip -- yes, men can get away with hair clips. Think Duncan McLeod, Highlander, that famous pony tail, and an assortment of silver celtic-styled clips. I dare anyone to try to claim Duncan McLeod was girly. It's all about the way the man carries himself.

* * *

"Are you sure you're okay with me crashing here?" Bee asked, eying the couch with keen blue eyes. Sam had invited him to stay with them until they sorted out some better living arrangements.

Sam shrugged. He wasn't sure why Bee was so uncertain. It seemed perfectly logical to him, and for Bee's organic half, the couch would probably be more comfortable than sleeping inside the Camaro, in the hot and dusty interior of the hangar, or a chilly, cavernous cabin on the Ark. Bumblebee seemed uneasy, however, even downright weird about the idea. Sam persisted, "Why not? You slept in my parents' garage for years."

"This is different." Bumblebee sat down on the edge of the couch nonetheless. "It's more personal. You're sharing your living quarters with me."

Mikaela, who was cleaning up the remains of dinner in the kitchen, asked, "Does that have special significance with 'bots or something?"

Bee shook his head. "Not really, not these days. Usually, if we're in a situation where we even have personal quarters, we share with two or three other mechs. Most of the Autobot ships are really cramped -- the Ark is incredible luxurious by our standards. So are the barracks Wheeljack's building, I might add, simply because there will be individual rooms. But what it does mean is a loss of privacy for you two. We value privacy fairly highly, because we have so little of it."

"It's okay, Bee." Sam meant it when he said it. "It's cool having you here."

Even so ..." he fell silent, looking a bit distracted. He glanced towards the ship. Then he said ruefully, "Do you know how _hard _it is to track a conversation when your other half is being flirted with by a little imp of a mech who has no shame?"

Sam's eyes nearly crossed at the sudden change of subject. What the heck ...? Bee leaned forward, covered his eyes with his hands, then peeked out at Sam through his fingers. "He's horrible."

"Horrible?" Mikaela said, with real interest. "I assume this is Windy we're talking about?"

"I'm in the med bay right now," Bee said, "and he just asked Ratchet if he's allowed to interface any time soon. And then winked at me. _Ratchet _is laughing his ass off at me, and I I'm going to leave because I just cannot deal with the two of them together."

A complicated play of emotions went across Bee's face, then, and he groaned. "Oh, Primus. Ratchet just kicked Windy out of med bay with me. He said, I quote, 'Have fun.' Windy's walking now, just needs some last repairs on his wings ..."

Bee flopped backwards into the couch for a moment, then abruptly stood up and said, "I'll be back about nine. You two ... have fun without me."

Sam, vastly amused, asked, "Going to go join up with yourself and Windy?"

"You got it." Bee headed for the door. He paused, looked over his shoulder, and added, "If I'm not back by nine, I either died of mortal embarrassment at Windy's hands, or he managed to seduce me."

Mikaela burst out laughing. However, after Bee had fled and the door had shut behind him she asked Sami in a serious tone of voice, "Do you think he'll really do it?"

Sam shrugged. He didn't even want to consider it.

Mikaela wasn't going to drop it easily, apparently. She persisted with another question, "Why do you think he's doing it?"

Sam shrugged again. "Dunno. Maybe he just really likes Manywinds."

Mikaela made a scoffing noise, wiped her hands on a dishtowel, then joined Sam on the couch. "He's tens of thousands of years old and he's never taken a partner in that entire time. And _now _he's dating someone? Why?"

"He says he's ready." Sam tucked his knees to his chest. He really didn't want to talk about it, though he couldn't exactly put a finger on _why _he was so unhappy about the whole idea. Still, he found himself pressured into speculating, "He's just exploring his options. Maybe he's dating Windy because he doesn't know Windy at all. He's known most of the Autobots since humans were living in caves. Plenty of time to figure out he doesn't want to tango with any of them. He's actually told me there's nobody in the ranks that he feels like he can have a relationship with. And think about it -- can you see him with any of the others besides Windy?"

Mikaela considered the question more seriously than Sam would have liked, though he couldn't define why. "Not really, I guess."

Sam forced himself to smile. "I hope it works out for him."

_I hope he still has time for us, _he thought, but did not say. There was a weird feeling in his chest when he thought of Bee falling in love with another mech, of devoting his life to them. Bee would, too, he knew. Bumblebee was nothing if not loyal. He would still be their friend, of course, but they would not be the center of Bee's universe anymore. He felt weirdly lonely and lost at that thought, and wondered if he really was jealous.

* * *

"There you are!" Manywinds addressed Bumblebee's organic half playfully, as Bee hurried across the tarmac towards the ship. Despite the fact that the Camaro was behind Windy, the little mech addressed his organic half with hands on his hips as if he was late, "I was wondering when you'd get here."

"I am already here," he said, from the Camaro's vocalizers. He was amused. Windy had that effect on him; Windy was a pleasing combination of mischief and earnest enthusiasm. The little flier really was appealing, in ways that struck deep to the core of Bee's own interests.

"Yes, but I can look you in the eye in this form," Windy poked Bee in the chest with one slender digit when Bee reached him, "rather than talking to your thigh or the top of your roof."

Bee laughed, knowing Windy had a good point. His organic form was nearly the same height as the flier, though he had fifty pounds on Windy. The height difference really wasn't that much of an obstacle for Transformers; he knew of a sparked ship who had been partnered with a medic Bee's own size. Both were long dead now, and he didn't dwell long on that sad memory. However, there was something to be said for being close to the same size as one's partnr, for practical reasons, like being able to look one another in the optics when speaking, or sharing quarters. In times past, Elita had grumbled regularly about Optimus putting objects on shelves she couldn't reach, or practically needing a ladder to reach their shared recharge berth.

Bee suggested, only halfway teasing,"You know, though, if you want to look me in my mech form in the optics I could carry you."

Windy grinned. "I'm sure I'll take you up the offer to pick me up, as long as I get to carry _you_ up, up and away as soon as they make me some new wings."

"How's that going, anyway?" He popped the Camaro's door open for the little flier. He'd escaped the med bay (and Ratchet's snickering) before he could ask. Windy promptly swung himself into the seat without hesitation. He had grumbled about his joints hurting in the med bay, but wasn't showing much sign of it now. Ratchet had countered Windy's grumbles by complaining that Windy's designers had actually cut back on his number of error sensors, likely in an effort to lower his weight for more efficient flight, and therefore he would not feel the pain of recent repairs nearly as much as a normal mech would.

"Wheeljack says by tomorrow morning they'll have 'em done." Windy buckled the seatbelt. "Where are we going?"

"Not far," Bee said, regretfully. He wanted to go for a long drive, but the ship was launching in the morning and they might need to call him back to the base for one reason or another. He was very definitely 'on call'. "River, I guess."

By the time they reached the banks of the river, the sun was nearly set. He left his Camaro half parked beside the road as a lookout; that was pure instinct, rather than any real need for protection. He didn't anticipate being attacked, but he'd been surprised so many times in the past that he never completely let his guard down. Besides, while he didn't _actually _intend to interface with Windy, it would give him some advance warning if anyone ostensibly friendly was coming and they were engaged in a bit of snuggling. No sense in freaking the humans out; even some of the N.E.S.T. soldiers reacted oddly to the idea of giant alien robots having the giant alien robot version of intimate relations. His own kind, on the other hand, would behave predictably, with inevitable teasing at his expense. Most of them were delighted by his interest in another mech, but they also weren't above hassling him.

Windy led the way down to a bank overlooking the water, small feet nimble on the rough ground, then sat down on a very large flat rock and pointed at the sky. "Look at the sunset. I love water worlds."

Bee settled down beside him, the sun-warmed rock warm against his skin. "Yeah, I remember the first time I saw a the setting sun on this planet. It reminded me of Nebulos."

"It does."

"I was there a long time." Bee tucked his knee to his chest, and tied a loose shoelace. "I know why you loved it. Earth's a good world too, though."

"Looks like Earth will be home." Windy wrapped his arms around his own knees. "Ratchet told me about Nebulos today."

"Primus, I'm sorry, Windy." He reached a hand out, then dropped it in his lap. Touch was a human thing, when it was done between relative strangers. His kind did not caress those they didn't know well without very good reason. Still, he felt for the other mech and he wanted to give comfort. He just didn't know how. A small whine escaped him before he could stop it; a Cybertronian noise of sympathy and sorrow, all rolled into one.

After a moment, Windy slid sideways across the rock, and then lay down, putting his head in Bee's lap and curling up in a small ball. Bee stiffened in surprise, then recalled the little mech playing with his hand that morning, and remembered that he'd carried Windy in the crook of his arm, and that they were -- to use the human term -- dating. This was how things were supposed to go. It just felt very weird to him. "I can't ever go home," Windy whispered. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm sorry you had to hear it from Ratchet." Bee lowered his hand to Windy's head, soft fingers stroking hard metal. Windy could feel only the slow vibrations of Bee's hand moving over the thin metal armor of his cranial plates, but those senses were keen when they were all you had.

Windy sighed softly, that human sound they had all adopted, and said, "You could have told me this morning. We were talking about Nebulos then."

"You lost enough today. I didn't want to add to it." Bee ran a hand down Windy's arm, aluminum cool to the touch. He gave him the truth, which was, "I would have told you later, probably within the next few days."

"I hate it when people try to protect me." Windy looked up at Bee. "I don't need to be coddled."

"How about comforted?" Bee said softly his hands on Windy's shoulder. He could feel the very faint vibration of cooling fans and the hum of the pump that drove Windy's scanty hydraulics. Like most small mechs, Windy mostly used little electric motors and a system of tension wires, gears, and pulleys for movement. He had two small pistons where a human would have a calf muscle and achilles tendon, and a few more at each hip, usefully arranged to give Windy a formidable vertical leap. The little flier could jump a dozen feet into the air, transform, fire up his engine, and launch airborne, without needing a runway.

"Thank you," Windy murmured, "it's not been a very good day."

"Want to talk to me about it?"

"Just want to lie here." Windy said softly, optics clicking off. "I want to stop processing thoughts for a bit, you know?"

"I get that." Bee stroked one long arm gently.

After a moment, however, Windy said, "I don't want to die in battle, Bee."

"Wheeljack's going to talk to Optimus about the idea of building you a well-armored fighter jet. Given our concerns about the Nebulan mechs, I think he'll agree to it."

"Thank you." Windy rested a hand on Bee's knee, and Bee slid his own fingers between Windy's digits. Windy's hand was enclosed in a flexible, tough polymer; it was soft to the touch, almost like something organic. He could feel cables and tiny wires sliding and flexing under the cover. The mech's hand was warm, perhaps deliberately heated to seem more like that of a mammal's. Curious, Bee looked at Windy's fingers closer. He'd only absently noted the skin-like covering over his digits before, and assumed it was to prevent Windy from accidentally pinching organic skin with the joints of his hands when he worked with the species he studied.

"That's a mod left over from Nebulos. It's useful when I work with organics." Windy's words confirmed Bee's guess. He brushed his other hand against Bee's cheek. "My fingers are really sensitive. t'Grethi was organic, remember. He needed to be touched. It's an organic thing, but it's so important to them. He'd feed the sensations back to me when we made love. It was amazing."

Bee nodded. "You must have loved him a lot."

"I miss him, every day. I think of him on average twenty-two times every waking period. I had a medic offer to help me seal archive those memories, but I'm less lonely when I can recall him at will." Windy sat up, tucked his knees to his chest, and regarded Bee thoughtfully. "It's funny, you remind me of him so much, Bee. And -- I always wanted a relationship with another organic, but I wanted someone I could interface with too. I left Nebulos because there were _too _many reminders of t'Grethi, and then among my own kind, I just couldn't find what I wanted. What I needed, really. Once you've felt the passion of an organic lifeform during intercourse when you're linked to that life form, normal interfacing just can't compare."

"Really?" Bee tilted his head sideways. That was an odd concept. He could understand being attracted to a specific organic sentient, but not actively seeking out a relationship with 'organic person' as a criteria. "I never thought about that. You can really feel what they feel during interfacing?"

"If the organic's got the right mods, sure." Windy's expression turned a little teasing. "_You've _got the right mods."

"Hnh?" Bee blinked, then chuckled when he realized what Manywinds was getting at. He had as accurate a representation of human male reproductive organs as was possible, including a link to his pleasure centers. He stated, vaguely embarrassed, "Or a simulcra thereof, but we're a long way from that point."

"Maybe we'll get there."" Windy's tone was definitely playful now.

Bee laughed outright, hastily shut down the autonomic function that would have caused him to blush before it completed driving blood to his cheeks, and agreed, "Maybe we will."

Windy scooted closer to Bee and leaned back again, this time leaning against Bee's chest. He automatically encircled Windy in a light hug. Windy said slowly, "I really do like you, Bee. I'd be really lucky, I think, if you decided you wanted to try a relationship with me."

Bumblebee blew out a sharp breath, "Not today."

"Wasn't asking for it to happen today," Manywinds chuckled. "But just know I'm really interested."

"I know." Bee rested his chin on the top of the little flier's head. It was a comfortable position, and he was a bit surprised at how easy this felt. He was slightly self-conscious about the turn the discussion had taken, mostly because he knew Windy had far more experience with intimacy than he did. However, holding Windy close to his chest felt good. He hummed softly under his breath, the melody from an old Cybertronian song.

Windy waited for him to pause, then said, "You've still got a good voice, even in this form."

He made a face. "Maybe by human standards. I don't have anything approaching the range or clarity in this form that I do in my other half. How did you know I sing?"

Windy explained, "A couple people have mentioned it. Ratchet gave me some recordings when I asked today."

_Yeah, you've been asking everyone under this world's sun about me, _Bee thought, with some flattered amusement. He had a sneaking feeling that Manywinds knew a lot more about him than he knew about Windy. He'd have to rectify that; Teletraan or Kup should be a good source of information. Teletraan owed him some decent gossip after the stunt he'd pulled showing Windy that surveillance video. Teletraan was definitely a spark of few words, but he could pack a lot of information into what he did say. By contrast, Kup would probably consider talking about Windy a good chance to tell stories, and that might give him some more in-depth information. Kup could rival Bluestreak for verbosity.

He honestly wasn't even sure where to start with getting to personally know Windy; what questions was he supposed to ask? He felt awkward, and confused. Most of the Autobots he'd fought beside for tens of millenia. He'd known Windy for a few weeks, and, truthfully, knew a lot more about Windy's predecessor Starknight via his Matrix than he did Windy now. There were _'cons _he knew better than the flier sitting in his lap.

"Pretty sky." Windy regarded the sunset for a moment, then, to Bee's mutual surprise and pleasure, he started to sing. His voice was true. Perhaps it was not as good as a mech who had been modified specifically for music, as Bee had, but he clearly had some natural talent in his spark and he was doing a good job maximizing the capabilities of his standard vocalizer. The wordless song was cheerful, with a good beat.

Bee tilted his head to the side, listening and trying to place where he'd heard the music before. He finally realized Windy was singing the _musical _accompaniment to an Earth song, and doing a credible job of mimicking the instruments with his vocalizer. Bee grinned with delight, then started to sing the words in a warm tenor that he knew humans would consider talented, "Can you hear the music, can you hear the music, can you feel the magic hangin' in the air ..."

* * *

Bee walked with Windy back to the ship, enjoying the cool night air as it brushed over his skin. His mech half trailed after them; it was interesting to watch himself beside Windy through a second set of optics.

They were in each other's space. Windy had deliberately slid a hand into Bee's, and they walked side by side, matching strides. Anyone seeing that would know they had a relationship. He wasn't bothered if they thought so. After tonight, it was true. He'd sung with Windy for hours, well past the nine PM time he'd cited to Sam. Likely, his humans were going to tease him about this later, but he found he really didn't care. He _liked _the idea of people knowing.

Windy was different from anyone else he knew. Not a warrior, for all that Ironhide was training him. He was bright and funny, sentimental, and unashamed to sing until Bee's organic larynx started to give him warning errors. He hoped they would be able to harmonize together many times in the future. Primus, he'd had fun.

He accompanied Windy inside, but stopped in the main hold. Windy smiled, and looked at him with brightly shining optics and asked, "Will you come to my quarters with me?"

"Your plants need watering again?" he teased, making Windy giggle, but with great daring he stepped so close to Windy that he could feel his body heat, and trailed his fingers up Windy's side and over his port. Windy smiled, and leaned into that touch, then rested his head on Bee's shoulder. His hand rested on that small armored door without doing anything but lay there; it was a gesture he'd seen others do, but had never dared with anyone himself.

It was tempting offer. He wanted this to work out so badly, and sooner or later they would need to interface to find out if they were really compatible. He was inclined to make it 'sooner' after the amazing night they'd had. He wanted to know more about Manywinds; he wanted to lose himself in the other mech's spark and processors. Also, now that he had decided to interface with Windy, he found he was very curious about the experience. However, regrettably, he also had duties and obligations that could not be set aside, and they began very early in the morning. It was nearly midnight.

He cupped a hand behind Windy's head, and continued to rest the other on Windy's dataport. Windy gazed up at him, blue optics bright and shining. With a good bit of regret, Bee said, _:Not tonight, Manywinds. I've got to be up at five AM to help with the media before the launch. Ratchet's going to be ticked off at me for shorting myself on recharge as it is. He'd fritz his servos if I skipped it entirely.:_

:You could just recharge in my room,: Windy suggested. _:We could talk for a bit, listen to some Earth music. I really like being in your company.:_

Bee strongly suspected that once he was in Windy's quarters, he wouldn't be able to say 'no' if the mech suggested interfacing again. The temptation was very strong. Bumblebee offered a compromise that left him excited in all sorts of new ways, _:Tell you what -- I'll come to your quarters after the party, tomorrow,:_

Windy looked up, excitement making his optics gleam much brighter than usual. _:Really? You mean it?:_

:I mean it, Manywinds.:

:Oh, Primus. Thank you, Bee. That makes me ... wow, you're so amazing. And you want me! You really want me! I can't believe it!:

He traced his fingers around Windy's dataport cover, and sent a playful image of an interface cable to Windy. _:I feel the same way about you, Manywinds. You're amazing. I had a lot of fun tonight.:_

:Tomorrow, then.: Windy suggestively rested his own hand on Bee's wrist, where an armor plate covered his own ports.  
_  
:Tomorrow,: _he promised, stepping back.

Windy giggled, waved, bounced on his toes a couple of times, then ran off across the main hold. When he reached the corridor leading to his cabin, Windy turned and waved again, blew a kiss human style, and then, when Bee shyly returned the gesture, he laughed outright before trotting out of sight down the hall.

* * *

Still smiling and on an emotional high, Bee climbed the steps to the trailer's front door. He pushed the door open, stepped through, and wrinkled his nose a bit at the smell of human sweat and human pheromones that was thick in the air in the small trailer. _Good_, he thought, recognizing the composition of those chemicals. _Hope they had fun. _It was a relief to detect the signs of human intimacy. He had been very afraid that his two best friends would split apart, hurting each other even more than they already had, and he would be left torn between them. Maybe everything would work out.

_Maybe I'll fall in love with Windy, too. That would certainly solve some things. I do like him quite a bit._

His humans had left two pillows, sheets, and a blanket on the couch. He sat down on the edge of a couch cushion, pulled his boots off, then shed his khakis and t-shirt. He assumed his boxers were covering anything that would embarrass his humans to see. He had just curled up underneath the blanket, enjoying the feel of warm, soft, fuzzy blanket against his bare chest, when the door to the bedroom clicked open. He looked up, surprised. He'd assumed his humans had exerted themselves with enthusiasm and then fallen asleep, though for their privacy he had not been dialing his auditory sensors up high enough to hear through the door. He had listened intently for a brief moment to verify that they were both in the next room and then given them their privacy.

Mikaela slipped out, and pulled the door shut behind her. She had on a long t-shirt that stretched to her thighs, and what looked like a pair of Sam's boxers. She whispered, "Can you talk, or do you need to recharge?"

"I can talk for a bit." He sat up, wrapping the blanket around himself.

She snapped on a light, then settled on the couch beside him, a safe couple of feet away. "How did it go with Windy?"

"Good." Bee couldn't help the smile that stretched across his face, and didn't really try.

"I'm happy for you." She looked down at her hands as she said it.

"I hope it works out." Bee leaned back against the couch cushions. They were soft and springy, fascinatingly so. He wriggled a bit, getting comfortable. "I like Windy. We ... we agreed to interface, tomorrow night, after the party."

"Oh." Mikaela glanced sharply away from him. "You love him, then?"

Bee sighed. "I don't know, 'Kaela. Interfacing's a good way to find out, though. A lot of mechs come away from that first interface session with many questions answered about the relationship. It's really hard to know what's in someone's head, really, until you drop your firewalls. People put on acts, present themselves how they want others to see them, but that's not who they really are. How can you love someone until you _really _know who they are? Interfacing answers a lot of questions. If this works out, I'll know Windy better than mechs I've worked with for a hundred thousand years."

Put that way, it was momentarily frightening, because Windy would get to know him too. _Well, _he told himself with a bit of private humor at his own nervousness, _I like me. Let's hope Windy does as well._

"Heh. We do it the other way around. We're supposed to fall in love and _then _make love." Mikaela tucked her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and stared out at nothing in particular in the room. "Not that I ever followed those rules. I've had plenty of sex where it was just about the sex, or because I wanted to please the guy, y'know?"

"'Kaela?" He asked, questioningly. Her tone was odd. He wasn't sure what thoughts she was processing.

"Bee," she sighed, and then, when he reached a hand out and tugged on her shoulder, she toppled into his arms. _What is it with me and hugging people, or being hugged? _He wondered. He'd done more touching and being touched by other people in the last two days than he had in the last century. He didn't mind, and Mikaela clearly needed comfort, but it was definitely different. She started to speak again, after a moment's pause, "Bee, Sam and I made love tonight. And it was good."

"I knew you did. Glad to hear you enjoyed it." He wasn't embarrassed by her words, and was, in fact pleased by them.

She snorted a very soft laugh. "Eavesdropping, were you?"

"Ratchet's not the only one who can smell pheromones, 'Kaela." He didn't want her to think he'd been nosy. "Windy and both of me went down to the river. However, the atmosphere in here is pretty hard to miss."

Her giggles were muted by her clear desire not to wake Sam. "Oh, God. We stank the place up."

"Not really, I've just got better than human senses." He ran a hand over her hair, the silky strands slipping between his fingers, then asked, "What's wrong, 'Kaela?"

"I ... it was g-good." Her words were ragged now. "I l-let m-myself go, Bee. I ... I ... he wanted me so bad, and I let myself go, and it was good."

"You let down your walls and let yourself love and trust him," he interpreted, tightening his grip on her briefly, then realized he could very well be interfering with human bonding behavior. She needed to be with Sam, not him. He added very firmly, "Good. You should go back to him now. Get some sleep."

"B-but I'm so scared. I don't even know why." She was resisting his advice.

He let go of her, and she sat back up, and regarded him with eyes that were clearly frightened. "Bee, I'm not even sure I love him. I'm not even sure I know what love_ feels like!_"

It was a desperate, ragged confession. He reached a hand out at that, unable to push her away when she sounded so desperate and alone. He brushed her tangled hair back from her eyes, and said, "You'll figure it out, but you should go back to Sam. It is late, and you should be with him, not me."

She caught his hand and rested her cheek against his palm. He sucked in a breath, startled into an autonomic reflex indicating surprise by that sudden display of not entirely platonic affection. "I'm jealous of Windy," she replied, a very soft confession.

"I was afraid you would be." He didn't know how to deal with this. He didn't know what to do with the fear that shone in her eyes now. He didn't know what to say, though he wanted to say something that would send her back to Sam while leaving her content with their platonic relationship. He told himself, somewhat desperately, that couldn't give her what she needed. A slightly less important consideration, but valid all the same, was that she couldn't provide him what _he _needed in a relationship. If they tried to reach some sort of compromise, it would destroy Sam. He knew all this, with firm certainty, but her almost inaudible words rocked him to his core.

He settled on what he suspected was a very inadequate response, "Let yourself love Sam, 'Kaela. You can have him. You can't have me. It wouldn't work between us. Not the way you would want it to work."

She pulled back, eyes gone bright with sudden nearly-shed tears. Oh, Primus he'd hurt her. He didn't want to see the pain in her eyes. He wanted to take his words back and find better ones. He wished he could turn back time and figure out where, precisely, she'd started harboring feelings for him beyond mere friendship, then do something different. He didn't want her to love him back, even though his feelings for her -- for both of them -- were pure to the core of his spare. He had never wanted to hurt her. He loved her too much himself to willingly cause her pain.

"I wish I'd met you, and never Sam," she said, suddenly, starting to rise. "I don't know what to do."

"Mikaela," he pulled her back into his arms. "We aren't compatible. You can't interface with me."

"The Nebulans figured it out." She lifted her head to look at him. "There are mods. I'd bet you a year's salary at the scale you guys pay that Doc could make it happen. He'd probably do it happily. He's probably already working on stuff like that. Hell, he probably already knows how."

_Damnit, _as the humans would say. She was too smart for her own good. He sighed sharply. "Mikaela, I wouldn't want you to be a guinea pig for new technology. Also, I would also never do anything to hurt Sam. Not _ever_. Do you understand me?"

She bit her lip. "Sam doesn't love you like that. You're his best friend. The boy's as straight as a board, though."

Bumblebee realized she'd seen right through him, and wonderedif she'd only recently figured him out or if she had known for a long time.

"Sam wouldn't," she repeated.

"I know," he agreed, bowing his head. He could not look at her face. He stared at his hands instead.

Human hard-coding regarding sexual orientation was something he technically understood, at least as well as the humans understood it themselves. He'd done his reading. Most humans believed you were born one way or another, and perhaps there were shades of grey in between orientations, and they had some research to back it up. For the life of him he couldn't fathom why orientation was such a big deal, however, to the humans. Or why humans insisted on assigning their sexual preferences to _him _based on appearance or gender perception alone. It was weird.

He said carefully, a confession he hadn't really been wanting to give, "'Kaela, I care about Sam as much as I care about you. It would tear me in two myself if I were the cause of a rift between you. It would hurt him very badly. I won't do it."

"You haven't mentioned Windy once in this," 'Kaela noted, wiping damp eyes with the sleeve of her t-shirt.

"And Windy is a factor too. I like Windy. He's a good match for me, and it would hurt Windy's feelings pretty badly if I turned away now. He's been hurt too much in his life. I don't want to add to that," he said, though his words felt a little hollow. He wasn't sure why Windy wasn't a bigger factor. _He should be. I like him. I could easily fall in love with him. _

"If not for Windy, and if not for Sam, would you consider ...?" her words trailed off, and she shook her head. Her expression hardened. "Don't answer that. I don't want to know. You're right, Bee. We're not the same species. We're not _compatible._" She spit the word out like it was a curse, like 'fuck' or 'frag' or 'damnit.' She sounded bitter and angry and hurt.

"Go back to Sam. He loves you." Bee had been so afraid of this day, when Mikaela realized his feelings for both of them were not entirely platonic. He was glad she wasn't pressing him for an answer on what-might-have-been, because he didn't want to really think about it. He said, as gently as he could, "Accept what Sam's offering you, 'Kaela. Open your heart to him. He will make you very happy if you let him."

She rose from the couch, and stood before him, hugging herself. "I just don't know if I love him. I want to. But I don't know."

The scent of pheromones was thick in the air. For someone who worried about not loving her partner, she'd sure been passionate earlier. He said quietly, "I think you do, but it's difficult to admit it to yourself, for reasons we've discussed before. Is he still worth the risk?"

Her lower lip was quivering. She looked like she was about to cry.

"Why did you sleep with him, if you weren't sure?" His words were still gentle. He wanted to understand. He wasn't condemning her.

"Because he wanted me." Tears were trickling down her cheeks. "He was looking at me, you know, _like that_, and then he kissed me, and he wasn't asking for anything more, but he loves me so much, and he wants to make me happy, and it was good, it really was, but then he fell asleep and I was awake and I don't know Bee, I don't know, I'm just not sure. I don't know what I want. I don't know. He loves me, and I felt so guilty afterwards."

She was babbling nearly as much as Sam did when he was upset. Mikaela, normally, didn't work herself up quite this much. She had a quick, hot, decisive temper, nothing like Sam's tendency to get flustered and frantic and embarrassed.

"Shh, you'll wake him." He wondered if he should take this conversation outside, then decided against it. He could tell Sam was still asleep. His heart rate and respiration were unaffected. He was listening carefully for a change to that, because he knew some of the things that Mikaela was saying would hurt Sam. He wanted to stand up and hug her again, but decided that was unwise, too. He didn't want to accidentally lead her on, or encourage her to think of impossibilities.

"What should I do, Bee? I don't want to break his heart, I don't, I don't." Her voice was low, but loud enough now that he heard Sam shift in the bedroom.

He held a warning hand up and listened carefully. Sam rolled over, and his breathing became regular again. She stared at the room and mouthed, "Is he ...?"

"Very lightly asleep," Bumblebee whispered, below the threshold of Sam's hearing. "You should go back to him, 'Kaela, and give it time."

"What if it doesn't work out?"

"Then figure that out, too," Bee said firmly, though his heart was heavy as he said it. "If you honestly do not think you have a future with him, be gentle but tell him. I will _always _be a friend to both of you, 'Kaela, whatever you chose. It is best that he learn your feelings before there are the complications of younglings and legal ties. Sam will want both with you. Do note that you would break his heart, just slower, if you string him along for years without agreeing to either."

She turned away, then looked back. Her whisper was so soft even his Autobot hearing had trouble detecting it, but he understood the gist. "I wouldn't have questions about how I feel if it were you, Bee."

Then she slipped back into the bedroom and Bee closed his eyes. _Primus_, this was something he didn't need, nor want. _Maybe I should leave, _he thought, _not forever, but long enough for her to cement her relationship with Sam. She does love him. She's drawn to me because she also does have feelings for me, and I _am _unattainable. It's safe to love someone you can't have in the first place, when you're mortally afraid that everyone you let close to you will betray you. I won't break any promises to her because I haven't made any. _

Then he recalled he had sworn he would not leave Earth -- and by implication and intent, also not abandon her by taking a station on another continent, as was his immediate impulse -- for as long as she lived. He recalled this promise with bitter irony. He was walking a fine tightrope indeed, with the penalty for falling off being shattered emotions all around.

_Well, _he thought after a minute, _all the more reason to form a partnership with Windy. If I'm in a committed relationship, Mikaela will see me as a lot less attainable. That should help her sort her own feelings out. She's not the sort to pine away forever for someone she cannot have. _

Even if he did take time away from Mikaela, that also meant leaving Sam. He had no reason to part with Sam other than to make sure Mikaela was less confused. Sam would be hurt, and would take Bee's absence personally. However, if he chose to see Sam and not Mikaela, he'd break Mikaela's heart in entirely new ways. If he explained, "Optimus wants me to work out of England for a bit," it would be understandable (but disappointing) to the teens. Telling them, "I want to see Sam but not you, Mikaela," was something neither would comprehend.

He saw no easy way out of this, no simple solution. _Primus_, he thought, half a prayer without words and half a frustrated oath. He curled up to try to recharge.

He wasn't at all surprised when his recharge was broken by nightmares. At least he managed to avoid screaming aloud and waking his humans.


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter 47

* * *

Author's Note: Bill Faggerbakke is _totally _Deathwheel's voice.

* * *

Sam woke to the sound of his alarm, way too early. He was momentarily disoriented as he reached a hand out and batted at it until the sound quit. It was still dark outside, the bedroom was unfamiliar, and someone was snuggled up against his side. He'd never actually slept the night with Mikaela, sharing a bed, in the entire time they'd been dating. When he woke up enough to figure out who was curled up against him he rested a hand on her back and said softly, "'Kaela?"

"Mmmph."

"'Kaela, we've got to get up. The ship launches in two hours."

"Mmgnrphr!"

He ran a hand down her shoulder, and realized that she'd gotten dressed sometime during the night. He was pretty sure they had both been naked when he had fallen asleep. He was stroking soft cotton. His fingers slid lower, across the swell of one breast, a gentle caress. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Gnnn." She pulled away suddenly, batting at his hand. Hair rumpled, eyes half closed, she gave him a confused look after sitting up. "Time?"

"Four." He yawned. "The ship lives at 6:15. We're supposed to be on board by 5:30, though. They want to seal it up for the pre-flight checks then, remember?"

In the bathroom, which was off the living room, a hair dryer began to whine. Bee was up already. "Wonder what time he came home?"

"Midnight." Mikaela sounded a bit odd. She was looking at Sam funny, and he didn't have a clue why.

"Did I miss something?"

"No," her response was curt. "Nothing. I just heard him come in."

"Oh." Sam shook his head. "Hope it worked out with Windy."

Mikaela abruptly stood up and padded to the closet where she'd hung the black dress she would wear to the speech. The sparkly white gown and her other clothing was already packed away. She stared at the dark dress for a moment, running her fingers over the fabric.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I guess." She padded out into the living room, and rapped her knuckles against the bathroom door. "Don't take too long in there, 'Bee. I've got to do my hair too."

Sam called out, "Yeah, Bee, the world will end if she doesn't get a chance to blow-dry her hair."

"Shut up, you." She favored Sam with a dirty look. "I'm betting the media's already assembling."

The shower cut off. Bee's voice emerged from the bathroom, "They are, 'Kaela. All three of us need to look our best before we set foot outside today. They can see the trailers from the bleachers, you know."

"Damn." After a glance to verify that the curtains were closed, Sam scratched himself. "Oookay, I won't run next door to my folks' trailer in my holey pajama pants, then."

Mikaela shook her head at him and muttered, "Guys!" Then, louder, "Go fix breakfast or something, Sam."

Yawning sleepily, he padded into the kitchen and decided that they would have cereal for breakfast, as he was too sleepy to bother with anything more complicated. If Mikaela objected _she _could make pancakes or something similarly elaborate. However, his plans were foiled when he discovered they were still out of milk. He grabbed his cell phone and called his mom, who answered cheerfully, "Hey, kiddo. Ready for the big day?"

"No!" He wailed playfully. "Hey, mom, got any milk?"

"Sunstreaker and I picked up a couple gallons yesterday. Figured you wouldn't remember. I'll send your father over."

"Thanks, Mom."

He yawned again, and watched as Bee emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist and his blond hair loose, straight, and silky from the effects of the hair dryer. He looked like a shampoo model. Sam looked sharply away, not wanting to be caught noticing his best friend's luxurious long hair.

"Good morning, Sam," Bee said, sounding altogether too cheerful. Bumblebee was indisputably a morning person.

"Gnnnh." He did his best imitation of Mikaela's groan earlier. "It'll be good when it's no longer morning."

Bee smirked, though there was something funny about the mech's body language. Sam watched as Bee walked to the living room closet where he'd hung up his suit and pulled it out, then casually dropped the towel. Sam, with a strictly mental groan, averted his eyes. Bee's apparent nonchalance about nudity made Sam incredibly uneasy, for reasons he couldn't fully explain. He did not even want to _look_, even if Bee didn't give a damn one way or another. Sam suspected that Bee would have cheerfully let them both inspect his goods with the sort of nonchalant goodwill that he displayed when Mikaela peered into his mech half's inner workings. Bumblebee was not human, did not wear clothes in his native form, and furthermore had seen both Mikaela and Sam naked plenty of times.

_Makeout sessions in the garage. Skinny-dipping at that secret swimming hole. Camping. Changing clothes in the back seat of the Camaro and chatting while we did. _

He'd never really worried about a giant alien robot seeing him in the buff. Mikaela probably hadn't even thought about it. Now, however, things were suddenly very weird for reasons he couldn't fully explain.

"You could use the bedroom to change," he suggested, staring at the box of Frosted Flakes on the counter as if it was the most interesting object he'd ever seen. Bee was most likely getting dressed in the living room because the small trailer only had a living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. The bathroom was currently occupied and the bedroom was his and Mikaela's private space.

"Huh? Oh." Sam studiously avoided looking in that direction, but he could _hear _Bee's smirk. "I don't have anything you haven't seen before, Sam. My studies of human behavior indicate that this is not entirely inappropriate. It is no different than a men's locker room, after all."

"You're picking on me." He'd hated the P.E. locker room in high school. Miles had teased him shamelessly about not wanting anyone else to see him naked. The truth was harder to admit. He didn't want to see _other _guys naked. Seriously. Not interested. At all. And seeing other boy's dangly bits, even out of the corner of his eye, had made him wildly uneasy.

"I am." Bee's response was merry.

He finally risked a glance. Bee had boxers on, and was pulling the tuxedo pants up. After shaking his head at Bee, he set the box of cereal and three bowls on the table. When he looked again, Bee was buttoning his shirt, somewhat clumsily. It was the little things that betrayed Bee's inhuman nature. He could moonwalk like Michael Jackson, but he couldn't slip a button through a hole without close scrutiny of what his fingers were doing.

"How did it go with Windy last night?" He asked, curiosity trumping unease.

"Good." Bee seemed to take a deep breath. "We're planning on interfacing tonight."

"Uh." That pronouncement rattled Sam in ways he couldn't completely explain, though he told himself that if he mentally translated that to 'I'm planning to fuck my boyfriend for the first time tonight' that would go a long way towards explaining his startled reaction.

"If all goes well," Bee added softly, "you probably won't see much of me or Windy from tomorrow night until I leave the ship to return to the base here on Tuesday."

"Honeymoon, huh?" He tried for nonchalance.

"Something like that." Bee smiled faintly. "You should take Mikaela out, explore LA. I'm sure one of the others would be happy to drive you two around. They'd probably compete for the role, really, they're as eager to see the city as any other tourist. Bluestreak or Hound would be a good choice. Don't let Blue's chatter fool you; he can take on any six 'cons and win. Or, hell, pry Ratchet away from the med bay for a few hours. He's been stripping his bolts getting everything done before the Ark leaves and last I heard, he was ahead of schedule. He deserves some fun, and I bet Optimus and Wheeljack will help conspire to kick him off the ship for a few hours with you guys. Believe it or not, he's a lot more fun when he's off duty."

Bee was chattering too much; he was doing a good imitation of Bluestreak with the speed of his words. Something in Sam seemed to quietly die a death of mortal disappointment at the thought that he would not be seeing the sights with Bumblebee. He had been to Los Angeles plenty of times; it was a favorite Witwicky family getaway. Bee's organic protoform would have allowed him to experience the city on a level he never had before. Chinatown, Disneyland, Rodeo Drive, the boardwalk, maybe a drive up Highway 1, a hike in the hills, Crystal Cove, Six Flags. All were things Bee would enjoy. They could even go down to the San Diego zoo.

"I'm sorry," Bee repeated, clearly reading Sam's expression despite his best efforts to keep a neutral look on his face. The Autobot was fiddling with his tie now, puzzled by the problem of knotting it. "You should take Mikaela somewhere nice, though."

"Won't be the same without you," Sam protested. "Are you sure you and Windy don't want to join us, maybe for a day?"

Bumblebee blew a sharp sigh out. "We'll talk later, Sam."

Okay, Bee _was _acting weird. Concerned, Sam said, "Did I do something wrong?"

Bumblebee paused from fussing with the tie and fixed him with a startled blue gaze. "Oh, no. You haven't done anything."

"Need some help with that?" Sam offered, noting that Bee was still stymied by the tie.

"Yeah," Bumblebee made a hissing noise that probably would have been static from the Camaro's speakers had it come from his other half. He had learned that was the Cybertronian noise indicating pissed frustration without any real anger involved. "It's the little things that are a pain in the butt to figure out."

Sam stepped closer, and reached up to Bee's collar. Bee's body, through the thin cotton of his shirt, was warm against Sam's knuckles as he (with only slightly more skill) tried to fix the tie. They were inches apart, Bee's back to the door, when the door opened.

"Hey Dad," Sam said, glancing over Bee's shoulder to verify who'd entered. "Thanks for the milk."

"Who's this?" His father said in confusion, seeing only Bee's hair.

"Oh. Dad, it's Bee. You haven't actually seen his new protoform yet." Sam finished knotting the tie. "He's still figuring out, as he says, the fiddly little things like knotting ties."

Bumblebee turned around and said in a casually friendly greeting, "Hello, Mr. Witwicky."

Ron's lips pressed together in a very unhappy expression. "They made you look _gay, _Bee. Who designed that look?"

"Dad!" Sam protested, shocked. And, two seconds after the surprise hit, angered. His father's tone was irritated, as if Bee's appearance was personally offensive. Sam had been expecting a few comments about Bee's new protoform from his Dad, but not to Bee's face. Then again, he'd heard his father call _Miles _a 'homo' a few times to Miles's face, and there was a better-than-good chance that was an accurate, if insulting, way to describe his friend. Not that Miles was ever going to come out of the closet to Ron Witwicky, or quite possibly, Sam.

"Geeze. I thought you were a woman. Figured 'Kaela'd bleached her hair or something." Ron folded his arms and looked Bee over from head to toe. "Good freakin' grief. You look like one of those male models. You look pretty stupid."

Bee laughed lightly, but there was an edge to it. "It was deliberate. I am not intended to look homosexual, but my appearance is deliberately young and well groomed, without excessively masculine features that would imply aggression. _Most _humans react well to this look."

"Heh. Not the boys I grew up with." Ron snorted. "And they see my son hanging out with you, they'll think he's your partner or something. Fuck, man."

His father meant 'partner' in the human sense, Sam knew, as in 'gay partners.' There was a sneer in his voice when he said it. He thought Bee had heard the term in the sense the Autobots had adopted for lack of a better term, meaning mech lovers. Bumblebee's eyes narrowed, a clear warning sign, and something decidedly inorganic hummed in Bee's organic body. He might not have a weapon mounted on his wrist, but he certainly had weapons capacitors. He'd just given Ron Witwicky the Autobot equivalent of a 'fuck you' without every saying a word. And Sam's dad had not been around Autobots long enough to know that specific response.

"Woah, calm down there, Bee." Sam felt like doing a face-palm. "He's talking about human ..."

"I know what he said." Bumblebee's words were cold. Maybe he had not misunderstood, Sam realized, or maybe he didn't care about the exact nuance of Ron's words.

His father suddenly gave Bee a sharp look, hearing a dangerous warning at last. Bumblebee was _pissed_. He'd gone from overly cheerful to furious in one blink, and Ron had missed the transition at first. He wasn't mistaking anything now, however, and the color drained from his face. Bee, voice _very _controlled, said, "Excuse me, Sam. I'll meet you at the ship later."

Bee grabbed the tuxedo's jacket off the back of a chair, a bag of clothing from the closet, and swept out the door. It banged shut after him, and they heard the Camaro's engine start. Tires squealed, something that took real effort for an Autobot to do given the way that Cybertronian tires stuck to pavement.

"Shit. Just trying to give him some advice." Ron ran a hand over his face. "I didn't mean to piss him off. Why's he so mad?"

"I'm not actually sure," Sam said, though his stomach was twisting itself in a knot. "He was kinda weird this morning."

"When is he not weird?" Ron laughed. "He's an alien. -- Seriously, though. Maybe you could convince him to cut his hair?"

"I _like _his hair!" Mikaela called through the door. "He's not allowed to cut it!"

"I'll talk to him," Sam mumbled, not wanting a fight with his father. This was an argument he'd never win. He was also a little irritated at Bee for leaving him alone; now he had to face his father without Bee's backup. Not that Bee ever really argued with Sam's parents, but still, the moral support would have been nice. "He might look good with it short, I dunno."

The bathroom door banged open. Mikaela, wearing her dark dress, and with a towel around her head, pointed a finger at Sam, "You _like _his hair. Who bought him a hair clip for it? Have some backbone, Samuel James Witwicky."

_Oh, great, double-team me now. _He was getting it from both sides.

Ron started laughing, "You bought him a _barrette_?"

Sam sucked in an angry breath, as realization of what she'd said struck. It was a betrayal. "Mikaela!"

"You bought him a _barrette_, boy?" Ron seemed to think this was the funniest thing ever. He was shaking his head, and snickering, and rolling his eyes. "A hair doo-dad? What is he, your second girlfriend?"

"Dad!"

"Oh, good lord. This is too good. Bee looks like a fucking twinkie and you're buying him shit for his hair. Always thought you were a little poofy, kid!" Ron crowed, gleefully hassling Sam. Sam just wished to die.

_Primus take my life back, _he thought, blackly amused and furiously angry all at once, _I don't want it anymore._

"Mr. Witwicky, you're an ass." Mikaela had her hands on her hips. "You should apologize to Sam and Bee. Neither of them think you're funny, and I don't either."

Sam forced a laugh, not wanting matters to escalate further. His father would worry this subject like a Mojo with a bone if he thought it bothered Sam, just to see Sam squirm. "It's okay, 'Kaela. Really. Dad, I b-bought Bee a clip because someone needed to. Nobody else remembered, and he needed to pull his hair back with something other than a rubber band f-for the party! It's cut so it looks messy if it's loose. And, and, I, uh, had 'Kaela g-give it to him, so it'd look right, y'know. And it's big and chunky and silver, it's not girly."

That was almost the truth.

"Oh, so now you're a fashion expert," Ron snorted, unimpressed by the explanation. "Maybe you should let your hair grow out to match."

"I look like Bozo the Clown when I grow my hair out, remember?" Sam rolled his eyes. His long hair at age fourteen had been the subject of quite a bit of ridicule from his father. That had been only one of the cruel things his father had said, and only one of a few that he would repeat in front of Mikaela. "You said I had a white-fro."

Mikaela snapped, "You're being a jerk, Mr. Witwicky. Bee's gorgeous. I think you're just jealous. You never looked like that even when you weren't an old fart."

Ron sucked in a sharp breath, and Sam abruptly darted into the bedroom and slammed the door after himself. He locked it just as someone rattled the knob on the other side. He couldn't take anymore. There was _no _beating his father when his dad was in this sort of a mood. If you tried to argue, it just got worse. He had learned that a long time ago. _And I'm not gay! I'm not! I'm not! _He thought desperately, truthfully, fists clenched, _I'm not! It's not true! I like girls! I wish he'd just quit!_

"Son?" His father called through the door. He heard Mikaela say something else insulting to his father that he didn't catch, and his father's irritable growl back.

"Sam?" Mikaela said, loud enough for him to hear.

"Go away!" He threw a shoe at the door. It collided with the hollow door with a startlingly loud noise. "Just go away and leave me alone."

"Sam?" Mikaela tried the knob again.

"Don't miss your flight," Ron advised, with a laugh that said he was only amused by Sam's reaction. After a moment, he heard the front door open and shut.

"Asshole," he muttered, meaning his father. He opened the door, leaving it mostly shut, and retreated to the bed.

"He is." Mikaela pushed the bedroom door open. "Shit, Sam, why didn't you stand up for yourself?"

"Because it's pointless." He hunched on the mattress, glaring in the direction of his father's mobile home. "I don't know why he started a fight today."

"Sam Witwicky," Mikaela shook her head at him. "You _killed Megatron_. You died, came back to life, and saved Optimus Prime's life. And you can't tell your father to go stuff it up his afterburner, as the 'bots would say? Give me a break."

Angrily, he lurched to his feet and snapped, "You don't understand!" and then stomped towards the bathroom to take his shower. No matter his feelings, he had to get ready for the damned party.

"You should have at least stood up for Bee, if not yourself!" She grabbed his arm, not letting him escape.

"I can't!" He spun around on her. She took a step back. "Don't you understand? I _can't. _He won't drop it! It just leads to another endless argument that I can't win. It's pointless! I can't win, and he just gets meaner and meaner until I give up!"

She let go of him, eyes narrowing. "So you let him insult your best friend. I'm disappointed in you."

"I'm not even sure why Bee was so pissed," Sam balled both fists. "If he gets that mad over a comment like that, how's he going to deal with the shit he'll hear from people who have issues with him being a _robot_."

Mikaela ground out, "You are sometimes the densest asshole on the planet, Sam."

"Yeah, that's me. What did I do this time?" Oh, great, now _Mikaela _was mad at him. This was shaping up to be a perfect day.

"Bee _loves _you." She leaned forward, getting right in his face. "That comment about 'looking like partners' is what ticked Bee off. He _loves _you. Not like a best friend. Like he'd want to be your lover. And mine, for that matter, but it's _you _that's an issue, I think, because he knows you don't return it and he _loves _you and it's tearing him up inside. So it was your father's comment about looking like 'partners' that did it. He can't have that, and he knows it and it hurt Bee a lot. It rubbed his face in it."

"He doesn't feel that way," Sam said, feeling suddenly dizzy and awful and sick to his stomach. "He doesn't. Does he? He's dating Windy or something like that."

"Oh, he does." Mikaela seemed to be enjoying this, in some sick and perverted and twisted way. "He knows you'd never accept it. That you're too scared shitless of the idea, that you're _not _attracted to him, that you'd never consider it, and he loves you with all his spark, and your father just mocked that without even realizing it. Bee left to avoid saying something that might hurt _you. _Not because he was afraid of telling your father off. He just didn't want to hurt you, or the friendship he does have with you. If he says something rude to your father, well, you _love _your father and he just hurt someone you love. He won't do that, even if Mr. Witwicky pretty much deserved the worst Bee can dish out."

He recoiled from the idea, from her anger, from his own suddenly raging emotions. He couldn't even put a name to what he was feeling, but it was a wild thing that made his ears ring and his heart thunder in his chest. He wanted to cry, and he wanted to hit something, and he wanted to flee all at the same time. _He can't love me. He can't. He can't._

With sudden crystal clarity, a few things snapped into focus.

Bee, voice gravelly and full of static, telling Optimus, "I'd like to stay with the boy."

Bee, patiently waiting in the school parking lot every day, when he had to be bored to tears, then greeting him enthusiastically when he got out.

Bee, desperate for him not to go to college, then desperate to come with him. He'd thought Bumblebee was being protective, and certainly that had been part of it. But perhaps it had been more than that.

Bee, willing to sacrifice his life for Sam, on a thousand occasions.

Bee, so patient with him. He was always patient.

Bee, preferring to spend time with him and Mikaela than his own kind.

Bee, naming Mikaela and himself as 'next of kin' without even telling them.

Bee, seeking comfort from him when he would accept it from no other. Curled in Sam's arms, crying out in terror, but then calming at his touch.

Bee, falling into recharge in Sam's arms.

Bee, casually touching him, when Autobots didn't really engage in physical closeness with mere friends.

Bee, always there. _Always_. When he wasn't with Sam or 'Kaela, he was a phone call or an e-mail away. He kept in touch, pointedly so, making an effort to know what was going on in Sam's life or Mikaela's. His interest had been flattering, but Sam had never considered there might be more to it than friendly alien curiosity.

He had come to take Bee's close friendship for granted, of course. Bee was his dearest friend, a friend like none other. Alien though he might be, Bumblebee had a connection with Sam that neither of them had ever denied. They just fit together, from the beginning. Bee was awesome, an ancient alien warrior who called Sam 'my best friend' and who he could talk to about almost anything.

_Oh, shit. _Sam took a step back from Mikaela, and stared at her with stricken eyes. "I never realized ... never thought ... how did you ... you've got to be wrong."

"He told me himself," she ground out, real anger making her eyes glitter. "Now, go take your shower and get ready to go. And think about what you're going to say to Bee when you see him next."

"I can't ... I can't deal with this." He backed away, then fled into the bathroom and was grateful for the closing door that hid Mikaela's too-sharp gaze. He whispered to himself, "I _can't do this._"

* * *

"I report no errors," Teletraan said, with satisfaction evident in his voice. "We are ready for launch."

Optimus stood in the forward Admiral's Cabin; it was a spacious suite reserved for the highest ranking guest officer on board. "Thank you, Teletraan."

"Your engineer Wheeljack is quite skilled. He and Socket have done a very good job at making repairs. Which will you be sending with me to Nieryl Six?"

"'Jack." Optimus said, without hesitation. "The crew roster will be Magnus, Hot Rod, Wheeljack, Gears, First Aid, Inferno, Sideswipe, Skids, Elita, Beachcomber, Flora, and Windy. Kup as Captain, as per your request."

It was a small crew, just enough to operate the ship. Teletraan had indicated a strong preference for Kup to continue to be his captain, but had otherwise said he could work with anyone Optimus wanted to assign. Teletraan likely wanted to get to know some of the Earth-based Autobots better, and this was a good trip to do it on, as it wasn't overly long and unlikely to include a fight. Their orders were to get in, get out, as fast as possible. Optimus didn't want to risk the Ark to Decepticon malice. The ship's on-board refinery was their only source of energon, and the ship's machine shops and med bay critical to establishing necessary Cybertronian technology on Earth. By the same token, he was sending a skeleton crew because if anything did happen, he didn't want to lose more mechs than necessary.

_Elita. May Primus protect them all. _Sending Elita, with her skills at coding, on a mission with the Autobot army's best ship was a foregone conclusion. Elita would probably spend the rest of her career in a support capacity to the Ark. Teletraan's vast processors were more prone to errors because of their sheer scale than the average mech's, and she might be needed for debugging that the ship's spark couldn't do on his own. However, he despaired at the thought of losing her. He had not seen her in thirty thousand years, he had nearly lost her in Soundwave's assault on the transport ship, and now he sent her again into a potential battlefield because it was necessary.

"Why Windy?" The ship's spark asked, sounding curious.

"I'd like him to get more field experience in roles where he's not likely to be shot at, and under a variety of my officers. Ironhide thinks highly of him and says he has officer potential." _If he doesn't get killed before he can advance or we can build him a proper fighter frame, _Optimus thought grimly but didn't say. "'Jack is going to see if Windy has any aptitude for engineering, and Elita will determine how he does with administrative tasks." Optimus regarded the view out the window. He could see a gathering crowd of reporters, bodies glowing warmly in infrared. "Sideswipe's going to give him some close-combat training, as well. The rest of your former crew will get general training here, but we believe Windy has some extra potential that needs to be explored right away."

Teletraan replied, "He'll be good at both paperwork and maintenance, and I certainly agree with his potential as an officer. He was known for his leadership abilities in his past life, and that is integral to his spark. However, sir, are you aware of the developments between Manywinds and Bumblebee?"

"Should I be?" Optimus said, curiously. He knew that Windy had a huge crush on Bee, to use the human vernacular. He had been happy to answer Windy's questions about Bee, but had suspected Bee would politely turn the little flier's advances down.

"They've decided to interface tonight," Teletraan sounded pleased. "He's a good match for Windy. I am happy about this."

Optimus blinked his optics in real surprise, and said carefully, "Any idea what brought this on?"

"Windy can be remarkably charming when he wants something," Teletraan replied, a faint note of amusement creeping into his normally dry speech patterns. "You were just talking about his ability to lead. It's largely an ability to convince anyone to do anything, and sometimes without even being obvious about it. I assure you that Windy has been very deliberately going after Bee as a potential partner since the moment he set optics on him."

The leader of the Autobots sighed. "Ironhide implied much the same thing about his charisma. Also, that he was pretty sure that Manywinds has a better than average grasp of the practical applications of psychology. He said something about Windy using reverse psychology on Sunstreaker to defuse a situation between Sunny and Gears, which Impressed Ironhide, because not many people can handle Sunny. For a junior enlisted mech to do it is practically unheard of."

"Bumblebee seems genuinely fond of him."

Optimus ran a hand over his face, and considered Teletraan's words. "I'm going to change the crew roster, in light of that news. We can spare Bee for a two weeks and I would be very happy to see him find a partner. Primes _need _people they can trust completely. Windy's charisma might well come in handy for both of them in the political arena. Primes need partners they can trust, but the partner of a Prime is often asked to fulfill many political functions of their own. Elita's better at contract negotiation than _I _am, I would note."

"Thank you, Optimus. I suspect you'll make Windy quite happy."

Optimus nodded, then pinged Bee. He would miss Bee's competence with dealing with humans on Earth, but they could afford to spare him. The Ark was a swift ship, faster than anything else in the Autobot fleet, and would be back in an estimated fourteen to fifteen human days. By contrast, Magnus's ship had taken months to make the same journey.

_:Sir?: _Bee's response was immediate, and softly polite. _:What do you require from me?:_

:Please see me in the Admiral's Cabin.:

:Yes sir.:

A few minutes later, the door swished open to admit Bee's taller half. Blue optics regarded Optimus intently, but there was also something odd about Bee's body language. He looked hunched, and maybe a bit depressed, which was strange for a mech in Bee's current position. Optimus could remember the days leading up to his interfacing with Elita with crystal clarity. He'd felt fifty feet tall, and had been veritably dancing on air. Elita was like half of his spark, and he couldn't imagine a universe without her. Interfacing with her that first time had been the culmination of many dreams, and had simply been joyous.

"Teletraan told me about you and Windy, Bumblebee," Optimus said, mildly, hoping Bumblebee would confide in him.

"I will not let this interfere with my duties, sir," Bee said, straightening up. "But I very much like Windy."

"He's not in your chain of command." Optimus smiled gently, "You know my policy is that I do not object to partnerships unless problems develop related to them."

"Thank you, sir."

"In fact, I am pleased for you." Optimus turned to look out the window. "Primes need people they can trust, Bumblebee. I'm assigning you to the Ark. The ETA to Nieryl Six and back is two weeks, and we can certainly spare you for that time."

"Sir?" Bee sounded quite dismayed. Optimus glanced back at him, surprised by the note of upset that one word could convey. Bee elaborated, "I appreciate the gesture, but I _am _needed here. I just got my other protoform to work with the humans."

Optimus sighed. Bumblebee's devotion to his duties, and his sheer loyalty, was sometimes frustrating in its intensity. Almost any other mech in his army would have greeted such an offer from Optimus with enthusiastic gratitude. If Bee was going to partner with someone after all the millenia of his service to the cause, he _deserved _what the humans would refer to as a honeymoon! He pointed out, "There will be much less work to do after this weekend, and we can cover for you. The Witwickys and Mikaela can conduct any business for us with humans who are unnerved by giant robots, or I can assign Doc some diplomatic duties for a short period of time. Truly, Bee, it is good to see you finding someone to be happy with. I wish to encourage this."

"We don't even know if it will work." Bee sounded like he was stalling. Wide blue optics looked up at Optimus, and then the scout looked past Optimus and out the window.

"Bee," Optimus said patiently, "I doubt you have much to worry about. Do _you _think that Windy will reject you, or do you have doubts about Windy?"

"No, sir. On all counts." Bee huffed a sigh. "It's something else. I promised Mikaela I wouldn't leave Earth while she was alive. I do not wish to break that promise."

_What? _Optimus pulled himself up to his full height and looked down at Bee, stunned. "Why would you promise something such as that? You cannot be sure of keeping it. The war ..."

"The war." Bee's words turned bitter. He also squared his shoulders and stiffened his spinal struts, surprising Optimus. He was not used to seeing Bee talk back to him, or argue at all. However, the mech met his gaze with a keen look. Clearly, calmly, he said, "I'm _tired _of the war. Optimus, what _point _is there in fighting any more? We fought for two reasons: to protect other worlds from being conquered by the Decepticons, and to keep the Allspark out of their hands. The Decepticons do not have the troops to conquer a civilized world. We do not have the troops to defend uncivilized sentients from them even if we wanted to try, but there's little reason for them to conquer other worlds beyond controlling the terrain around localized installations set to harvest energy. Fang won't bother with more than that. Megatron only did because it was a power trip for him, and Megatron is dead. This leaves settling scores and old grudges as reasons for fighting, and that is _not _why I signed up."

Optimus sighed, and ran a hand over his face. Bee had some very good points. Optimus had thought similar things many times. Bee's own viewpoint was expressed with more clarity now, however. There was less venting than there had been in the meeting a few weeks ago, and much more conviction.

Bee continued, "What is the _point _of fighting now? There are twelve thousand mechs left in the entire universe, counting mechs with both factions. Each one dead brings us closer to oblivion, and that's true if we kill a 'con or they slaughter one of us. I'm _tired _of it, Optimus."

He pinched his nasal ridge. Bee's words struck home. Optimus actually agreed with his assessment, and moreover, he suspected Fang would as well. Peace was within their grasp, and it might be as simple to achieve as having more mechs like Bee simply saying _enough_. However, he feared that for every mech who was tired of fighting there were two more who would battle until they were deactivated, for vengeance alone. Vengeance was all some mechs had left. This was true on both sides. And that meant the rest of them could not not yet walk away from the fight. Things would need to be de-escalated slowly, and carefully.

_At least the 'cons have a leader now who is willing to talk rationally. Fangface may not be my favorite person in the universe, and I question the root of his motivations, but he'll listen. Unfortunately, he's so green as a leader that he's going to make mistakes and some of them may get him fragged._

"Earth, though, gives me hope for our future." Bee walked to the window. "Earth could be home for us. Given time and human assistance, Earth and her resources could be the salvation of our race. I am not willing to fight a pointless war any more. I _am _willing to devote my life to this world, though. I am willing to work to forge a home for our people here, and I will defend this world with the last whisper of my spark. And so, yes Optimus, I swore to Mikaela I would not leave Earth while Mikaela lives. She needed someone who would never betray her, who will be there for the rest of her life, who she can utterly trust, and I had no hesitation in making that oath. I do not intend to leave this world."

He was a Prime. Socially, he was Optimus's equal, and Optimus bore that in mind as he measured his words before speaking. Bee might not completely realize that yet, but Optimus did. Bee had been his most reliable soldier. He followed directions well, did not question his duties or complain overmuch, and he was smart but not prone to arguing. He'd refused orders a few times in the past, though never when Optimus had given them, and always with a great deal of apology and with very good reason for momentary defiance. He was very faithful to the Autobot ideals, but never loyal to a fault, something Optimus valued deeply.

Now, Bee was calmly and rationally _saying no. _The awareness of what he had become -- a Prime, and Optimus's equal -- was coming to the younger mech. He wasn't sure how Bumblebee would deal matters with when he truly realized that he was Optimus Prime's equal, military rank or no rank. Bee could lead, had led, would do so again. He was fair, just, and even-handed when he did so. However, he was never happy when he was responsible for the lives of others. It just wasn't in his spark to desire power over others. And yet fate had handed him a Matrix, and obligations beyond those of a mere mortal 'bot.

One of those obligations was, literally, to question the actions of the other Primes. Optimus found quiet comfort in the fact that he was not alone anymore. His responsibilities for the last of his people were now shared with others. His closest inner circle had become his peers. He had always valued their opinions (though Bee's had been damnably hard to extract sometimes, as Bee had persisted in believing he was just another soldier) but now they were imbued with the same level of knowledge he had, the same social ranking, the same responsibility to their own race. They were _supposed _to stand up to him if they believed he was wrong, and they were expected by the laws and customs of Cybertron to act as a check on his power.

However, if he could convince Bee to go on this trip, he wanted to do so. "There will likely be no fighting on Nieryl Six. I expect everyone to return safely, and it is a quick trip."

It was basically a milk run. Fang wasn't going to attack them. He lacked any sort of compelling reason to do so, and the Ark was now equipped with pulse cannons and plasma guns big enough to destroy a small moon. The 'cons didn't have a ship anywhere close to big enough to win a fight against the Ark. They might be able to win a battle with several smaller ships against Teletraan's guns, but the losses they would take would make that not worth their while. Therefore, they were just going to pick their troops up, blast a few refineries, and leave.

"I promised Mikaela, and I meant my words. I will not abandon her." Bee met Prime's gaze. There was firm resolution in his response.

Optimus rubbed two fingers to his forehead, and regarded Bee with considerable regret. He didn't want to get into a test of wills with Bee over this. "Very well. You may stay here on Earth. I'll reassign Windy."

"No. Windy needs the experience." Bee shook his head. "There will be time enough for us, but Manywinds needs as much training as quickly as possible. The more we can teach him the better, and I would wager that both Sideswipe and Magnus will work with him most of the flight. Ironhide is good at marksmanship and tactics, but Sideswipe has more experience teaching small, fast warriors to fight in close quarters. Windy's just smaller than usual."

Bee was right about Windy needing as much training as they could give him. He had no desire to be mourning another mech, and Windy's close call had rattled Optimus more than he would publicly admit. He had thought the mission that the little flier had gone on was safe, simply good practice for Autobot military procedures. He had no intention of sending Manywinds into a combat zone, given the almost inevitable outcome.

Wheeljack was already locating sources for the raw materials they would need to build a Nebulan fighter jet for Windy. Optimus thought this was a very, very good idea. The jet in question could fly circles, literally, around any F22 alive. Equipped with Cybertronian force shield, and piloted by a mech who was a sparked-gifted flyer with thousands of years of daily flight experience, and he suspected that Windy would go from being one of their most vulnerable young mechs to their most deadly. Yes, Windy needed training, in a hurry, and not just because he was so fragile now.

"Bee," Prime said firmly, but in a tone he hoped would allow for no arguments, "I will not order you to leave Earth for this mission, but in four weeks' time I am sending the Ark to the Nebulan colony. You will be leading the mission."

"Sir." A soft protest. Bee sounded profoundly unhappy. "Please."

"We will modify your organic form to look Nebulan. Doc assures me that is a simple change. You are my best scout, and you are by far the most qualified for this job. You will be taking Mirage and Arcee with you for surveillance work on the surface of the world. I will send you the complete orders when Ironhide and I finalize them, but you may assume you will spend several months building a database on the world's culture and language before we initiate first contact."

_Re-contact, _Optimus thought, with a twist of grief.

"You want me to command Mirage and Arcee." That startled Bee out of his misery. "Sir, I don't know ..."

"Your rank is equal to Mirage's, and you have done well commanding Arcee in the past. She respects you highly. You are a Prime, and you have more experience infiltrating alien worlds than both of them together, by several times over." Prime let himself smile a bit as he offered a bit of advice that was harder-earned than he would ever admit. "Mirage is not as hard to lead as one would expect. Flattery and praise works well with him when direct orders do not."

"Sir," Bee said, "I do not wish to leave Earth."

"It has been a hundred thousand years since we last had ties with the Nebulans." Optimus sighed, and looked out the window. More reporters were arriving. Several fire trucks were crossing the runway, as the humans had insisted on having them stand by for the launch. Humans were used to human spacecraft, which were frail vehicles prone to exploding. He wasn't going to tell them that if anything went wrong with the Ark's engines, the fire trucks would not survive the blast. The odds of that happening, however, were slightly less than that of the fire trucks being struck by random meteorites.

"It's not an option," Prime replied, words firm, wondering if Bee would accept the mission or argue further, "it's an order that I expect you to obey. Mikaela will release you from your promise if you ask."

He was prepared to push these orders and to summon every bit of authority he ever had over Bumblebee. As it turned out, however, he did not have to, because he heard the beginning of resigned acceptance in Bee's response. On a pragmatic, practical level, he was glad. Emotionally, he very much wished he could let Bee keep his word with the humans. There was a bond there between the three of them, and had been since the beginning. It was the sort of thing that should be encouraged, not broken.

"I do not wish to ask her." Bumblebee shuttering his optics. "Optimus, I want to make this world my home. I have given enough to the war and I am not your only scout. I know you believe I am the best, but I do not think so ... there are others who can perform just as well as I can. If the Nebulans attack in earnest, I will defend Earth with everything I have. I do not intend ..."

"... and how will we have forewarning of an attack, if we do not have scouts on the ground at their colony?" Prime said quietly and logically, knowing an emotional appeal would not work. It would only serve to agitate Bee further. Though never hard to lead, Bee was easiest to work with when Optimus approached him with practical, pragmatic arguments. "You state you wish to protect Earth. Do it by scouting a potential enemy. You _are_ the best we have. Your organic protoform will lend you infiltration abilities beyond anything a mechanoid would have. I need you to go to the colony."

Bumblebee _was _the best. Optimus had known all his soldiers for long enough to be realistic about their abilities. Bee doubted himself, he always had and probably always would, but Optimus did not.

Bee looked up at him, and for a moment, Optimus truly believed Bumblebee would argue. If so, it would be a first time. _He's earned the right to challenge me, _Optimus thought, almost hoping Bee would come up with some counter-arguments. However, the his scout lowered his head and said in a miserable, small voice, "I will talk to 'Kaela and Sam, sir. I will go. You are correct. I am the best for the job, and we do need the intelligence."

"The mission will most likely take years," Optimus said, softly, truly sorry. "Make sure you do not leave matters unfinished with your humans."

"Yes sir." Bee sounded broken. Optimus considered, again, the possibility of sending Hound in Bee's place. Admittedly, another Autobot could be given the same mod as Bee, but Bee had more experience with infilitration than any other scout alive, he had a natural empathy with other species, and he was utterly loyal and very psychologically stable. This mission, to a world of alien and potentially hostile mechs, promised to be the most challenging mission he'd ever sent his soldiers on. He needed the best.

He wished Bee had argued more, though. He wished he could have waited for a few days to tell Bee, until after the party.

"Bee, wait."

"Sir." Bee stopped with his back to Optimus, door wings twitching, halfway to the door.

"What reason did you give Mikaela when you promised to stay at her side?" Optimus wasn't sure where the question had come from, but he was enlightened by Bee's response.

"Not precisely the same one I gave you."

That answered a lot of questions. Bee's rational to Optimus had been sober and well-reasoned. Optimus suspected his actual logic when making the vow to Mikaela had been much more impulsive and spur of the moment.

"Make sure Windy is who you truly want, then," Optimus stated.

Bumblebee half turned back to Optimus and said in a tone that explained his earlier posture, "It doesn't matter who I really want. Manywinds is who I can have."

_Oh, Primus. _Bee's motivations, and his body language on entering the room earlier, suddenly made crystal clear sense. However, before Optimus could say anything else, the door had swished shut after his _stupid, glitchheaded, aftwitted ... _scout. Optimus thought a few more rude words about Bee that he would never, ever speak aloud. His reaction bordered on real anger. Bee was being dumb enough to make Prime want to crack the soldier's head into a wall a few times and hopefully beat some sense into him via his sensory arrays.

"Sir, are you going to call him back?" Teletraan said, abruptly, making Optimus glance upwards in reflex at the speaker. Teletraan, as ever, was a spark of few words and fewer emotional reactions. However, there was worry in Teletraan's response, likely for Windy as much as for Bee.

Optimus considered. He was very tempted. If he did, he might actually see Bumblebee really pissed at him for the first time. He had a suspicion Bee would not take kindly to advice about his love life from _anyone_. Then he rubbed his forehead and stated gravely, "Teletraan, I can protect my mechs from physical threats to the best of my ability. I cannot protect them from themselves. Some lessons can only be learned by hard experience."

"You're going to do nothing." Teletraan sounded vaguely disapproving.

"Yes. As will you." His words held the force of a command. "Let them sort this out themselves. It may be a harsh lesson, but some lessons must be difficult to be well learned."

"Yes, sir." Teletraan did not sound very happy. Optimus didn't blame him. He wasn't pleased either, either with his own decision to stay out of it, or with Bee's ... _slaggit, no, let them make their own mistakes. If I try to stop Bee from this, I suspect it won't work, and I would take no joy in 'I told you so's' later. _

* * *

Fang padded on all fours up the ramp to the Nemises's entrance, masterfully masking his limp. Not even Ratchet could tell it still hurt, he hoped. He did _not _want to look weak amid the den of thieves and rogues that was the Nemesis's crew. Death was still in recharge, and that meant Fang had to watch his own aft for the moment.

He was capable of doing so, of course. He'd been watching his own aft for his entire life. However, he trusted Death with his entire spark now. It felt so ... good ... to have at least one person in the universe who he could utterly and completely rely upon. _I never would have expected ..._

He glanced backwards at the base when he reached the top of the ramp, towards Starscream's lab. Death was still asleep on the floor, in the deepest recharge Fang had ever seen his partner -- his _partner! _-- indulge in. Deathwheels' devotion to him had reached a whole new level the night before. The fragger had pretty much given him no choice in the matter; Death had said _I am your dog, and you will believe me in this._

Then he'd proven it. It was pretty damn hard to lie when you interfaced with someone.

And Fang still had a case of unaccustomed warm-fuzzies in his processor after that night. He could not imagine a future without Deathwheels at his side. He'd recharged until late afternoon as his systems processed through a whole new world of variables that related to his new relationship. The last time he'd recharged for that long in an unbroken stretch, he'd been critically wounded in battle and his spark had been unstable. That had caused a tremendous number of errors to crunch through. This time it wasn't errors, it was simply his entire worldview being upended.

His logic processor was demanding several more hours of recharge to perform a few more calculations. He told it to go frag itself. He was too busy for a nap right now. Maybe later. Preferably after another interface session with Death (who was still out cold) ... yeah, he pretty much wanted to _do that again. _Repeatedly. With enthusiasm. Never before in his life had he had had quite so much fun, or been anywhere near this happy.

_Hnnh. I'll have to be careful. If I smile dreamily rather than smirk at the world, people will know something's up._

He turned away from the base, and since he had no reason to be smirking either, he fixed a stern scowl on his face. He needed to have a chat with Bloodshine about the crew; he'd missed several important meetings that he now needed to make up. Shiner would not be sympathetic with sending the virus-addled shock troopers back to the Autobots for, likely, either offlining or reformatting. If they were his, he'd reformat them and be done with it. Prime was a bit more sentimental and might offline them with the intent that they be repaired someday. The trick, regardless of their eventual fate, would be to figure out a plausible way to get the former Autobots back to their side without a huge fight from them, or a huge blow-up from the crew.

The _best _way to do that might be to simply order the 'bots to attack the Autobot base. He could warn Prime ahead of time. The Autobots would still need to take the attacking Decepticons down, but he could tell Prime to consider it a live-fire training exercise.

Optimus would probably not like that plan.

Also, the shock troopers, as fragged as their processors were, were somewhat difficult to work with. Fang had commanded his share of fritzheads, and his general tactic had been to aim them at a target, make sure there was nothing and nobody valuable in the way, then stand back and watch the mayhem. In this case, he didn't want them to cause collateral damage.

Hnnh.

Optimus had agreed to deliver the energon first. That meant his troops would expect him to betray the Autobots after they took possession of the fuel. He couldn't do that, though, not if he expected to keep Optimus's wary trust. Optimus fully understood that Fangface was in a difficult position, but he also had agreed to a bargain that he knew Fangface could rationally _keep. _Fang suspected that Optimus's willingness to deliver the energon and wait for Fang to deliver payment was a test to see if Fang was trustworthy, and Fangface intended to pass it. It was his problem how he made it happen.

He was not actually lost in thought, but he was focused on the problem, when a yell made him snap his head up. "Get the little glitch!"

A very tiny mech -- the same model as Wheelie's original form -- careened around the corner on two wheeled legs, traveling at a very high rate of speed. The mech couldn't stop in time and ran smack into Fang's foot so hard he knocked himself offline with the impact. Two far larger mechs, each much bigger than Fang, were in hot pursuit. _They _tried to stop and it was clear they couldn't either.

Fang stepped out of the way in a rapid but fluid motion, since they were twice his size and probably three times his mass. He had no desire to be knocked flying. It was undignified. As he sidestepped he swept the fragile body of the little one to the side of the corridor with a swift swipe of one paw. A nanosecond later, the two mechs skidded and tumbled past him. In their frantic effort to avoid him they both went down in a tangle of limbs and slid into the wall. The noise of the collision was resounding, and caused a few shouts of alarm from further inside the ship. Nobody seemed to be investigating the noise, however. The usual reaction to trouble on a Decepticon ship was for nearly everyone to head in the other direction.

Fang, hiding his surprise behind an expression of boredom and vague interest, sat down on his haunches with the unconscious little mech between his forefeet. "Is there a problem?"

"L-l-lord Fangface!" The taller of the warriors scrambled to his feet and then bowed. "We're sorry, we're sorry."

Fang tapped his claws on the decking impatiently, and rephrased his question. "Why were you chasing the little one?"

The mech in question was coming back online. Fang put a foot down on him to prevent him from bolting. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that the mech had done something that _deserved _punishment. In that case, Fang would hand him over. One of the big mechs had an officer's glyphs on his armor.

"'Cuz he's a little fragger!" The warrior, the one who wasn't an officer, said defiantly.

Fangface searched his memory and attached a designation to the warrior. _Crowbar, _whose secondary skill was salvage_. _And his higher ranked buddy was Aquaregia_, _a Decepticon chemist who specialized in chemical weapons, not all of which were strictly of the explosive kind. Aquaregia was technically fourth in command behind Captain Shiner and two seekers, and he headed the Nemesis's engineering and science team. "Crowbar," he said, with mock patience, "explain why you were running through the halls of the Nemesis at a dangerously high rate of speed."

"He was in my lab." Aquaregia was sullen, jaw set, clearly expecting to be punished. "I don't know why. I was trying to find out."

Fangface lifted his foot up an inch and peered at the tiny mech, who was shaking visibly. He had a vial of something clutched in one hand. "You want to explain yourself, or should I just step on you?"

A tiny voice piped out, "Don't kill me!"

"What were you doing in the chemistry lab?" Fang plucked the mech up by the back of his neck, balanced on his haunches in alt mode, and pulled the tiny vial out of the little one's hand. He held it out to Aquaregia, who warily stepped closer, snatched the vial from Fang's fingers, then recoiled back several strides. Given Megatron's tendency to slag anyone who got in his way, Fangface didn't object to their fear. It would take awhile before they came to trust he didn't shoot blindly, without good reason. At the moment, they'd just made him dodge out of the way, and that certainly wasn't a killing offense. He might get more serious in a minute, if this was just a game of torture-the-minibot. The mech under his foot, meanwhile, hadn't said a word since

Aquaregia was swirling the liquid in the vial around, clearly trying to identify it. Impatiently, Fang demanded, "What is that?"

Aquaregia eyed it for a moment longer, and probably scanned it, then sighed. "Just repair nanytes. He most likely got them from the tank in my lab. I thought he'd taken something dangerous. The little fraggers like to get revenge sometimes on the bigger fraggers and they'll nick acids or explosives to do it."

Fangface made a mental note that Aquaregia had a pleasing amount of snark, and had been pursuing the little mech for a good reason. He was worth investigating further, particularly with his scientific background and rank.

"Why do you need repair nanytes?" Fang demanded, of the little one. As far as he could tell, he wasn't personally injured.

"My partner," the little mech finally said, quietly. "He's hurt."

"And the medics are not repairing him ... why?" _A partner? Really? _That was unusual on a 'con ship. And it had to be an established and known relationship, for the little mech to mention it so openly.

The mech said sullenly, and with something that sounded like fear, "I-I was going to do it myself."

Fang lifted an optic ridge. "You know how to do repairs?"

Aquaregia sighed. He explained in a rather sour tone of voice. "I believe _that _one was assigned to Hook for several millenia. He was good. He fixed my circuits a few times, and I used to seek him out deliberately when I needed finicky electrical repairs."

"And he's not on the medical staff now?" Fang's other optical ridge joined the first. He transformed, standing up. In protoform, he was a head shorter than Aquaregia and a head and shoulders shorter than Crowbar. He tapped his hind claws on the decking, drawing their attention downward a lot further than his faceplates. It was a deliberate gesture, reminding them that he might be short, but he could taken on any mech on the ship in hand-to-hand combat and win.

Aquaregia shrugged, after a quick glance at the viciously clawed feet that made Fang such a formidable close-quarters chemist explained, "He fixed Starscream when Megatron said no."

"Screamer was going to kill my _partner_ if I didn't." The tiny little mech twisted about in Fang's hand, kicking and thrashing in clear fright. "Let me go!"

"What happened to your partner?" Fangface was trying to figure out if he knew the mech's designation. He didn't, he decided. "Your name, by the way?"

"Let go of me!"

"Answer my questions." Fangface tightened his grip warningly. He wouldn't tolerate insubordination.

The mech gasped, "Rivet! It's Rivet! Just let me go, my partner needs me, _please _sir. They say you're kind! They say you're not like Megatron. Please sir, my partner's dying!"

"I'm kind when it suits me. So far, you've not given me a reason to like you," Fang said, coldly. It wasn't that he wasn't sympathetic. It was that he was being watched by two large mechs, neither of whom had obvious affiliations. "Who hurt your partner and who is he?"

"Bloodshine did it!"

Hnh. If Bloodshine had injured the mech's partner, he probably had a valid reason. Fangface's voice grew tougher, colder. "And his name?"

"Smelter!"

"And why was he punished by Bloodshine?"

"I don't know!" Rivet struggled. "Seriously, I don't know!"

_:Bloodshine,: _Fang commed the Captain, deciding to go right to the source of the issue, _:Do you know anything about a mech named Smelter?:_

Bloodshine's response was immediate, and unruffled by Fang's blunt, pointed question. Most of the officers were getting used to Fang's tendency to skip social niceties and get right to the point when he was focused on a problem. _:Lord Fangface, good afternoon. Yeah, the fragger was talking treason and trying to round up some buddies to stage a mutiny. He was loyal to Shockwave. I offlined him for you.:_

:Apparently, he's not dead yet, and he's got a partner.:

:Must be losing my touch. Coulda swore I cracked his spark chamber. I'll take care of it. Want me to slag his partner too? That's always trouble. Kill one and the other will never forgive or forget. I think he's partnered with a little scraplet of a fragger too, though search me for a reason why.:

Fangface sighed. Yes, kill one partner and it was pretty smart to take the other one out. He knew with cold, dead certainty that if anything ever happened to Death, he was going to be out for blood. _:No. I'll deal with it.: _

_:Sir, I know you prefer not to kill ...:_

In a very dangerous tone of voice, Fangface replied, _:I'm only Lord Friendlyfangs when it _suits _me, Shiner. And do not accuse me ever again of being soft or unwilling to kill. I will demonstrate to you personally how I ended up leader of this army.:_

:Who told you about that nickname?: Bloodshine said, in a startled and rather frightened tone of voice. Shiner had been calling Fangface that to the other officers, with the occasional roll of his optics or snicker. Fang had made a mental note to find an excuse to publicly beat up Shiner. He was useful, but not as loyal as Fangface would like nor as afraid of Fang as Fang wished.  
_  
:Death. Who has his sources. Now, I'll deal with this with Smelter and Rivet.:_

He turned his attention back to the tiny mech in his fist. "Where's your partner?"

"I'm not going to tell."

Fang narrowed his eyes. "I'm the _one _hope he's got at the moment. You better tell me where he is, _and _give me a good reason to see that he's fixed, or I will squish you here, and let him die alone. Do you understand me?"

"You're going to fix him?" Aquaregia stared at Fang in complete shock.

"Maybe. I hear he was a Shockwave supporter. Why should I?" Fang squeezed the mech in his hand to emphasize his point, making the little one squeak in protest. "I don't need more enemies. On the other hand, Shockwave's dead, I'm alive, and I'm a kind master as long as I'm not crossed. Which will it be, Rivet?"

"You want ... you want ...?"

"I need medics." Fangface dropped the little mech to the floor. He landed with a clatter. "It's what you were trained to do, right?"

"I'm not allowed," the little one said, in a tiny and confused voice. "Megatron forbid ..."

"Megatron is _dead_." Fangface spat out. "_I _have made no such edict. Foolishness, anyway. We need medics. If you're trained -- and Hook is one of our few _good _medics -- then I can make use of you. That's assuming you don't intend to frag me in the back the moment I let my guard down, and assuming you actually want the job, and assuming you're not so stupid as to remain loyal to dead 'cons who when your living leader's offering you a better deal."

"Err." The tiny little medic picked himself up off the ground. "I'm too small to be of much use ... I used to be a lot bigger ..."

"_That _can be remedied. Ask Death." Fang held his paw out at a height about five feet off the ground, indicating Deathwheel's original height. "While you're at it, ask Death what he thinks of being my subordinate. You have my permission to talk to him now if you'd like. I understand you probably knew him when he was known as Scrubber."

The medic stared up at Fangface in utter shock. Fang, to his surprise, actually sensed a quick, encrypted transmission from the little mech.

_:Err, boss?: _Death immediately contacted Fang, though he sounded a bit sleepy. He'd just been roused from recharge. _:Rivet wants to know if he can trust you. Can he?:_

:I don't know if I can trust him, so damned if I can answer that question. Tell him you like me and that I've treated you well.:

:Eh, okay.: Death was silent for a moment; Fangface detected the encrypted response to Rivet. Death added to Fang, _:What did I miss? He sounds terrified.:_

:Usual drama. Big bots chasing little bots, me in the middle. Sorry to wake you.:

:Meh, yeah, whatever. Shoulda got me up earlier. I've got crap to do today. You going to need to do repairs to anybody?:

:Sounds like it. Get my equipment out, will you? Rivet's a medic, apparently, so I'll put him to work on his own partner. See what he can do.:

:His partner's big,: Death said, after a moment's apparent thought, or possibly a moment to boot a few more subroutines up, _:A structural engineer. He's not quite my size, but Smelter's pretty damn big. He'd make about five of you, boss.:_

:Err ... really?: Fang glanced down at the itty-bitty mech quivering at his feet. Whatever Death had said to Rivet had not reassured him much. Likely, knowing Death's public persona, it had been a grunted, 'He won't kill you, but don't cross him if you like your struts straight,' or some similar comment. Death had been fairly brusque even as a maintenance mech, more out of a dislike of most of his peers versus a need to hide his intelligence. You had to charm Deathwheels before he actually turned nice to be around.

_Charming Deathwheels ... yeah, I can do that. Tonight. Mmmm. _Fang made himself focus on the problem in hand, and not what he'd like to do to get his partner in a better mood.  
_  
:Yes, really. You've got the personnel files. Don't you ever read them?: _Deathwheels was definitely not at his best when he first woke up. His response was downright waspish.

_:Well, I could have done so last night, but you had me a bit distracted for several hours,: _Fangface retorted. __

:You realize if anyone decrypts that comment, they'll think we're lovers?: Death was waking up now, and growing less grumpy and more playful. They had that effect on each other, though if anyone _actually _deciphered their communications (which was likely, in a Decepticon camp) nobody else would hear it anything but a Fangface being tolerant of some snark from his favorite minion.  
_  
:Heh. You wish, you fraggar.: _Fangface retorted, for the benefit of anyone who would hear their words later. _:I'd sooner 'face with a datapad. The personality would be better.:_

_:Ouch, you wound me. -- I'll get your lab ready. Any idea what you'll need?:_

:Welder. Possibly a spark containment unit and a new spark chamber. Find me a couple big mechs for muscle to get him to the lab.: Fang sighed. _:And put my meetings with the Nemesis's officers on hold until tomorrow. I want to see Optimus's speech too. Give them the exact reasons why when you postpone. We need medics. This one, I might be able to win to my side.:_

He turned his attention back to the mech at his feet. "I tell you what, shrimp," he said, making his voice as cold as possible, "I'll help you fix your partner on two conditions."

"Y-yeah?"

"One, you swear allegiance to me, personally. I treat my people well. You'll never regret it, as long as you don't betray my trust and you don't cause trouble. And two, you keep your partner out of trouble. I understand he's not sympathetic to me. Fine. He doesn't have to like me, he just needs to fight what I tell him to, when I tell him, obey my officers, and not scheme against me. If he causes trouble, I kill _you_. If you cause trouble, I kill _him_. Is that clear?"

The medic nodded soberly. Perversely, he seemed to relax with Fang's words. It was an arrangement he clearly understood; one any Decepticon officer would have plausibly made to ensure the obedience of subordinates. This was a reason why Decepticons didn't normally partner off, too, and why Fang was making damn sure nobody knew Deathwheels was his -- ulp -- partner, as of last night.

Fang was perfectly willing to carry through on his threats; sometimes, such things were necessary for the greater cause. _Hopefully, it won't come to that. Hopefully they'll be reasonable and good little 'cons and mind their behavior._

"I'm waiting."

"I ... I agree to those terms." The little medic had an annoyingly high pitched, squeaky voice. Fangface made an idle note to replace his vocal circuits when he upgraded him into a bigger body.

"Excellent. I always hate slagging people. It's wasteful. Now, where's your partner?"

"In ... in his quarters. Sir." The mech's voice dropped a few notes in grief and anger together. "Captain Shiner d-dumped him th-there to d-die."

"Take me there."

"You're going to see him yourself?" Rivet stared at him. So did Aquaregia and Crowbar. "Sir?"

"We have a deal." Fangface smiled at him. "I take deals like this personally."

"Sir." Rivet straightened up. Suddenly there was hope in his eyes. He had to have been beyond desperate before; even had he managed to effect some sort of repair on his partner, Bloodshine was certain to simply do a more thorough job at deactivating him when he discovered that Smelter was alive.

"You two, with me as well," Fang said, summoning the two larger mechs. They followed after him without complaint, and with subdued curiosity on Aquaregia's part. His eyes were sharp, studying Fangface and taking his measure. Fang knew he was being judged, and hoped Aquaregia liked what he saw.

The mechs' shared quarters were rank with the smell of burnt circuits and hot metal. Smelter had been thrown roughly into the room, a sparking and leaking ruin of a mech. He was slumped against one wall, and half on his side, back twisted at an awkward angle that spoke of broken spinal struts. He was not conscious, and Fang wasn't even sure that he was alive until he crouched and spotted a sickening blue glow of spark through the cracks of a half-melted spark chamber. He sucked in a dismayed huff of air through his intakes and then checked the integrity of the power packs to the secondary containment system. They were intact, though a bit battered. Rivet had attached a charger to the batteries to keep them topped off.

"What were you planning to do with the nanytes?" He wasn't sure all the nanytes in the world could fix that damage.

Rivet replied nervously, "I ... I don't have a welding rig here anyway. Nobody would help me get one in here. But, but, I had to try. I thought maybe he might keep containment long enough ..."

Aquaregia peered at the tiny vial in his hand, and snorted softly and expressively. There wasn't more than an ounce of nanyte suspension in it. Fang calculated they'd need gallons to effect a repair. Rivet had probably planned multiple trips, taking a tiny amount each time he snuck into the lab. He wasn't big enough to carry very much.

"I thought someone might notice if I took more than a little bit each day." Rivet hunched his shoulders. "But I had to try. I figured if I could keep him alive long enough they might be able to seal those cracks ... look, I know it's a long shot, but it was all I had."

"And if it worked and he lived, what then?" Fangface asked, with morbid curiosity. The mech was a ruin. Fixing his spark chamber would just mean he'd be in stable stasis lock until someone discovered he wasn't dead, and blasted him again.

"I don't know," Rivet said, hunching his shoulders. "I know it's not very Decepticon of me, but I said a few prayers to Primus that a miracle would happen. I know we're supposed to make our own miracles, but I'm just a useless little mech, and he's my partner. He's all I have in this world."

Fangface sighed. He considered what he would do to save Deathwheels. Praying to Primus would be the least of it. "Hnnh. Well. I'm not Primus, but let's see if we can't make a miracle happen for you today, Rivet."

Rivet looked up at him, then over at the two much larger mechs. Fangface followed that gaze, and met Aquaregia's level red optics. The chemist observed to Rivet, "Megatron would have fragged you before you ever got a chance to tell your story if you'd run into him like that."

Fangface sighed. "Unlike Megatron, my primary goal in life isn't power. It's Decepticon victory in this war. That means I need every mech to work together. Smelter might not personally like me, but if he'll shoot the Autobots by preference over my aft, he can dislike me all he wants. If _I _have to frag him, I'll make sure he's dead before I'm done, too."

* * *


	48. Chapter 48

Rivet _was _well trained.

"So you apprenticed with Hook?" Fangface said, conversationally, as he worked on detaching the damaged spark chamber from the mech's frame. He intended to do a complete transplant, partly because that would be easier, and partly because if the mech was an enemy he preferred to take some of his power away from him. The grinder in the lab was Starscream's, and far too large for Rivet to use. Fang, therefore, was carefully cutting through the brackets and stripped bolts and Rivet was ... watching. Intently. The little mech was deep within Smelter's chassis at the moment, having wormed his way past the power control unit. He was stripping out burnt and shorted wiring, but also watching Fang's every move with quick, undisguised glances.

"Yeah." Rivet finally said. "I'm good, too."

"We sure don't have enough good medics who like their craft." Fangface replied, as he stopped for a moment to allow Rivet to move out of the way of a cut he needed to make.

"If y-you don't mind me asking, y-you seem to k-know a bit about medicine too. Who trained you?"

"Myself, mostly." He tested a bolt, found it seized by the heat or the distortion of the pulse cannon blast that had destroyed most of Smelter's chest, and started grinding. "I'm a prototype, and I started out working on myself because _most _of the medics in this army are incompetent."

Rivet snorted in apparent agreement.

"And I do as many repairs for my direct subordinates as I can. I don't trust most of the medics, I do have enemies, and I lost a good friend about seven orns ago during routine maintenance. The medic pulled his plug on orders of my commanding officer as a warning to me." Fangface pressed down on the bolt with a little more force than was strictly necessary. "I hadn't actually _done _anything for the CO to object to, he just wanted to make sure that I knew I'd be next if I ever _did _contemplate doing anything. I was too valuable to frag, but my friend was just a shock trooper."

Rivet sighed. "Yeah, I've heard that sort of thing before."

Fangface, hearing the resigned sigh, looked up from his work. "I killed my CO that day and took his job."

"That didn't get you executed?" Rivet said, in surprise.

"Got Megatron's permission to do it first." Fangface snorted. He wasn't stupid, and could play political games, Decepticon style, with the best of them, thank you very much. That was the difference between leaders and followers in the 'con army. "I was in Megatron's good graces, and my commander wasn't -- part of the reason why he was worried about me was that he figured I was going to take his job away someday."

"Ah."

Fangface added, "And as far as medicine goes, I have more patience to do it _right _than most of the medics have."

"It's not lack of patience. It's being overworked, plus half the time we fix someone and they're dead an orn later, so why bother to do it right?" Rivet peered up at Fangface through a veil of gossamer-fine fiber optic cables. He had lubricant and soot smeared on his faceplate. "And then the ungrateful glitches frag us if they wake up hurting, or we don't have the exact part we need and they don't like the mods we made, or whatever."

Fang grunted. He knew that. "Yeah. I'm working on making some changes. I'm giving all the medics sizable promotions. The chief medical officer with every team will outrank all but the commander. The commander _better _back him up, or I'll replace the commander. We can't keep losing people to stupid stuff, and helping the medics do a better job is one way to prevent that."

Rivet poked at the fiber optics. "These are from the neural canal junction between his back struts and his processor core. I'm going to need to rethread every sensor feed from the processor core out. Pit and blast."

"At least you know how to do it," Fang said, consolingly.

"It's going to take _days ..._" Rivet sounded worried, probably afraid Fang would lose patience with the time it would take, and maybe just euthanize Rivet's partner and be done with it.

"Take the time you need." Fang shoved down hard on the grinder, vaporizing another bolt. "We've got a ten day journey ahead of us. Once he's stable I'll have him set up in the med bay on the ship and he'll be your project until he's repaired. And you're back on the medical team. I'm having Death draw up the reqs to change your position now."

"Really?" Rivet looked up again.

"Yep."

"Th-thank you, s-sir. I n-never expected this." Rivet's smile was relieved, genuine, and full of stunning hope.

Fang kept himself from returning that expression with a grin of his own by sheer force of will. Instead of a happy smile of his own, he merely nodded recognition. "You'll find I'm a hard taskmaster, but fair. Do your job and you'll have no problems from me. And medics are important. I mean it about really supporting the medical staff. Things are going to change for the better for everyone."

Something arced deep within the mech's massive chassis. Fang jumped, startled, but then relaxed. Shorts weren't unexpected. Lots of things were sparking.

Rivet swore, "Pit! No!" and it was a a desperate sound. He rocketed out of the space he'd wormed into. "No! No, no Smelter! No! No!"

Fang glanced over at the spark chamber.

The containment field, detectable as a low buzz of electromagnetic energy, was gone.

The spark was gone.

The cracks in the chamber were dark, unlit, empty. Room lighting cast shadows into the chamber. A little smoke wafted up.

Smelter was dead.

Rivet howled a wordless cry of grief and peered desperately into the chamber, as if he might find the spark was hiding in a corner.

Fang let the grinder in his hand drop, shocked. He'd never had a patient just die like that, on a table, while he was calmly working away. He'd thought Smelter was, if not stable, at least not in imminent danger of spark containment failure. He had been wrong.

"Smelter!" Rivet screamed and collapsed to his knees on the exposed spark chamber, fingers spread as wide as they would go across the cracks in grey metal. It was as if he was trying to hold the spark back from leaving with his bare hands, but the spark was already gone.

There was a movement beside Fang, as Death approached. It was amazing how silently and gracefully he could move without apparent conscious effort. Very gently, Deathwheels touched Rivet's backplating with one finger. Rivet was a fraction of the size of Death's hand. "I'm so sorry."

Rivet looked up at Death's touch and whispered, "He was all I had in the entire universe. He was all I had. I'm alone now."

Death asked, with clear nervousness, _:What do you want me to do, boss?:_

:Do?: Fang didn't know what he was asking.  
_  
:You have no control over Rivet now. Your deal was his service in exchange for his partner's life. That is void.: _Death calmly stroked the little one's back, single finger infinitely gentle on the tiny mech's fragile armor. His demeanor did not betray his words at all.  
_  
:Oh.: _Death likely assumed Fang would order the medic sent back to his former role on the ship at best, or perhaps killed. The little mech could blame Fang for Smelter's death, easily. He could be trouble. Fang had been working around the spark chamber. It was entirely possible he'd jostled something or shorted a part out. He would need to do an autopsy to find out, but Rivet hadn't been near anything vital. _:Umm.:_

:I'll do whatever you want me to. He won't know what hit him, if you want me to kill him. You don't need the liability, Fang.:

Shining red optics looked up at Fang's, even as Fang gave Deathwheel's words some serious consideration. To Fang, he said, "Th-thank you for trying."

"I am truly sorry." He sounded like Optimus when he said that. He heard the echoes of age and wisdom in his own voice; he knew it was the touch of his Matrix as that ancient artifact tried to manifest itself. With resignation, reached deep within the memories of a thousand leaders before him, seeking a solution. The only one he found was inadequate ... it was simply to trust the grief and sorrow in the other mech's eyes would not be turned to rage and vengeance against him, and to apologize with honesty. "I am afraid it is something I did. I am sorry. I am so sorry."

His words felt strange in his mouth. He'd never said such a thing before with genuine feeling. He found he was visualizing what it would be like to lose Deathwheels, and it shook him so badly he wanted to recoil.

The little medic snorted. "Bloodshine did it, _not _you, Fang. I ... guess you'll be fragging me, then, though."

"Do I need to?" Ancient experience rushed like music through his synapses. The little mech knew what might be coming. Megatron would have done it without hesitation or remorse.

_:He could cause trouble for Shiner,: _Death pointed out, with far more pragmatism than the Matrix ever displayed. _:If not you. Bloodshine was within rights to shoot Smelter for treason. Bloodshine is loyal enough to you that it would be unwise to create an enemy for him.:_

Rivet answered Fang's question. "Most would. I'm just ... I'm nobody important."

Fangface said softly, "I'm not going to kill you, but I need your word that you will not seek vengeance against Captain Bloodshine."

"I wouldn't mind if you deactivated me," Rivet said, with eerie calm. He glanced up at Deathwheels, accurately divining where the killing blast -- or, given his size, perhaps simply a killing blow -- would come from. "Go ahead and do it. Smelter was all I had in the world. I don't think I want to live without him. Just make it quick."

Deathwheel's fingers were still stroking the small mech's back. He was the same make as Wheelie, with the same mobile optics and the same fragile frame. It struck Fangface that this could be Wheelie, someday in the future, grieving a lost lover and friend, and asking to be sent to the Well of All Sparks after him.

"No," Fangface said, "I still need a medic, Rivet."

Silence, from the medic.

"I am so sorry, Rivet." Deathwheels voice was quiet, calm, and somehow very tired.

"I ... I won't do anything to Bloodshine. I guess Smelter provoked him." Rivet let out a ragged-sounding burst of static. "I don't know what he was up to, but he hadn't 'faced with me in a couple of weeks. I just thought he was busy and tired, but I think he might have been planning something and he didn't want me part of it 'cause I'd disapprove. I'm a medic, y'know? Megatron might have taken my occupation from me, but it's still part of my spark and my programming, and killing's not part of my core instincts. I fix. I don't destroy. But Smelter didn't like you, Lord Fangface. He said you were weak. Unmaker take him! It cost him his life, and what about me now?"

_:He could be trouble,: _Death worried, even as his single finger stilled on Rivet's slim shoulders.

_:I doubt it.: _Fang sighed. _:We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, though, as the humans say.:  
_  
He had no idea what else to say, or do, so Fang turned one of the plasma screens on the wall of the lab on with a quick burst of infrared from his optics. Optimus's ship would be landing soon. He found the right channel, then turned back around to see that Deathwheels had sat down with his back to the wall -- and despite his warning words, Rivet was cradled against his shoulder under one cupped hand, like a sparkling. Rivet started keening.

Fangface felt a flare of keen jealousy despite his sympathy for the little medic. Fang was _his _partner. He didn't like seeing Death's loyalties divided. He'd never had anyone love him the way that Death did, and he'd never been very good at sharing with others.

_:He's hurting, Fang.: _Death said, reading Fang's expression. _:He's hurting so badly. I know I would grieve to the core of my being if something happened to you, and we have only been partners for one day. He shared his life with Smelter for tens of millenia. He could die from the grief alone. If you wish him to live, we will need to watch him closely. I do not believe he has any other friends on the Nemesis.:_

Fang was still jealous, but he managed not to make it obvious. He sat down next to Death, and pretended to focus on the newscast. He tried not to watch as Death continued to cradle the medic to his shoulder and treat him like a small child. Rivet was keening quietly, and then slowly, over the course of half an hour, he slipped into a grief-stricken recharge.

Death lowered the little medic to his own lap. _:I'm monitoring his systems, but he's down deep. I don't think he's recharged in days.__:_  
_  
:If I'd told you to do it, what would you have done? Would you have killed him?:_

:I am your dog. I will support you and follow your orders even when I disapprove of your actions.:

Fangface was silent for a moment, as Death held Rivet cupped in his hands He wanted to slap Death's hands away. He wanted to growl and tell Death just how much he hated seeing him give attention to any other mech. However, Deathwheels would be hurt, because it would mean Fang didn't trust him. He didn't want to hurt Deathwheel's feelings. He sent a strictly mental sigh across the comm and said, _:Tell me if you disapprove, Death. Always tell me.:_

:As you wish.: Death's assent was somewhat curt, though Fang couldn't figure out why.

* * *

Wheelie stood with his face into the slight breeze, watching the landscape slip silently past. The observation deck was packed with mechs and human staff, but Wheelie stood a bit alone. He still didn't fit in, and he knew it. They were no longer actively hostile towards him, but the older Autobots simply kept to themselves and the Ark's former crew still formed another clique. He wasn't part of either of their worlds.

Vibrations on the decking, heavy footfalls, made him look back. "Optimus, sir."

Optimus glanced down at him, then leaned on the railing. "You did good during the battle, Wheelie. I'm proud of you."

He stared up in surprise. "Th-tha-thank you!"

The leader of the Autobots dropped to one knee briefly, and held a hand out, palm up, in invitation. "Would you like to ride on my shoulder for a bit?"

He hesitated, knowing it was a bit undignified, but the flattery of Optimus's attention won out. He scrambled into Optimus's hand, and the Prime transferred him to his shoulder, where Wheelie found a safe perch on a protruding sensor array. For a moment, they were both quiet. There was a large lake far below the ship, and dry desert mountains that reminded Wheelie of vids he had seen of Cybertron. Optimus watched the spectacular view with as much interest as everyone else.

"Fangface came to the base yesterday," Optimus said, finally.

"I know. I saw him from the Witwickys' home." Wheelie couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "I figured he'd try to say something to me, but he didn't."

"You could have said hello to him rather than waiting. I would not be inappropriate for you to speak to him, as long as the conversation remains personal and does not touch on any sensitive information you may know." Optimus's words were not a rebuke, just an observation. "He's your mentor, isn't he?"

Wheelie hunched a bit, and feeling unaccountably annoyed, he grumbled, "Fucking great mentor that he is. He couldn't even keep me safe. And he threatens you. And he didn't even say anything to me."

"Wheelie," Optimus said, still without any censor in his voice, "you mean a very great deal to Fang."

"Shit. Like I care about what he thinks. Why didn't he say anything t' me?"

"Perhaps because he wants you to be happy among us. He doesn't want divide your loyalties any more than they already are."

"Frag that. Fang doesn't think that deep. Trust me, I know 'im pretty good." Wheelie paused, then added bitterly, "That wouldn't happen. The Autobots might hate me, but the Decepticons would kill me. Easy choice. I stay here."

Wheelie was completely unsurprised when Optimus said, "We do not hate you."

"_You _don't." Wheelie sighed. "Half the crew's neutral 'bout me, I guess. The rest of 'em hate me."

Optimus sighed. "I cannot control the emotions of my crew. Some will see a Decepticon and not an adopted youngling for a very long time to come. I am sorry for that. You are a valued member of my team, and I believe you will never disappoint me. However ... you may find a more receptive audience for friendship among the humans, for the time being. There is nothing wrong with spending more time with them, if my Autobots are less than warm towards you."

"Hmph. I'm not Bumblebee." It was a grudging protest.

"No, but I saw you standing alone." Optimus smiled faintly. "You looked very lonely."

"Yeah, well, that's life."

Optimus held his hand up to his shoulder, and Wheelie reluctantly stepped on to it. Optimus had been the one person who had been consistently welcoming towards him, and frankly, was probably the only reason why he was still at the base and hadn't just taken off and said 'screw you' to both factions. He craved Optimus's approval, in ways that were almost embarrassing. He didn't particularly want to get down, and Wheelie wondered if Optimus was putting him down because he was upset at something he had said. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"For what?" Surprised blue optics regarded him curiously.

"I just ... I dunno."

"No, I am not upset at you for anything you said." Optimus turned away from the view, however, angling himself towards another part of the observation deck. He said, "Look who else is standing by herself."

Mikaela. Wearing a brand new coat against the high altitude chill, Mikaela was standing by herself, arms folded, jaw set. She didn't look happy at all, and people were steering widely clear of her. The expression on her face looked downright dangerous.

"Where's Sam and Bee?" Wheelie scanned large deck, looking for Mikaela's constant companions.

"Bee," Optimus nodded, drawing Wheelie's attention to an area of the deck three hundred feet away, where the yellow mech was half hidden by a communication array, "is with Windy. I am not certain where Sam is located, but I am suspecting the three of them had an argument. He may be off by himself, and he is one who prefers a bit of solitude when he is profoundly unhappy. Mikaela's all alone, yet she has chosen to come up here where everyone else is. I bet she could use some company as a distraction."

"Oh."

Optimus bent gracefully down, holding his hand a couple feet off the deck. Wheelie hopped off, and looked uncertainly back up at his leader. "Should I bother 'er? I mean, I'm not even sure she likes me."

_:Now would be a very good time for you to bother her, I suspect. Go on. We're an hour from landing. The human staff have a selection of breakfast items set up in Conference Room Four. I believe Mikaela could probably use some coffee too. You might approach her bearing gifts, as they were, in the form of something to eat.:_

:Thanks, boss.: Wheelie stared up at Optimus, impressed by Optimus's attention to detail when it came to his crew, flattered by Optimus's suggestion that _he _approach Mikaela, and suddenly feeling a lot less alone.

* * *

"Warrior Goddess."

Mikaela turned around, surprised by the voice that had come from behind her.

Wheelie padded closer, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a danish on a paper plate in the other. A small plastic bag dangled from one of his fingers. He extended everything to her. "I, uh, didn't know what you liked in your coffee."

The bag contained little packets of creamer, and an assortment of sweeteners. Touched, she smiled, "Thanks, Wheelie."

"Umm. I guess you're fighting with Sam and Bee?"

"Not really." She hunched her shoulders a bit, then handed the danish back to him. "Hold this for me a second, will you?"

She added a couple packets of Splenda and some creamer to the coffee before reclaiming the danish. Then she sighed, and elaborated. "Sam got in a fight with his dad, and he's off sulking somewhere. Bee's with Manywinds. I guess they're kind of a couple now."

"And you're alone. Sucks to be you." It was odd to look up a few inches at Wheelie, when he'd once been on optic level with her kneecap. His voice hadn't changed in tone, though he sounded less rough now. She had heard Mrs. Witwicky correct his grammar and pronunciation a few times, and would not have been surprised if Optimus had done the same. "I kinda know that feelin'."

"How's it going for you?" She stared out through the grill at the terrain far below. She had not had much time to speak to him. The last time she remembered talking to him had been the night her father had died. They had all been so very busy since then.

"I like the new protoform." He held his hand out for her inspection. "It has great hands. Look."

He wiggled his fingers. Curious, she caught his hand and looked at it, appreciating the fine engineering of his fingers. Had he been human, people who had made comments to him about playing the piano. His hands were long and slender, with quick, nimble digits. "Ratchet's going to have me start doing more maintenance on the crew. It's easier, now that I'm big enough to have at least a little strength, and I can reach things he and First Aid can't."

She let go of the hand, and said, "We'll probably be training together, then, kiddo."

"Ironhide wants me to work with Lennox and Windy and Doc every other day, too, training with the humans. He thinks that Epps might be able to teach me some fighting techniques better suited to my size. Though Windy's got it worse than I do."

"You're about the same size as Windy," Mikaela said, mentally measuring height.

"I've got a duryllium frame and a lot more bulk. And more mass. More armor. I can take a hit or two and expect to survive. Windy's made of aluminum and titanium. Aluminum bends and tears really easy. Titanium has a melting point below that of burning energon. That's why Windy took so much damage in that attack. His energon caught fire, and it fragged his titanium pelvic girdle and femurs. Melted some. Warped the rest." Wheelie shook his head at her. "You should take some metallurgy classes or something. It'd help you understand the engineering aspect of things. Chemistry, too."

"You know metallurgy?" She'd never thought of Wheelie as having much of an education.

"Fang had me studying some things." Wheelie fell silent. Then he added with considerable venom, "Fragger."

"You're pissed at Fang?" She had thought they were friends.

"He said some things that made me real mad. Yeah." Wheelie hunched his shoulders. "He's my mentor. That's sort've like a father, kinda. But he's a fragger anyway."

"Heh." She contemplated that revelation. It didn't seem particularly surprising, somehow. She laced her fingers into the grill below the deck's railing, and watched as the starship approached a high range of mountains. The deck tilted slightly, as the Ark began to climb in altitude again, to clear the peaks. "I get that. You know, I'd give anything to have my father back. He was an idiot, a thief, and a druggy. Career criminal. Nobody ever expected me to be any different, either, because I was his daughter. I suspect my high school guidance counselor would be _astonished _if he could see me now. They said he was going to ruin my life. But I loved him. He loved me. He wanted good things for me. He _tried_, even when it wasn't perfect and he couldn't do better than a half-assed job. He was a fragger, but I loved him."

Wheelie didn't say anything for a long moment. "Guess you do get it. Most of 'em think I'm a 'con in Autobot armor 'cuz of where I was created."

"Yeah."

They stood together for a moment in companionable silence, then Wheelie spoke up again, "Goddess ..."

"Mikaela."

"Huh?

"Call me Mikaela, Wheelie."

"Geeze, I just meant it as a compliment or something." He sounded offended, which she hadn't intended. "You're awesome. Loved ya like a big sister since the first time we met."

"I tortured you the first time we met," she pointed out, amused.

"Yeah. I was really, really impressed."

"You are one twisted robot."

"Oh, thank you. I try."

"Wheelie," she said, seriously, "Call me Mikaela. It's my name. Please."

"I ... you're okay with that?" He, too, was being serious now.

She gave him a sideways look, puzzled by his question. "Why wouldn't I be okay with you calling me my name?"

He shrugged, not answering. She sensed he might not know the answer to that question himself yet.

"Just call me Mikaela," she insisted.

She was rewarded by a shy smile, suddenly, that didn't look like any expression she'd ever seen on Wheelie's face before. "Okay."

* * *

Sam flexed his fingers cautiously. His elbow was stiff, and his wrist hurt. A healing scar, almost gone, showed where Doc had cut his arm open to pin the shattered bones back together.

"You need to use that arm now," Doc said. "It should heal without further incident, though."

Sam glanced up at the monitor in the med bay, which showed an x-ray of his arm. He had a spectacular number of pins in his elbow. Brightly he said, "Hey, can you e-mail me that image?"

Doc chuckled, and lifted his optic ridges. "Certainly. It's interesting, isn't it, what you look like inside?"

"Totally cool," Sam agreed.

* * *

Bee leaned back against his own leg, back resting against cool metal. Manywinds snuggled into his arms, head against his shoulder. He put his arms around the other mech, and closed his eyes and his optics both, and told himself he should be happy. They were a good match. It would work out. He might spend the rest of his life with Windy. It felt good to hold him close, to let someone into his space, to trust another mech like he was going to trust Windy. He wanted a lifetime's partnership. It would be a joyful thing. He should be looking forward to it.

"Are you nervous?" he asked Windy, "about tonight?"

"Should I be?" Windy returned. It sounded a bit like a challenge.

"No." Bee traced a finger down Windy's chest plate, feeling the low thrum of internal parts under his hand. "No reason to be nervous. I'm ready for this."

At that moment, Sideswipe walked past the communications array. Bee had selected this part of the ship's observation deck because it was hidden, but Sideswipe saw the back of his taller half's head and said, "Watcha doing, Bee? Where's your humans?"

'Sides stepped around the obscuring equipment, and got a good look at what Bumblebee was doing. He saw the blatantly obvious way Bee's arms were wrapped around Windy's shoulders, and the way that Windy was pressed up against Bee's chest. His optics widened. "Err. Is that what ... umm. _You_?"

He'd managed to render Sideswipe speechless, which took some doing. Bee laughed quietly, and pressed Windy back to himself with a reassuring hand when the little flier made a move to straighten up. "Yeah, me. We're going to try to make it official after the party tonight."

Sideswipe grinned, a frightening expression on that particular warrior. "About slaggin' time, kid."

Bee let his optics glint dangerously. He outranked Sideswipe. He was far too old to be called a youngling of any sort. And 'Sides had never been particularly respectful of Bee's authority.

"You too, Bee." Sideswipe added, voice teasing.

"He's a good mech, but he _gossips_," Bee groaned, after he was out of polite conversation range, though far from gone from earshot. "Now the whole ship will know. I ..."

"Bee!" A cheerful voice crowed, just a few seconds later. Bluestreak bounced over to them. "Sideswipe said that you and Windy were a couple and wow, that's so cool, I didn't think you'd ever partner with anyone, but we all like Windy, so that's okay, and it's a shame it didn't work out with your humans, but maybe that's for the best, and Windy's probably a better choice, and ..."

_:Frag,: _Bee thought at Windy, _:Blue's finally decompensating over that fight. We do not need him falling to pieces right now, there's no time for it. I'd hoped he would manage to hold it together until after the party..:_

:How can you tell_?:_

:Lack of tact.: Bee had known Blue a long time. He'd seen this plenty of times before. _:He's always a chatterbox, but he generally manages to stay socially appropriate. Primus, I never know what to do with him when he gets like this.:_

Windy said softly, aloud, "Bluestreak, I never got a chance to thank you. We could all be dead now if you hadn't shot down that jet."

"Yeah, I couldn't let you die, I like you, and Bumblebee likes you I guess, and that's cool, and it's all for the good, because Bee's never, not with anyone, I've never seen him with anyone, so I'm happy I saved you, but I didn't want to kill them, but it's pretty hard to shoot someone down without slagging them, you were lucky you weren't killed, and I had to use lethal force on that jet, and ..."

Manywinds straightened up from Bee's arms and took two steps towards Bluestreak. In a soft voice he said, "I was scared to death up there."

"Me too, I'm always scared in battle, I hate it, I hate it, but I have to, I have to, I'm good at it, which is an awful thing to be, who wants to be good at killing people, but somebody has to do it, and they need me, and I'm glad to help, and ..."

"I know you're glad to help out." Windy's voice was utterly calm. He sat down on the deck, and patted the ground in front of him. Blue, with a shudder, sank down and buried his face in his hands. "The world needs people like you. You are good, and you're right to use your abilities. But it's also so hard, isn't it?"

"I just want the war to be over, to be over, I hate this, I hate this, am I doing something wrong? Am I doing something good? I never know, I never know ..."

"You're doing something good." Windy's voice was confident. "The Autobots need you."

Bee sat his organic half down beside Windy, and transformed his mech half. Windy promptly, casually, leaned back against the Camaro's tire.

Bluestreak, sounding a little calmer now, said, "I don't want to be offlined for being crazy, but I feel insane when I get like this. I hate battles. I hate fighting. I want the war to be over. You don't even know me, and listen to me cry like this to you. I ..."

Manywinds said with a small smile, "I'm an Autobot too, aren't I? I'm not a stranger, Blue. We're team mates, and if you ever need anyone to talk to, I'd be happy to listen. You know, I lost my last partner in a pretty bad accident. I still pull that memory file up during recharge sometimes. I didn't see it happen, but I heard about the crash over the comms, and found him first ... he was just getting stiff. Rigor mortis, you know. And his eyes were open, but they weren't looking at anything. He was gone and there wasn't anything they could do to bring him back. He just had too much neural damage. And that'll stay with me for the rest of my life. I picked him up and he was stiff as a board."

"I'm sorry." Bluestreak hunched his shoulders. "I've got memories I can't quit seeing too."

Bee's intended partner nodded calmly. "I figured. I heard you've survived some pretty horrifying things."

Bumblebee watched, impressed, as Windy got Blue calmed down and centered again, in a remarkably short period of time. Windy's tactic was different than anything he had seen people try before. Most either told Bluestreak to toughen up and knock it off, or they denied his concerns while trying to be sympathetic. Bee usually just asked Blue questions, got him talking, and that worked ... somewhat. It generally resulted in Bluestreak working himself up emotionally to the point where he glitched out and reset his circuits. Windy, by contrast, affirmed Blue's strengths, but also _agreed _with Blue's fears, rather than arguing with them.

_:If you don't mind, Bee, I'm going to take Blue off and have a longer talk with him,: _Windy said, once Bluestreak was no longer panicking. __

:Yes, go. Thank you.:

:Psychology is part of my training. I normally apply it to alien species, but it comes in handy sometimes with mechs, too. And he's hurting. He needs someone to talk to, one on one.:

:Go. You don't need to explain this to me. Anyway, every time I try to talk Blue down, he ends up having an emotional breakdown at my feet. He's usually fine after that, but the timing is awful right now.:

After Manywinds had escorted Bluestreak off in the general direction of the doors to the interior of the ship, Bee leaned back against the Camaro's door and smiled. He was truly impressed, and pleased. That was an aspect of Windy he had not anticipated. His soon-to-be-partner's empathy was pleasing, and it made Bee feel warm inside to think they would soon be a pair. He admired that talent. He was not unskilled at psychology himself, but Windy was _better_.

_Primus, I think I'm going to be very happy with Windy. I can't wait to ... to get it over with tonight, to settle my doubts, to make myself into Windy's partner. We suit each other. I'm sure we do.  
_

* * *


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

* * *

Author's notes: For the people who somehow missed the clear and blunt warning at the beginning, this story _contains slash. _If you are going to post a critical review simply because you are offended by Teh Gay Involving Teh Giant Robots, GET OVER IT. Have a rule 34, and while you're at it, look at the contents of the site where you're reading this. This story is being posted to the ever-loving Pit of Voles, AKA the biggest repository of adult-oriented slash fiction on the internet. If you're offended by this story, which contains tasteful and non-explicit scenes of robots networking with one another and having a good time doing, plus three people from very different backgrounds who have fallen in love with each other and are scared to death by it, YOU ARE SERIOUSLY READING FICTION ON THE WRONG SITE. Complaining about finding slash on the Pit is somewhat like touching a hot stove and complaining you got burnt.

I make no apologies for the slash. Actually, I make no apologies for this story at all. I am having a great deal of fun writing it, and (as usual) I have something to say with this story.

Additionally, the theme of 'humans falling in love with robots' in which 'robot' is defined as 'non-human sentient being made of inorganic material' dates back to _at least _the Greeks. The first example, thematically, of this involved a girl carved of ivory and granted life by the Gods, which is no less plausible than giant alien robots being given souls by the Allspark.

Now, may I return you to the story ...

* * *

Sam had never managed to eat his cereal that morning, so it was with a growling stomach that he entered the conference room that had been turned into a breakfast bar for the humans. Most of N.E.S.T. was along for the ride, along with a couple dozen assorted dignitaries including Keller and Keller's British and Japanese counterparts and their support staff. Despite the fact that nearly everyone had already eaten, there was, to his relief, donuts, muffins, cereal, and scrambled eggs and sausage and bacon on a steam table. The steam table looked suspiciously like something that might have been cobbled together from parts from one of the ship's labs, but it worked. He assumed that the usual Autobot attention to detail meant that the table did not harbor any dangerous chemical residue from its past life.

Beneath his feet, the Ark's deck had a low vibration to it. There was no other sign that they were traveling a hundred and fifty miles an hour, ten thousand feet in the air. He'd gawked for a shamelessly long time out the med bay windows, and he planned to join everyone else on the observation deck in a minute. He was filling his plate with sugary goodness when the door swished open behind him. Bee's human voice said, "Sam."

He half turned, and saw that Bee was looking at him with somewhat concerned blue eyes.

_He can't really care about me that way ... _He didn't want to think about it. He turned back to the buffet, and helped himself to a prepackaged plastic bowl of corn flakes and a cardboard carton of milk to go with his danish, orange juice, and bacon. He didn't dare look at Bee. His emotions were tumultuous, and he was afraid if Bee looked him in the eyes that the Autobot would see things that Sam had never wanted to tell anyone, or even admit fully to himself. Then he realized that he hadn't said a word in reaction to Bee's greeting, and had turned his back on his best friend. Bee was still behind him, probably wondering if Sam was pissed at him. Sam wasn't angry, though he was agitated and confused. He finally managed to say the first thing that came to mind. "How's Windy?"

Bee's voice was too controlled. "Currently, Windy is managing to de-escalate Bluestreak better than anyone I've seen since Prowl was taken. That takes talent."

"De-escalate?" he said, a bit worried. He'd heard the Autobots allude to problems with Blue in the past.

"Blue has episodes. Humans would call them panic attacks, I think. They never happen in combat, but can be triggered by a bad fight and will manifest a few days later. Blue's ... fragile. Emotionally. He always has been, and being captured by the 'cons didn't help. Yet he is also our best sharpshooter, one of our most effective warriors, and his presence in battle keeps others alive. We use him," Bee said soberly, "because we need him, but we regret. And he suffers, each and every time, with a pain that is as real as any injury. More than any of us, Blue should never have been a soldier. He was created a civilian and he doesn't have the spark for this life."

Bee sighed heavily, then shook his head. His eyes went distant, for a moment, staring at a point past Sam's shoulder. Then he smiled and said, "Windy says that Blue's laughing now. Windy's laughing too. It's a relief. If someone doesn't get him calmed down, Blue will get more and more upset until he glitches. It's like a seizure. And then he needs several hours of defragging, which means he would miss the party tonight."

"You guys are really eager about today." He could practically taste the anticipation from the mechs. It was thick in the air, with all of them tense with emotions. He wasn't surprised Bluestreak had chosen now to have some sort of an emotional fit. He'd probably overloaded on the excitement.

"Aren't you?" Bee said. He eyed the banquet table for a moment before selecting a blueberry muffin and sniffing it curiously. "It's basically our big coming out to your species. It's a historic occasion for Earth, and for us as well. We want this world to be our home, and it's looking like that really might happen. We're eager to see all our work come together."

Sam sighed. "Put that way, I guess I see it. I've just been wrapped up in guest list issues."

"Still?" Bee's response, which held a world of sympathy in one word, made Sam both relax and smile a little.

"Ten people canceled. I was on the phone notifying ten others that their names had come up if they wanted to show up tonight, even while Doc was taking my cast off. It's _crazy_. I've been too busy to think beyond the basics," he vented with a roll of his eyes.

"How's your hand?" Bee's change of subject caught him a bit off guard.

"Hurts, a bit," he said, honestly, as he shoved his sleeve up and held it out for Bee to see. There was still a ton of bruising visible, in an amazing spectrum of colors, but there was no swelling. "Doc says it will for a long time. It's _not _your fault, though."

"It is, but neither of us need to dwell on that. We can't change what happened. We can only make sure nothing like that ever occurs again." Bee set the muffin down on the table and reached out casually to grasp Sam's wrist. It was something that should have been ordinary. Bee was fiercely curious, and Sam was relatively used to his mech half gently tugging at a piece of clothing, inspecting a skinned knee, or poking at a new watch or other gadget on Sam's person. It was normal for him to do something like this; he was as fascinated by human anatomy and physiology as Mikaela was by Autobot design. Sam knew that Bee was probably interested in the bruising, a guess that was confirmed with he curiously traced a finger over a dark mark on Sam's skin.

Sam didn't quite know why he did it, but he understood the mech body language well enough to know exactly what he was doing. He stepped closer to Bee, so that they were standing only a few inches apart and their hands were trapped between them. He looked Bee in the eyes, and his heart started to race. His ears were buzzing. Mikaela's words, that Bee liked him _that _way, roared through his head. Almost instantly, he regretted the impulsive action. _What am I doing_? He thought, wildly.

Bee met Sam's gaze, and it was such a weird thing to see Bee's spark looking at him from very human looking eyes. Bee's reaction was so very typical; first a quizzical tilt of his head and then his eyes widened.

They were so close to the same height that he honestly wasn't sure who was taller. He was so close he could hear the very soft hum of Bee's inorganic parts, and smell the deodorant he'd put on that morning. He waited, heart thumping, breath caught in his throat, for Bee to make the next move. If Bee reacted with something like a soft word, or God forbid a _kiss _-- and they were that close -- he didn't know what he would do. Fall on his ass, maybe. His knees were shaking already.

Bumblebee took a step back, to Sam's genuine relief. Quietly, he said, "Your father's coming." There was a beat's pause, then proving Bee understood Sam's intent even better than Sam did, Bee added, "And your stress hormones are really spiking. Don't imply things you can't lie about to an Autobot."

"Wait ..." Sam protested, as Bee turned to go. He might be scared to death, but he thought Bumblebee was being a bit unfair to dismiss him out of hand like that. Bee had no _clue _how hard it was to even _think _about the concept of him, and Bee, without hyperventilating. His friend was misinterpreting the reason for Sam's panic. Of course, there was Mikaela, though sometimes he wondered if Mikaela would not be an obstacle for long.

Bee glanced back at him. "I will have a partner as of tonight, Sam. Don't do this to yourself."

"I just ... your muffin. Don't forget it." He held the forgotten item out to Bumblebee. "I'm ... I'm sorry."

"So am I." Bee's expression was sad as he took the pastry from Sam's hand. He looked down at it for a moment like he'd never seen it before, then back up at Sam. "I never wanted to hurt you, Sam."

Sam didn't think Bee was talking about the accident, and the still vivid marks on his body. More likely, Bee had overheard the discussion -- argument -- that he and Mikaela had, or someone had relayed it to him. Given how loud they'd been, probably the whole _base _knew, or at least the mech half. He flushed, suddenly, realizing that meant gossip could (and probably would) eventually get back to his mother, and potentially his father, and oh _crap _there'd be a shitload of fallout if his father ever found out. His father would flip out. _And hell, it's a base full of soldiers. Macho. They'll know, shit, shit, shit ... my father will tease me in front of them if he finds out about Bee liking me that way, I know it ..._

He said, forcing words past lips that were suddenly numb with terror, "I'm glad you found Windy. I want to see you happy, Bee. Really. I really care about you. I'm almost jealous of Windy -- _almost_."

Bumblebee searched Sam's face, clearly looking for something. Sam wanted ... well, he didn't know what he wanted. Then the Autobot took a hesitant step back towards Sam, tilting his head to the side. He seemed to be considering something. His eyes were on Sam's mouth. One of Bee's hands twitched.

Sam pictured ... Sam pictured Bee shoving him up against a wall, kissing him hard, like something out of a smutty chick flick_. _He could see Bee looming over him, hands roaming his body, hips thrusting against him. He pictured himself on his back in a bed, Bee between his legs, pinned down by Bee's weight, Bee grunting into him ... he could imagine it and he didn't _like _it. It scared him on a deep, profound level, and again he couldn't even say why.

_I'm not that! _He mentally wailed, in almost incoherent fear.

Sam's breathing must have picked up, or his heart rate increased. Certainly, he'd tensed. Probably, his 'stress hormones' had multiplied.

Bee stopped, freezing in place. Almost inaudibly, he said, "You don't want this."

The mech spun about, and left with quick, long, aggressive strides. Sam, left behind, slumped into a human size chair beside a portable folding table, put his face in his hands, and exhaled. He would not cry. He _wouldn't_.

"What's with Bee?" His father's voice made him look up in surprise. Bee had warned him that his father was coming, but he had forgotten. "I said 'Hi' and he just gave me a _look_ and kept walking."

Sam considered the question for a long, surprisingly thoughtful moment. His first impulse was to simply tell his father to frag off, in so many words. Autobot curse words would be appropriate. However, he managed to bite back that initial angry reaction. Instead, he rose and picked up the danish from his tray of food. He wasn't very hungry anymore, though he knew he would be starving later if he didn't eat now. "Bee," Sam said, "is probably not very happy with you at the moment."

"What did _I _do?"

"Insulted Bee and insulted me." Sam headed for the door, head ducked so his father wouldn't see the angry tears that threatened to fill his eyes.

"Son! You wait a minute!"

Sam quickened his pace. _Damn _the Ark's rooms, any one of which were bigger than the average size house. He hadn't realized how far it was to the door. He hurried. His father broke into a run, however, and grabbed his arm. Sam whipped around with an angry gasp, knowing his eyes were shining far too bright, and that his voice would shake if he spoke.

"Look, you're just too sensitive. You always have been. I was just teasing earlier."

Sam pulled at the hand holding him. His throat was swollen shut with emotion. He couldn't speak.

"Look, you listen to me, boy ..." His father's expression softened. "Look, I'm sorry, really I am. I just worry about people getting the wrong idea about you. Sometimes you kinda give off vibes anyway, and it'd be easy for someone to assume the wrong thing. Particularly when you do damn-fool things like buy robots barrettes."

Sam managed to bite out out, "Have you _seen _m-my girlfriend? I'm not gay, Dad."

_Half the reason I chased her in the beginning, Dad, was that I knew you'd be impressed. _He didn't say that. He couldn't say that. He loved Mikaela to the core of his being, and he was suddenly shocked to realize that he'd practically been coming on to Bumblebee earlier. What would Mikaela think? It would break her heart. She would be devastated. He couldn't do that to her. What the fuck had he been thinking? Bee had to be furious at him, on top of that, or at least disappointed in him. Bee had been encouraging his relationship with Mikaela since the day they'd first met. Bee cared about Mikaela as much as he cared about Sam. If Sam started a relationship with Bee, it would hurt Mikaela. Neither of them wanted that.

"Okay." His father released his wrist. "I swear, though, there used to be times I wondered."

"Trust me," Sam ground out, tension easing now that it was clear he wasn't in for a repeat of the morning's drama. "I'd rather cut my own hand off than play catch with Bee. Can I _go _now?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just -- be careful, okay?" His father sighed. "I'm sorry about harassing you."

Sam blinked at his father for a moment, surprised to get even a half-assed apology, then shook his head and headed again for the door. He felt sick to his stomach. On the way out, there was a garbage can. He tossed the danish into it as he passed. He was afraid if he ate now, he'd throw up.

* * *

Wheeljack, Socket and a couple of mechs that Sam didn't really know were busy in the main hold, assembling the last bits of the infrastructure for the party. The main hold had a ceiling forty feet high, and they were raising the floor up twelve feet in a large section of the center. The raised section would have a stage for the band, a dance floor, and, at the far end away from the loud music, tables for conversation. There was a railing around the raised floor, and the idea was that the taller mechs would be able to stand at 'ground level' and be able to more easily converse over the railing with humans. Plus, while the mechs were very good at not stepping on humans, there would be throngs of people and an accident could happen. It was safer to keep the guests out from under foot.

He stood for a minute, watching as the engineers worked rapidly to assemble human-sized furniture. Wheeljack's hand was transformed into an arc welder, and he was tacking together plates of corrugated steel for tables. Socket was, rather skillfully, riveting cushions to steel chairs. Rather than try to emulate a posh human venue, the 'bots had decided to go aggressively futuristic, with a number of styling cues that echoed the 'bots themselves. The details that emphasized their vastly superior technology and the _practical _applications of it. Had he not known for certain that Bluestreak, Sunstreaker, Bee, and Wheeljack had collaborated on the design he would have sworn they'd hired Hollywood set designers.

The walls were coverd in corrugated steel identical to the furniture, and some genius had put down carpet vivid red with blue accents. Knowing the personalities involved (namely, Wheeljack and Bee) Sam suspected that the bright red and blue were a somewhat tongue in cheek poke at Optimus's love of bright paint while simultaneously being a 'red carpet' _and _a subtle reference to the American flag. The walls, stage, and furniture were made of shiny stainless steel, polished to gleaming perfection.

Each place setting had a gift bag that contained a variety of goodies -- his mother had suggested that, and the mechs had run with the idea. Each bag had a tiny robotic drone "toy." The little drones were the size of a couple of stacked credit cards when they "transformed" and they ran on solar energy. If left to run loose could reliably identify a garbage can, could climb or jump to the lip of the container, and would make endless trips to the trash with anything they saw as dirt: pet hair, dust bunnies, bits of paper, and other random detritus. They were actually cleaning drones used by the Ark, but apparently the Ark had a few million of them and wouldn't miss four hundred. The bags also contained chunky pendants made from duryllium, the nearly indestructible Cybertronian alloy that was used for struts and armor for most mechs. The pendants were inset with artificial gemstones from the ship's armory, normally used to make laser weapons. Finally, each person would receive a holographic projector that had been preloaded with images of Cybertron and other locations around the galaxy. It also contained two _Cybertronian _movies, cleared by Optimus for release to humans, and with subtitles by Kup and cultural explanations and notes in an accompanying brochure by Manywinds. Kup was still agitating to make 'walk-through movies' but that wasn't happening for this party. One movie saved in the projector was, apparently, the mech equivalent of a sappy love story and the other was a true (and reportedly very funny) story about a group of younglings stranded on a primitive alien world.

"The love story's our equivalent of Romeo and Juliet," Bee had told Sam a few days before, "except the ending's better. It's happy."

"Never did understand the point of Romeo and Juliet," Sam had grumbled. "I _hated _that story when I had to read it in senior English. Suicide is not romantic."

On that point, they had agreed perfectly.

They agreed on a lot of things, really. Sam sighed, feeling lost and alone and still nauseous. Despite all the hard work he wasn't looking forward to the party at all. He wanted to go crawl into a bed somewhere, yank covers over his head, and not emerge until everything was over -- including Bee finalizing his partnership with Windy. He wasn't sure if he was looking forward to that, for perhaps things would be back to normal once Bee was safely in a committed relationship, or if he was weirdly jealous.

He realized he'd been standing at the entrance to the hold for several minutes, feeling lost and alone, when footsteps made him turn around. His mother was hurrying up the corridor with -- of all improbable mechs again -- Sunstreaker rolling slowly after her. Sunny had a stack of steel plates in his arms, with a blanket of some kind squished between the metal and his glossy armor. He was protecting his paint, Sam realized with amusement.

"Hey, Sunstreaker," Sam said, after waving at his mother.

"There you are," his mother said. "I was looking for you."

Teletraan spoke up, making both humans startle. "Mrs. Witwicky, if you need to locate anyone on the ship, simply ask me. I track the locations of everyone on board as a matter of security protocol."

"Oh. Thanks, Teletraan." She looked around for a moment, as if seeking something to look at while she addressed the ship's spark. "Err. How much time do we have until we arrive in LA?"

"We have roughly forty-five minutes until landing."

"And the Van Knights' plane?"

"The plane is also on time, and will be arriving in roughly two hours at LAX. There will be ample time for the mechs assigned to transportation to negotiate traffic to the airport."

"Good."

"Sunstreaker, are you going to behave?" She turned her attention to the yellow mech. Her words were playfully teasing.

"Yes, ma'am." Sunstreaker's response was downright polite, and he flashed a relaxed smile at her. "I'll behave."

Sam had never heard quite that tone of respect from Sunstreaker before. Apparently, it was surprising to his teammates too, because when Sam glanced over both Wheeljack and one of Wheeljack's helpers (Gears, he thought the mech's name was), both were staring at Sunny. Sunny met their gaze and barked defensively, "What?"

His mother smacked Sunny's ankle with the back of one hand. "Be nice, buster." Then, without waiting for Sunstreaker's response, she pointed at the stack of similar plates of metal. "Put the steel down there. 'Jack, do you have enough?"

"For now, yeah." Wheeljack was looking at Sunstreaker in real surprise. "Sunstreaker, err, are you feeling okay?"

"What ..." Sunstreaker started to snap something probably hostile. His mother smacked him again.

"_Be nice_." His mother's words were firm, with a lurking warning beneath them. Sam knew that tone of voice. His eyebrows rose. His mother could make his _father _behave when she hit that particular note of command. Sunstreaker, apparently, responded to it as well.

"I'm fine," Sunstreaker sighed. "Is there a problem with me being polite?"

"Just didn't know you knew how." Wheeljack snickered. Sunstreaker's glare was deadly, but Sunny didn't do anything more than give 'Jack a threatening look.

"C'mon, Sunny," Judy patted his knee. "Flora's making flower arrangements for us. I need your help bringing them up."

Sunstreaker relaxed again, then crouched and offered Judy his hands "Would you like a lift, ma'am?"

His mother sat down crosslegged on Sunny's cupped hands, and the two zoomed off back down the hall.

"Hnh." Wheeljack wandered over to the pile of metal plates. To Sam, he said mildly, "I don't believe I've ever seen Sunstreaker like anyone organic. Or anyone period, except his brother -- and Prowl, before Prowl was captured. What'd your mother _do _to him?"

"I haven't a clue." Sam shrugged. "Optimus keeps assigning Sunny to help her, though."

"Ah," Wheeljack said, as if that simple statement was a complete explanation. Then he cocked his head sideways, listened to something over the comm links, and added to Sam, "Optimus would like you to ride with Windy to the stadium and throw candy to the crowd."

He blinked, then said, "I assumed I was going to ride with Bumblebee."

Except that things were so weird between them now. He wasn't sure if Bee would actually want to carry Sam. Sam had crossed a line, and Bee had reacted badly, and he just didn't want to think about it.

'Jack shrugged. "'Bee's walking with the other Primes."

Oh. He hadn't really thought of how it would appear if Bee, one of the Autobot's ranking officers and a Prime, was carrying two human kids. The Autobots were putting on quite a parade, with the Primes in the lead and a portion of the rest of the crew walking behind. Every nuance would be interpreted and discussed. Appearances mattered quite a bit. Maybe this was perfectly innocent, and Bee's own feelings weren't behind it.

He wasn't sure what he thought about riding with Windy. _I suppose I should get to know him. He's Bee's significant other._

Feeling unsettled, and ill, and just plain profoundly unhappy, Sam sighed.

'Jack regarded Sam for a moment. "You might want to wear a hat or something. Your hair's growing long enough that it'll be rumpled by the wind."

"Wind?" _And now the 'bots are on me about my hair! _Maybe he was being hypersensitive. He was in a hypersensitive sort of mood. He was somewhat glad that it was Wheeljack who was talking to him. 'Jack was a very nice person, as far as Sam could tell, but not the most perceptive mech. Had he been talking to Rachet, or Bluestreak, or -- God -- Optimus, he suspected they would have noticed his misery and asked questions. He didn't want questions. He didn't want to think. He wanted distractions.

"Manywinds' stall speed is incredibly low. I've seen him nearly hover in place -- he can change the shape of his wings at will. But I imagine he'll go quite a bit faster when he's circling around for another approach over the crowd."

"Err, I'm going to _fly _with him?" Sam's brain stuttered to a halt. And hat-hair wouldn't do if he was potentially going to be on TV, or (ulp!) making nice with the dignitaries later. He had gel in his luggage. He'd slick his hair back. But _flying_?

Well, he had wanted something to distract him from Bee, and whatever the hell it was that had happened between him, and Mikaela, and Bee. There was a sense of foreboding there, a grim and painful knowledge that things weren't right and he was scared he might be facing the loss of his two best friends for reasons he couldn't even explain, and yeah, flying with Manywinds was definitely something to distract his brain from worrying about Bee and 'Kaela.

"You're not afraid of heights, are you?" Wheeljack said, sounding a bit challenging with that question.

"Err, no, I guess not, but ... flying?" _Huh_? Nobody had mentioned the idea of flying to him. He'd assumed he would be walking the parade rout with everyone else.

"It's safe, really, unless somebody decides to shoot his aft off again, and the human authorities are really watching the crowd." Wheeljack's response was dryly and darkly amused. "So are we. There'll be about thirty 'bots in that parade, all without our weapons. You better believe we will all be scanning actively as we walk. The humans might be wary, but they have nothing on thirty disarmed Autobots out in the open surrounded by potentially hostile natives."

Sam snorted. "I see your point. What'll you do if there is a problem?"

"Trust the human sharpshooters to deal with it. If not, we don't actually _need _weapons to handle most human threats. Our biggest concern is a sniper, and unless he has sabot rounds or nails Windy or Wheelie or the short half of Bee just right, that's not much of a threat. And Bee's going to be wearing military body armor; Ratchet's orders. Ratchet said something about being too busy to fix him if he got slagged. Anyway -- We're a lot more worried about harm to the crowd than we are about our own safety."

"Oookay." Sam shuddered.

"You get body armor too." Wheeljack said, suddenly. "Sorry, Ratchet just said he forgot to mention it to you. He said something about not wanting to see your insides with his optics again any time soon."

"Oh. Err. Okay." He probably should have laughed, because Wheeljack had managed to mimic Ratchet's irascible tones absolutely perfectly.

"You okay?" Wheeljack said, suddenly. "You smell stressed."

"Err, yeah, just worrying about today," he lied through his teeth. He'd forgotten about that pretty much all the Autobots could _smell _human moods.

"Okay," Wheeljack said. "If it helps, I'm worried too." The engineer shrugged expressively, "there's a lot riding on today, Sam. We're all on edge. It'll all work out, though. You'll see."

* * *

"Hi Sam!" Windy bounced up and down on his toes as Sam approached the exit. The mechs were assembling in the main hold, and Sam could hear the roar of a crowd even through the airlock doors that were big enough to drive two tractor trailers abreast through. There was room for everyone in the hold, though Windy was dwarfed by the others. Windy waved, and Sam couldn't help but smile. The mech had several giant bags of candy at his feet.

The noise of thirty mechs in one place was almost deafening, even though most were not speaking aloud. Armor rattled, heavy feet trod on metal decking, and pumps and capacitors and motors whined. Ratchet had transformed a couple of fingers into a power socket driver, and was unbolting a truly astounding assortment of weapons from the crew. Sam watched in surprise as Ratchet removed what appeared to be a plasma cannon from under Wheeljack's _shin _plate. He hadn't even known Jack had a plasma cannon.

Bee was with Ratchet, waiting his turn to be disarmed. Bee gave Sam a wary look that held no real enthusiasm. Sam wished he could pull Bee aside, tell him to forget about Sam's brief and ill-inspired come-on earlier, assure him nothing would change, and make him smile. He much preferred it when Bee was happy. The suspicious and hurt gaze that Bee was favoring him with now just plain felt wrong and made Sam feel terribly guilty.

Windy glanced from Sam to Bee and back. "Are you two okay?"

Sam forced a smile to his lips, though it took strength he didn't know he had. "Yeah, fine."

Bee said lightly, "Windy will take good care of you, Sam. I trust him."

"Sure," Windy said, giving Bee an odd look. "I've never lost a passenger yet. This'll be fun."

Bee nodded. "I _trust _you."

"Don't worry, Bumblebee," Windy said with amusement, "I'll bring him back in one piece."

"Everyone ready?" Optimus said, aloud.

The assembled mechs and humans cheered in response.

"Open the door, Teletraan." Optimus turned to face the exit.

The hatch began to lower. Windy hastily transformed, and Bee and Sam piled the bags of candy into his small, open cockpit. Sam squeezed himself in between the bags, feeling a little ridiculous and very vulnerable -- Windy's cockpit was low to the ground, with a small windshield, elbow-high sides, and very little mass. His head was somewhere around Sam's feet and Sam had a strong suspicion that the metal seat doubled as armor for the little mech's spark chamber. He felt Windy rock back and forth on his wheels as Sam moved, and when he started his engine up his whole body began to vibrate hard. Sam was sitting four inches off the ground in a room full of twenty to thirty foot tall robots.

_He's a go-kart with wings, _Sam thought, unable to completely suppress his nervousness. He hastily buckled the four point harness. Those wings were notably fragile, too. They were folded back now, accordion style, to keep them out of the way of the bigger mechs, which was ample demonstration of just how flexible they were. Sam had brushed against them a few times when Windy had been in protoform. His wings were soft and pliable, and felt alive. They were warm to the touch, and he couldn't figure out how Windy managed to support his weight with them. Maybe they stiffened in flight.

Crowd noise rushed into the hold. He could hear people yelling a chant, though he couldn't make out the words. Between the legs of the mechs, Sam could see daylight, and a few glimpses of a city street lined with people.

_Here we go ..._

The mechs were parading down the ramp, waving to the crowd. Flashbulbs popped. The crowd noise went up a notch. Windy waited until they were all down the ramp and then suddenly lurched forward. His wheels were off the ground before he was to the ramp.

"Wheeeeeee!" Sam couldn't help but shout. It was like riding on a roller coaster. Adrenaline replaced his bad funk for the moment, and he grabbed for a frantic hold on Wheelie's cockpit sides. Wheelie shot into the air over the heads of the 'bots, and then did a barrel roll only fifty feet in the air. Sam screamed, terror momentarily replacing excitement.

Either Wheelie couldn't tell the difference in reactions, or he had a deeply buried sadistic streak. He looped upwards and did a half roll at the same time, so that he was upright and flying back over the heads of the mechs. "Wave, Sam!" Wheelie's voice said, over the roar of the wind.

He did, well aware of the eyes on them, and likely cameras tracking him. They knew he was a friend of the Autobots, after all his picture had been broadcast across the globe by the Fallen, and a few details of his history with the mechs had been released: that his grandfather had found Megatron in ice, and that he'd had an artifact that the mechs needed to stop Megatron, and that he'd somehow personally killed Megatron in the end. The second time around was more vague, only that the Fallen had wanted him because of knowledge he had, and that he'd saved Optimus's life in the final fight. He'd been on TV at other times too, most notably when the Mountain Dew Decepticon had shot Optimus.

He waved. He tried to feel proud that he was a hero, though he was beginning to simply feel numb inside.

Then he was distracted from both angst and pride by Windy when the mech shot straight skyward. Windy spun like a corkscrew and Sam screeched and grabbed for the bags of candy. "You are crazy!"

"This is fun!"

"It's the e-ticket ride from hell!" He countered, as Windy flipped over backwards, flicked his wings closed, and stooped into a falcon-like dive towards the ground. Sam's stomach informed him that it had been left behind at an altitude of a thousand feet. His ears popped. He screamed, "Shiiiiiiiiit!"

Bare feet off the pavement, Windy flared his wings and pulled up hard, then zoomed above the pavement with inches to spare. He went _under _power lines and then shot over the heads of a news crew at an altitude of about forty feet, spinning as he did. Flashes popped and video cameras whipped up and tracked them. Sam was getting dizzy and disoriented.

"If I barf," Sam threatened, "I'm not even going to apologize."

"... Really?" Windy said in disbelief. "I'm barely getting started."

"Is this even legal?" Sam demanded, as Windy slowed down to a more sedate pace, and turned back towards the crowd.

People cheered, and he couldn't tell if they were shouting at him or at the other mechs. Had Optimus done something?

"Why would it be illegal?" Windy asked, sounding puzzled. "It'd be like telling a bird they can't fly. I _am _a flier. I was created with wings."

_Oh boy. Glad I don't have to sort this one out. And if they try to tag me with the ... tickets? Whatever they give to misbehaving aircraft pilots, I'll point out this cockpit doesn't even _have _controls. I'm just a passenger._

Well, Windy had diplomatic immunity.

He ducked down, tore open one of the bags of candy, and fished out several handfuls. They were gliding at an impossibly slow pace towards the crowd. A glance up at Manywinds's wings showed that he'd forgone his usual black for vivid purple and green, and the wings were cupped down and flared wide. "Why'd you change your colors?"

"The black wasn't showing up very well on TV."

"Oh. You're watching yourself on TV right now?"

"We probably all are. It's a good way to address any problems that come up right away." Windy sounded amused. He floated at a human walking pace over the crowd, and Sam turned his attention to tossing candy out to the kids. He smiled and waved, and found he was relaxing a bit. Off to their right, he could see Wheelie running up and down along the street crowd, clapping hands with people leaning over the barriers. The rest of the mechs were walking slowly and waving, letting everyone have a good look.

A small child suddenly darted out and stood in front of Optimus. She had something in her hands. Optimus stopped, looked down at her, and then dropped down to one knee, rested one hand on the pavement, and accepted her gift, even as her mother was running frantically out to catch her.

"What'd she give him?" He was envious of the mechs' comm links with each other.

"A flower." Windy arced up, turned around on one wingtip, and they scattered candy to the crowd on the other side as well. "Some reporters got a really good picture of it. It's adorable. I do like Optimus."

"Everybody likes Optimus." Sam grinned. He tossed an extra handful of Gobstoppers to some people wearing Autobot costumes handmade from cardboard.

"So," Windy said, as they turned back and headed towards another knot of people, "do you think those are pro, or anti-Autobot signs?"

This group had placards bearing the slogan, "Earth is not a freeway interchange!"

"I ... honestly? I have no idea." Sam was baffled. "But yell '42' as we go over them."

"... 42?"

"Meaning of life. Google it."

Windy suddenly started laughing, "I don't know either, but ... FORTY-TWO!"

They chorused the number together as loud as they could as they floated over the heads of the people, who looked like college kids. Cheers rose after them; apparently, they were friendlies. He waved. Windy's giggles were musical, and made Sam smile in response.

The next group were protesters, bearing signs that said, "Go home, Autobots!" and "Earth for Humans!"

"The good guys _always _have the better signs," Sam said, and tossed candy at the Nobots because he knew that was what Optimus would want. He was vastly and deeply amused when they dropped their signs to scramble for it.

When Windy turned around to sweep the crowd in the other direction he saw that Optimus was crouched down in front of the protesters, speaking to them. He could hear shrill chanting, and Optimus's measured tones. News crews were running in that direction. Most of the protesters had retreated, but one woman was standing only feet from Optimus, all alone, yelling at him. It was a striking scene.

Windy said, "One of the women screamed she wanted to save Earth for her children. Optimus told her his children died in the war and he understood her concerns -- I didn't know he had younglings, but I guess he must have -- and that he doesn't want anyone else to feel the pain of losing their loved ones if he can help it. He's telling her that we're going to give technology to Earth that will improve the lives of her kids, and he's sorry she's scared of him. He says he understands why people might be scared, and he's sorry about that, too. He says she's very brave not to run from him, and he's inviting her to come speak to him further at the Ark on Sunday."

"Who is she?" Sam wondered.

"Optimus says he thinks she's one of the upper leaders of the Nobots." Windy sounded impressed. "He keeps telling her she's brave and courageous to want to defend her world, and that he's impressed by anyone who's as willing as she is to stand her ground against him. He's asking her again to come talk to him ... now he's asking her if she's afraid to do it. Uh, yeah, she agreed. She's going to come."

"Damn, he's good." Sam shook his head.

"He's a Prime." Windy floated over the crowd, then pulled up and made a long, lazy, looping circuit back. "It comes with the package."

* * *

The mechs were assembling in a private area behind the stadium, and Windy swooped in for a neat landing. He came to a halt only a few feet from Optimus's ankles, and as soon as Sam climbed out, he transformed. "Woohoo, that was fun!" Windy bounced on his toes for a moment, clearly excited by the flight. Sam's knees, by contrast, felt like jello, and his stomach was rolling so much he was glad he had skipped breakfast. It had been fun, though a bit too _much _fun. Like riding a rollercoaster for half an hour straight.

Sam heard a chirp that could only belong to Bee, and turned around as a smile automatically came to his lips. However, the sound of amusement was aimed at Windy. Bee padded over to both of them. "You looked like you were enjoying yourself."

"Lots." Windy grinned, and rose up on his toes again. "Way too much fun to be legal. Did you _see _how the crowd was cheering?"

"There were a fair number of protesters along the parade route," Bee said, but he was smiling. He started to crouch down.

Sam saw a yellow hand coming in his direction, and reflexively ducked. His heart pounded in his chest, and he gasped in surprise. Bee slowly put his hand down on the ground anyway, gave Sam a guilty look, then said quietly, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Sam ground out, feeling stupid. "I'm fine."

"You're not," Bee said, softly, and Sam thought it wasn't just about his momentary flinch. Shining blue optics searched his face. Bee started to reach a large metal hand out towards Sam, then glanced at Windy, and made a fist, and looked away. Sam wondered what Bee had intended to do.

"You two okay?" Windy said, sounding only puzzled.

"We're fine," Bee said, straightening up.

"Good." Windy giggled. "I like Sam. Sam, you're going to have to come flying with me again."

Sam nodded, tried for a pleasant smile, and mostly succeeded. He felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. He thought, desperately, of Mikaela, and reminded himself he did love her, and he didn't want ... he couldn't want ... not Bee. "I can't wait," he lied, as Windy turned his attention back to Bee. It wasn't the flying part that his heart objected to. It was the way Windy was looking at Bee, which was with soft optics and a truly happy smile.

Manywinds sprang into the air, caught a projecting bit of Bee's armor with two hands, and with a gymnast's agility, swung himself up onto Bee's bumper. His wings trailed down over Bee's shoulder and his back, and his feet hung over Bee's headlight. Bee's eyes widened in surprise, then he smiled, and ducked his head with a bit of obvious embarrassment. Windy grinned proudly, even as a few other mechs noticed his rather possessive move. Bluestream's laughter was openly delighted, and Blue gave Bee a thumb's up.

Bee reached a hand up, not to dislodge Windy, but to put his fingers over Windy's knees. In reaction, Sunstreaker made a sound much like a wolf-whistle. Bee's optics widened, and then he ducked his head again and chirped something in Cybertronian. Windy laughed aloud, snuggled up against Bee's head, and waved at Sunstreaker.

"Careful, Windy," Sideswipe called to them, "if he dies of mortal embarrassment before tonight, you won't get to 'face with him."

Bee covered his face with his other hand, shook his head, then headed off for the stadium. Sam noted he didn't put Manywinds down, however, until they actually reached the entrance. Windy ran his hands over Bee's fingers in a possessive, intimate way, and then he walked almost dangerously close to Bee's ankles for a couple of strides before running ahead. He was quick, agile feet carrying him at a faster-than-human pace.

Bee glanced back. Not at Sam at first, but at Mikaela, who was thirty feet away from Sam, doing something with Ratchet. Then he transferred his attention to Sam. His mech half's expressions were often difficult to read but this time Sam had _no _idea what Bee was thinking now. Not one clue.


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter 50

* * *

Author's notes: This'll be my last update for a few days as I'll be out of town. The scenes you guys are waiting for are coming up in 51/52, however. Ah, torturing my readers, it's so much fun ...

* * *

Death pinged Fang from outside Fang's quarters on the Nemesis, and Fang responded with, _:Enter,: _unable to entirely keep the irritation he was feeling from transmitting in the form of a clipped and short transmission.

Death raised an optic ridge at Fangface, as he entered through the sliding door.

"What did you do with Rivet?" Fang asked, and winced when he heard the continuing edge to his voice. He didn't really want to let Death know just how truly upset he was by his partner caring for another mech. In an effort to hid his expression, Fang turned his attention back to his work. It was late, most of the ship was in recharge, and he'd finally escaped from hours of meetings with various officers on the ship. Death, meanwhile, with the help of Crowbar and a couple shock troopers, had been busy tracking down Socket's co-conspirators and friends and tossing them in the brig until Fang got a chance to do something about them.

Fang had one of Deathwheel's pulse cannons half dismantled on his desk as he serviced the weapon. He didn't trust anyone but himself to work on Death's guns. Death wasn't nearly as mechanically inclined as Fang was, and he'd yet to find an engineer or medic who had both the knowledge and loyalty needed. Anyway, Fang loved to work with his hands; it was a trait that went to the core of his spark. After a stressful day, it had felt good to do something he knew he was skilled at.

"I asked Thundercracker to keep an eye on him while we recharge." Death locked the door with a burst of code at it, activated the room's shielding the same way, then headed to the berth. Fang had claimed Megatron's suite for his own; the Megatron-sized berth was a bonus. It would fit Deathwheels. That realization had made Fang very happy. "TC's still not really enthusiastic about you, but he'll take care of Rivet. He's a good mech, and the war's been harder on him than many others. You know he loved Starscream. What happened to Rivet was because of Starscream's cruelty; Starscream abandoned Rivet after Rivet helped him. TC feels a little responsible for it, but was never able to help him before now."

"Optimus's speech should start in a moment," Fang immediately changed the subject away from Starscream. He closed the last panel on the cannon, rose from his seat, and carried the weapon over to Deathwheels. Death sat down on the edge of the berth. "Here, let me see your arm."

He was bolting the gun back into place when Death slowly trailed the fingers of his free hand over the cover to Fang's dataport.

"Shh." Fang shoved the hand away, feigning mild irritation at the distraction. The truth was that he didn't want to interface with Deathwheels when he was pissed off at him, or that he was this petty. He wanted Death to think everything was okay. It would be, if Death gave him time to cool down. "I want to see the speech."

"Optimus is really more interesting to you than me?" Deathwheels snorted. Fangface was done with the weapon, so Death suddenly grabbed him by the hips with both hands and pulled him gently down into his lap.

"What are you doing?" Fangface said, a little nervously. Their relationship was so very new, he didn't know what to expect yet. Letting any mech touching him with intimate intentions was not something he'd ever allowed before. Additionally, he'd always assumed he would be the aggressor in a relationship, and Death had made it very clear from the beginning that he had a pushy, almost dominating streak in this single area. He wasn't sure he entirely liked that. He didn't like giving control up to anyone. Fangface protested with an excuse, "I want to watch the speech. Seriously, Death."

"You were jealous, when I was caring for Rivet, earlier." Deathwheels said, voice very low. "I could tell."

"Yeah, well, I was." Fangface was now ticked enough to admit it, he tried to get up, and found that Death had other ideas. His partner's arms were tight around his waist, metal armor clinking against Fang's abdominal plating. Fang's voice hit a strident note that startled even him as he tried to get up. Panic started to rise. What was Death doing? "Death! I swear to Primus, I'm going to kick your aft end. You know I can do it."

"Shh." Deathwheels scooted across the berth, drawing Fang with him despite Fangface's minor thrashing. He leaned back against the wall, and then turned on the monitor on the wall. He flicked through several satellite channels before finding one that was showing a view of the stadium full of humans. "You can watch the speech later. Relax, Fang."

"... _why_?" He gave up on wriggling free. It was clear if he wanted loose, he'd have to do his partner some damage. Death had a firm grip on his waist, though notably, he wasn't actually defending himself from a potential assault by Fang's deadly claws.

"You were jealous earlier, and you don't have any reason to be." Deathwheels rearranged them a little bit, so that Fang was sitting on the berth between Death's spread legs, back to Deathwheel's chest. Deathwheels spread his hands across Fang's chest, a gentle touch despite Fangface's rigid joints, and said quietly, "I care about people, Fang. Maybe more than a 'con ever should."

"I interfaced with you last night, remember? I know." Fang snapped. Fresh in his memory, he recalled that Death had won the last wrestling match they'd engaged in. He demanded, "Are you done manhandling me? Let me _up_!"

"Fang." Deathwheels's voice was serious, sober, and not at all joking. He wasn't rising to the bait of Fang's increasingly irritated tones. "Fang, I love you. We need to interface. Not because it's fun, but because you're ticked off at me. If you're going to bitch at me, do it in a 'facing."

"I. Want. To. See. The. Speech." He had no idea why Deathwheels wanted to move the argument into an interface session. It didn't make any sense to Fang.

"Later." Deathwheels was relaxed, motors quiet and pistons still, behind Fang's back. "The speech will be recorded. You can see it later."

"I could 'face with you later too. You're not getting _any _if you don't ..."

Deathwheels expertly flicked Fang's interface port open. "If you _really _want me to stop, Fang, I will, but I think we need this, right away. You're pissed at me."

"And getting angrier."

"Fang. I'm recording the speech. You're using it as an excuse. You know what he's going to say: pretty words, some humor, a plea for a home for the 'bots, and a promise to share Cybertronian technology. It's Optimus. He's predictable as hell." Deathwheels clicked a cable into his own port, then handed the end to Fang. Fang grabbed it roughly, grudgingly.

"Frag you."

"Do you trust me?"

By way of answer, Fang clicked the cable home in his own port. "Okay, fine. Happy?"

Deathwheels dropped his firewalls, and Fang uttered an oath of surprise and ducked as if expecting a physical blow. Death grabbed his torso higher up than his waist and roughly pressed Fang back to his chest. Apparently, it was entirely possible for someone to be filled with both a deep sense of love and completely and totally fragged off at him simultaneously. Deathwheels was _pissed_. Fang had not been expecting that, had not sensed the real anger from his partner, until Death chose to show him with his firewalls down, in the most intimate way possible.

"Oh, well, frag you too." Fang kept his firewalls up in reaction. If Death wanted to be angry at him, damned if Fang was going to give him a 'facing session. He reached for his port, intending to yank the cable out and stomp off. He'd kick his way free of Death's grasp if he had to, and damage to his partner be damned. Death was asking for it, and he could fix himself. Or get Rivet to do it, if he was so enamored of the little medic. He wasn't even sure if he _wanted _to continue partnering with Death if he was going to be bullied into 'facing and then hit with that much real anger.

_:Fang.: _Death, predictably, caught Fangface's hand. _:I am _hurt _by your jealousy, and yeah, I'm very angry.:  
_  
"Let go of me, or I will take your hand off at the wrist."

Death's firewalls were still down. He was wide open to Fang's connection, even if Fang wasn't reciprocating. Fangface's words provoked a burst of real fear from his partner, though Death didn't physically tense. Death was _afraid _of him, truly concerned Fangface might attack him. Fang felt a stab of unaccustomed guilt, realizing he'd made Deathwheels frightened. He stopped himself from uttering an apology, however, and simply said, somewhat sullenly, "I wouldn't actually hurt you."  
_  
:I don't always know that,: _Death's response was tinged with continuing concern. _:Sometimes you're really scary, Fang.:_

"Then why do you love me?" Fang responded, needled into a barbed response.

Death snapped his firewalls back up, though not before Fang felt a level of grief and anger like he had never experienced before. "This might have been a bad idea," Death said, finally, aloud. He started to unclick his own cable, then hesitated, hand resting on his own port.

Fang was stunned into silence for a moment, and real fear. He said finally, "Wait. Why did you want to argue with me in a 'face session?"

"Because we can't lie, and you have issues with telling the truth." Death sighed. He hadn't yet unplugged himself. Fang kept his own hands between his knees. Death ground out, voice box crackling with static as strong emotions caused some output errors, "Obviously, you don't want to cooperate, however."

"You're angry at me." Fang couldn't believe how hurt he was by that. He wanted Death's approval, and it made him nervous and uneasy to know that Deathwheels was ticked off. What if Death grew angry enough to betray him -- or simply walk away, deny Fang's new but very real love for him, and leave Fangface bereft and alone?

"Yes, I am angry." Death shifted his weight. "I'll leave. You can watch the broadcast."

"You didn't answer my question," Fangface snapped. He was scared. He hated being scared. Worse, he was confused and off-balance, and he desperately wanted to make it better, but he didn't know how. He didn't understand why Deathwheels was so pissed at him. "You got angrier."

Death's firewalls dropped again. _:I am very angry, Fang, and I think you need to see why.:  
_  
"Yeah? Why?"__

:I am willing to devote my entire life to you. You know _this. You can see the truth of this in the emotions and words I sent you when we interfaced, and I cannot lie. And yet you ask for more, still, of me.:  
_  
"I did not!" He didn't understand what Death was saying to him. He was baffled and confused, and responded defensively, "You're not making any sense."__

:Rivet is hurting, Fang. He hurts in ways that I do not think you fully understand.:  
  
"His partner died. I know how I'd feel if I lost you." Fangface couldn't keep the irritation out of his response, and didn't try. Death prodded at Fang's firewalls, a silent request that he lower them, and Fangface stiffened and rebuffed him with a burst of irritated static. He wasn't about to let Deathwheels see the level of his own temper; that might escalate the argument.

_:Yes. Smelter died. Fang, they were together, as best I can tell from personnel records, since the before the war began. That's been over a hundred thousand years. Moreover, Rivet is small and vulnerable and for the last few thousand years, banned from practicing his occupation. He's been doing the work of a maintenance drone, and has been treated like one by crew of whateve ship Smelter was assigned to. If not for Smelter, Rivet would have been fragged a long time ago. Smelter was his world. Smelter wasn't just his lover, he was his only friend, because Megatron's edict meant he was a marked mech and who wants to befriend someone who's earned Megatron's ire? Smelter probably protected him, cared for him, and very literally kept him alive.:_

Fang was silent.

_:And now Smelter's gone. He was not just Rivet's partner, he was his entire world.: _Deathwheels ran one very large, somewhat clumsy hand down Fang's arm, fingers tracing the edge of Fang's armor. There was still anger in Death's words, but it was slowly fading. _:Have you ever had to rely on someone like that? Have you ever been in that much fear for your life, with only one person in the whole universe who you could call a friend? I do not think so. You have difficulty even with something as simple as selfless love.:_

:I love Wheelie. And you.: He couldn't bring himself to say this aloud, so he commed with a tightly encrypted burst.  
_  
:You won't even drop your firewalls with me now. You don't trust me, even now.:_

"You're pissed off at me."__

:Well, yes. And you're probably furious at me, as well.: Death's response actually held a thread of humor. _:Are you worried I'd react to your anger and leave you? I won't. I've provoked this. I expected you to react with anger.:  
_  
"And yet you did it anyway." Fangface couldn't keep the resentment out of his response. "I don't understand why you would deliberately piss me off."

In reaction, Death sighed. _:Because you were asking too much of me. Anyway, you were already fragged off.:  
_  
"I don't understand."  
_  
:I know. Fang, I love you.:  
_  
"Yeah. You've said it."__

:It's true. However, I knew Rivet was hurting beyond anything I could even conceive of. I tried to offer what little comfort I could. He needs someone to be there for him, or he will follow Smelter to the Well from sheer grief. I offered to offline him not only because I fear he could be a problem for Bloodshine and for you, but also because it would almost be merciful. His pain is that great. And yet, you were jealous of the very small amount of attention I gave him.:

Fang started to protest over the radio. Death shut him up, rather effectively, by blocking his comm transmission. Fang winced at the screech of feedback that resulted, and shot upright in real anger. That was downright rude!

Deathwheels yanked him back down against his chest. _:You listen to _me_, Fang. You would have had me turn my back on Rivet, to be cold and uncaring, because of your insecurities. I am many things, but uncaring is not one of them. It would hurt _me _to turn away from a mech in such great need. Respect my feelings in this, even if you do not care for Rivet beyond what he can bring to you. I am your dog, but I am not your drone. Either order me to kill him, or allow me to help him. Do not ask me to stand idly by while a mech suffers to the extent that Rivet is. I cannot bear to watch his pain. It is almost as if it is my _own _pain.:_

Fang winced. _:I didn't ...: _He clicked off his comm, not trusting his response to be polite. His anger was at himself, as much as Deathwheels, now.

_:You didn't understand, and I know that.: _Death shifted his weight behind Fang, and wrapped his arms tighter around Fang's chest. _:I cannot stand to watch others suffer when I have the ability to help them.:_

:You're in the wrong damn army.:

:Am I?: Deathwheels released his hold on Fang. Fangface leaned forward, but didn't rise. Fang's words, backed by the undisguised emotions that rushed across the link between them, held Fang back. He did not try to get away. Death continued, _:I sometimes say I should have been an Autobot, but I am a Decepticon by my free will now.:_

:Why? I don't understand that.:

:I had no choice, in the beginning. I was given the option of joining or dying. Forced oaths are never valid; I would have had no moral qualms about defecting. However, once I was here, I ... had a partner. He's dead now. Even when I could have fled to the other side, I did not.:

:You had another partner?: Fangface felt a _fierce _flare of jealousy at that unknown mech. He wanted to be Deathwheel's only love; he wanted to keep the miracle that was Death all to himself and never share him. Even the thought of a _dead _mech receiving Death's attentions in the past made him seeth. In truth, had never really contemplated the idea that Death might love someone else. He hadn't asked. Really, he'd almost assumed Deathwheels had been spontaneously created out of the ether with no previous history before he'd found him broken and dying behind Soundwave's quarters.

_:Yes. You are not my first lover. I have had several since the war began. All have died.: _Death traced a finger down Fang's back. _:You're the youngest, the brightest, the most damaged of all of them.:_

:I am not damaged!: His fury redoubled at the insinuation that he was somehow lacking in some way.  
_  
:Oh, Fang.: _Death no longer felt angry. He just felt sad. _:You've never known anything but this war. I wish you'd been born during the Golden Age. With your mind, and your courage, you could have been one of the best of us. You are a Prime, and that alone says something about the nature of your spark. And yet you are broken in ways I'm not sure can ever be fixed, or that you will ever truly believe need fixing. I love you, Fang, but it is very true that you terrify me more than any mech I've ever known.:_

:Oh, don't go sappy on me.:

:Open your firewalls for me. Please.:

:No.: Fang drew his knees to his chest.

_:Please.:_

Fang rose up on his knees, ignored a twinge of pain from his damaged hip, and turned around to face Deathwheels. He rested his hands on Death's shoulders, and the interface cable swung lightly between them. "This isn't supposed to be this way!" He ground out into Death's face. "We're partners! You're not supposed to say things like this to me!"

"How is it supposed to be?" Deathwheels said, softly. "You've never had to think about the feelings of anyone but yourself, have you, Fang? Never once in your life."

"Screw you. Strip your bolts!" Still he could not tear himself away, not even when his angry words provoked a flash of anger from Death again.

"You want me to be happy?" Death explained quietly, punctuating his response with a wave of emotion that mixed love with anger again, "You're going to need to adjust your responses a bit."

"I can't help being jealous!" Fangface slammed the palm of one hand against Deathwheel's shoulder. "I can't help it! You're all I have, and I don't want to lose you, and I don't want to share you, and ..."

Death touched a finger to Fangface's lip plates, silencing him. "Lower your firewalls."

"No!"

"Yes."

"I can't help it! I'm always going to hate it if you so much as glance at another mech!" Fang couldn't keep a wail of grief from his voice. "I know you'll hate it, but I can't help how I feel!"

"Lower your firewalls, Fang." Death's emotions were swirling one way across the cable.

"No!"

"This is not a one-sided relationship." Deathwheels emotions were strongly tinged with frustration and fury again. He tensed, and shifted his weight forward, one hand dropping to rest on the berth. Fangface had never actually seen Deathwheels really and truly demonstrate his anger. It felt as if Death was getting pretty close to that point.

"I'm scared." It was the naked truth, torn from Fang's spark, and he whispered the words. "I'm mad at you. You won't like it."

"We're having an argument," Death relaxed suddenly. "Being mad is allowed."

It was Deathwheel's humor, and the implication that Deathwheels would accept Fang's own strong emotions, that finally convinced Fangface to very hesitantly lower his own walls. At the same time, his anger lessened a bit. Behind his rage had lurked the root cause, which was fear of rejection. Still, he was surprised when Death reacted to the remnants of his anger, his very real frustration, his fear of being repudiated, and his raging jealousy with a physical hug and a wave of shattering love and acceptance.

_:Neither of us are perfect,: _Deathwheels words seemed to sing through Fang's processor core. _:We should be able to be angry at one another without so much fear. Fangface, I've been in relationships before ...:_

Fang reacted with a predictable burst of ferocious jealousy, now nakedly on display for Deathwheels to sense. Death winced, and anger raced back across the link at Fang. Death snarled, _:You have no idea what I had, you fragger.:_

Ah, there was the temper that Fang had sensed. He snarled back, _:I don't want to share you!:_

Death slammed an impression at Fang of a laughing young seeker, a lover with a snarky sense of humor, arrogant competance, and a hidden softness to his spark. Across their connection, Fang felt Death's real love for the long dead mech, and an echo of the memory of that mech's love for Deathwheels. Death snarled, _:You would deny me ten thousand years with Falcon. I loved him with all my spark, and he loved me, and I cannot nor do I want to forget what we had. Would you like to meet the others as well? There are nine of them, total.:_

Fang heard the pain he was causing his partner, but he simply couldn't stop the waves of resentment from rising up. _:I'm sorry,: _he said, finally, contrition mixing with irritation _:you are right, and I am being a complete aft, but I cannot help my feelings. If it helps, I won't act on them. If you want to tend to Rivet, or any others who come along, I won't stop you. I won't say a thing, promise. We can even say it's my orders, so you don't blow your cover. And I can't help my feelings about your past partners. I just can't.:_

Death leaned back against the wall slowly, and reached his hands up to Fang's shoulders. Very reluctantly, Deathwheels said, _:I sense the truth of that.:_

:I'm sorry.: He felt small, somehow. He wanted to be more open, and less insecure but he just couldn't figure out how. _:I really and truly can't help it.:_

He leaned against Death's chest, shuttering his optics and feeling horribly inadequate. He knew he was reacting irrationally and he didn't know how to stop it, but he also knew his irrational reaction was hurting Death. Death wrapped his arms around Fang's shoulders, and tucked Fang's head under his chin. _:I think we need to make a fair compromise, then. I will not be angry with you for being jealous. I hear, now, that it is not a choice you are making. It is simply something you cannot help.:_

:You're right about me being broken, I guess. _I don't think normal mechs feel this way.:_ Fang sighed aloud, and tried to withdraw from the connection.

_:Wait.: _Death said, then trailed his fingers down Fang's back. _:I was too hard on you. I'm sorry, Fang.:_

He was _stunned _by the apology. He snapped his optics open and regarded Death with real shock. Deathwheels gave him a somewhat shaky smile, an expression matched with feeling of contrition and apology. _:I thought you were doubting me. I thought you weren't trusting me.:_

:I was doubting you.: Fangface sighed. He ran two complete systems checks, striving for calm, and when he focused again on Deathwheels, he sensed amusement, relief, and quite a bit of respect.

_:It's hard for you.: _Deathwheels cupped the side of Fang's face in one hand. _:Harder than I ever expected. I thought you'd feel how much I really do love you and we'd have a happily ever after. That was the way it was with most of my past partners. You're so ... damaged, and Fang, you _are_. Don't be mad at me when I say that. It's the simple truth, and I don't know if I can help you heal or not, or even if that would be a good thing if you did. You need a certain amount of coldness and detachment from the emotions of others to play your role.:_

He growled. It was hard to hear Death's thoughts without getting angry again. It felt as if Death was saying he wasn't as good as those past partners. That hurt.

_:Shh. I'm not say I don't love you. Fang, I _accept _you. Nobody is perfect. I accept you as you are. If you are jealous, or hurting, or angry, I accept you anyway. I knew, pretty much, what I was getting into when I pushed myself into the role of your partner. I accept you are not perfect. I accept that sometimes you will feel things I do not like, which are unfair to me. I accept this.: _

Death's words were calm, and Fang blinked his optics a couple of times, as a slow realization settled. He was angry at Death. He was far from perfect, and some of his flaws were precisely in areas that pushed Death's own buttons. He was jealous of Deathwheel's past partners, and that bothered Death deeply because Death saw it as dishonoring the love he'd had for his late lovers. He didn't trust Death's faithfulness, he feared that Death might substitute another living mech for Fang. Deathwheels had multiple reasons to reject him.

_:I love you,: _Death said, quiet faith in his response. _:I love you, I've chosen you, and I will not leave your side until one of us is deactivated.:_

I love Deathwheels. I would do anything for him. I don't want to hurt him.

In the link, with firewalls down, it was impossible to lie or hide one's thoughts. Fang had not actually sent his thoughts to Death, but Death perceived them anyway. Deathwheel's response was a very relieved, _He's telling the truth. Primus, thank you. I didn't know if it was possible to reach him, or for him to hold on to his feelings for me after the first time things got rough ..._

The words were not aimed at Fangface, but he knew what Death was thinking just as well as Death knew his mind. And he saw, through Death's thoughts, how Death saw him. Death perceived Fang as young, spark-wounded, and yet very brave. Heroic, even. Troubled, but not to the point where Death was repulsed. Death had _hope _for him, bright and shining and beautiful to behold. Death saw him as a survivor, and Death thought Fang's scars had resulted in defensive coping mechanisms that were tactically brilliant in the Decepticon army.

Fang blinked his optics, then slowly reached down and disconnected the cable, but not before he said softly, _:I need to think about this. I love you, Death. I am grateful for you. I just need some time alone in my head.:_

Deathwheels nodded quietly. There would be no wildly pleasurable climax this time. Fang had thought that would always happen, with each and every session, but Death didn't seem surprised or upset to stop now. "Interfacing isn't always about pleasure, you know," he said, softly, tracing the line of Fang's jaw with his fingers. "Do you want me to leave now?"

"Stay." Fangface transformed, abruptly, into his alt mode. He was equally comfortable in either mode, but the feline shape was far better suited for what Fang had in mind. He sent an image to Death of Deathwheels lying down.

Death complied, sliding down to lie on his side. Fang curled up next to him, back to Death's chest, tail curled across his paws. Deathwheels draped an arm over him, protective and intimate all at once. It was a position Death would not have allowed anyone else to take, much less initiated it. "Do you want to recharge now?" Death asked. "It's getting late."

"I actually did want to see Optimus Prime's speech," Fangface said, "it could be tactically important. And I like studying him; I learn something about how to lead effectively every time I watch him."

"You're a good mimic," Death agreed.

Deathwheels turned the monitor on with a burst of code, and flipped through satellite channels until he found a broadcast of Optimus. The speech had already begun, but it didn't look very far along.

_"We are the last remnants of a proud people ...."_

Fangface tilted his head, studying the scene. Prime was speaking from behind a Prime-sized podium. Though the humans wouldn't understand the symbolism, Prime had his hands resting with their palms upright. _I have no other options, _or literally, _I am unarmed._

It was not something he was used to seeing a leader do. Most 'cons bluffed and blustered their way through problems when they didn't have a ready answer. Fang did, readily. It was important to look like you were in control, even if you were baffled or terrified. While the humans wouldn't understand what Optimus was saying, his own troops would get it. Why wasn't Optimus afraid that they would see him as weak?

_"I know that many of Earth's people are afraid of us. We understand this fear. We are your first contact, and -- if you will pardon what I understand to be a bit of a cliche -- my species did not come in peace initially. It would be very easy for me to claim that we are not the Decepticons, that we are different, that we are not the ones who came and killed and destroyed. This would not be precisely true, however, as it was my species that came and tried to destroy your world. They are not my people, but they are my kind, and I am well aware of how this must appear to you. However, what I will do is promise you that I, and those under my command, will honor our promise to protect Earth and to obey the wishes of your leaders. We will follow both the spirit and the letter of your laws, and any among my people who do not will face _my _wrath. I can guarantee I am far stricter and demand a much higher standard of my behavior from my people than your legal establishment will. _  
_  
"As we are currently located in the American state of Nevada, we will obey all reasonable requests made by both your President and state and local authorities. We will follow the spirit of this guarantee, not just the letter."_

Death's fingers moved slowly, soothingly, over Fang's shoulder, and the big mech shifted himself a bit, finding a more comfortable position. "We need to clean your armor," Death murmured, "You've got some oxidization starting in a couple spots."

"Hush. I want to hear Prime." Still, he leaned into Death's touch. The steady vibrations of Death's hand on his plating felt surprisingly good. He'd never really thought before about curling up like this with someone. He was a little drowsy, actually, despite the earlier argument. He put his head down on his paws, and Deathwheels moved his fingers to Fang's head. Then Death's hand was replaced by the soft _shoooshing _feel of a cleaning cloth and polish. Fang sighed in pleasure, and stretched out to his alt mode's full length, no longer tightly curled up.

_"I am standing before you today because we have been fighting a desperate battle for tens of thousands of years against a foe that has laid waste to countless worlds, and targeted Earth mere weeks ago for destruction. We were successful in saving your world, and for this I rejoice, as I have come to respect and admire humanity. It would be a tragedy on a scale that I have a hard time comprehending had the universe lost this world and the human race. Not in a hundred thousand years have I seen a species with so much promise as yours._

"We would like to to remain on this beautiful world, and this is the plea and appeal I bring to you. We are a dying species, struggling for our very survival, and at the very end of a long, hard road. If we do not find a home to call our own we will die _as a race. We would like to make Earth that home, and we believe our presence here could be mutually beneficial, if humanity has the courage to accept us. __We will aid you in your surveillance, both for the approach of our mutual enemies, and for other alien races who may be less friendly than we are. We will help you with your technology. We have ten million more years of scientific learning to draw upon than humanity does. In many areas, we can move the human race forward with quantum leaps of development."_

He watched as Optimus scanned the crowd for a moment. The cameras cut away, showing the other mechs who had assembled behind Optimus, and a few dozen humans seated with them. Sam and Mikaela were there, and Sam's parents. The Secretary of Defense and a few foreign dignitaries sat in chairs, looking very tiny in front of the mechs, even though the rest of the Autobots were seated on a bench. Will Lennox was also there, though none of the other soldiers who Fang had seen either with his own optics or via recorded video from combat. Bee's organic protoform was at the far end of the line of humanoids, and a small flier type had taken a seat next to him in a human chair.

Wheelie was the last mech seated in a chair. Fang smiled, seeing him. Wheelie's optics were shining very bright as he looked up at Optimus.

_"We have identified multiple areas where our science may benefit your species. The first is with our medical technology. We have millions of years of experience and vast amounts of data on organic life forms. I have summoned a mech with the designation of _Doc _to this world to help advance your medical knowledge. Doc is a skilled researcher and is already producing results. We have released some preliminary data to your academic institutions, and have conducted some early trials in cooperation with the military. We anticipate that we will be able to cure most cancers, treat most contagious illnesses, and stop or reverse multiple degenerative and auto-immune conditions within the next few years. People living with terminal illnesses today can have hope, as we _will _help you. Even should you cast us off from your world, we will continue to send research information to Earth for as long as we are able to do so. I feel very strongly about this. We have the ability to alleviate suffering, and we will do so. It is the right thing for us to do._

"In other areas, as well, we anticipate that we can better your lives with the knowledge we bring with us ..."

Fangface was impressed as Optimus eloquently explained a dozen ways that Autobot technology could improve human lives. He found himself hoping the humans were listening and believing. He had no doubt that Optimus would carry through on his promises. After several minutes of making his case that the Autobots wanted a home but planned on making it a fair exchange, the leader of the Autobots turned to what sounded like his closing words.

_"We are the same species, my Autobots and the Decepticons. We pray to the same God, share the same origins, speak the same language. And yet, I have watched my own kind commit atrocities that have left me grieving in despair. Moreover, they are not alone in the universe. There are other races as equally savage as my own. I believe that humanity would be right to be cautious, even suspicious, of the intentions of any alien race as powerful as my own. _

_"It is with full awareness of this that I come with my hands out and my head bowed, asking for asylum for my people. Our own birthworld is a shattered ruin, destroyed by our enemy. Our colonies are gone, our civilization a ghost of what it once was. We are unable to even reproduce ourselves, we are ... dying. As a people. I ask that you have it in your hearts to accept us among you, and to trust me at my word that we come in peace, with no ill intent._

"I conclude this speech with a simple observation, and that is that our peoples are more alike than we are different. We love, we hate, we laugh, we mourn. We have families, and friends. We dream of bright futures for ourselves and our kin. We believe in a God, and the human soul is akin to our sparks. We want the same things you do: a home, safety, security, and a chance at a better future.

"That's got to be almost impossibly painful to admit," Deathwheels noted. "And some of his own 'bots are going to hate hearing it."

Fang blinked at the monitor a few times. He would never admit it to anyone, but he was envious of Optimus's role. While the leader of the Autobots was making a home and a future for his people Fang was dealing with mechs who had nothing better to do than kill each other. He sighed, feeling suddenly and acutely depressed.

Deathwheels started rubbing polish into Fang's shoulder armor, quietly and methodically working his plates to a high sheen. Fang shuttered his optics and focused on the soothing feel of Death's hands. A moment later, he slipped into recharge. He was safe, for the moment, and he desperately needed to defrag his cores. It had been a stressful, even disorienting, few days.

* * *

In the staging area behind the stadium, the Autobots assembled to head back to the ship. Optimus was unusually quiet as he stood between Elita and Ironhide. His gaze was distant, Sam noted, and he seemed to be looking off at some point several degrees above the horizon. He looked tired, as well as being deep in thought.

"I think that went well!" Windy chirped next to Sam, making him look sharply over. The flier had walked up without Sam hearing his approach. Over the noise of approximately thirty other mechs, the soft hum of Windy's fans and his light footsteps had been inaudible.

"Where's Bee?" Sam said, then realized that had come out a bit rude.

Fortunately, Manywinds seemed oblivious and his question only earned him a faint, sad smile. "He and Ratchet and Doc and Sunstreaker and your mom went to pick up some kid and her folks. Apparently she's sick. Dying, I guess -- they're giving her a few months at most. She wants to go to the ball, but they repossessed her family's car yesterday."

"Why Sunstreaker and my mom?" He knew about the kid with cancer, though he hadn't realized their financial situation was so dire. Repo'd her car? Huh?

"Sunstreaker -- and Bee's mech half -- for protection. The city's full of Nobots. Humanoid Bee and your mom for a couple extra sets of human faces to help her family feel at ease." Windy shrugged expressively. "Want a lift back to the ship?"

"Uhhhh ..." He blinked at Windy, trying to figure out a polite way to refuse.

Windy said lightly, "Don't worry, Sam. I won't make it nearly as scary going back as ..."

"Hi Windy." Mikaela joined them, interrupting Windy and linking her arm with Sam. She gave Windy a sharp look before saying teasingly, "You're not going to steal my other favorite guy in the whole world from me too, are you?"

"... steal?" Windy stared at her, clearly confused. Then his optics widened and narrowed in rapid succession. "Mikaela, you have no reason to be jealous. Just because Bee is interested in me does not mean he will lack time for you. I assure you that I will kick his aft for you if he neglects his human friends. Everyone I've spoken to about him tells me just how important you two are to him, and I could not and would not dream of interfering with his friendship with you. So please do not worry."

Mikaela sighed. "It's a human reaction, okay?"

"Humans tend to have many friends as well." Windy seemed baffled. "You're not pair bonded with him, you're bonded with Sam, right?"

"Yeah," Mikaela said, softly. "I guess I am. Bee's been pretty close to us for a long time. I guess ..."

"Do not worry. You will remain his close friends." Manywinds folded his arms. "It's very obvious he cares a great deal about you. And actually -- I think Sam's probably had enough flying for one day, yes?"

Sam shook his head and admitted, because his stomach was still a nervous knot of tension, "Yeah, I'm afraid I'll barf on you if I do any more."

"Enough said!" Windy both hands up, an index finger extended from each, and formed a cross of warding in Sam's direction. Sam wondered _where _Windy had learned that gesture. The flier grinned impishly and backed away, "In that case, you're grounded. 'Kaela, would you like to fly with me back to the ship? Sam, Optimus will give you a lift. He just commed me and says he wants to talk to you anway."

_Probably more guest list issues. It never ends. _Optimus had his back to Sam, and gave no clue what the discussion would actually be about, but Sam could guess.

"... Fly with you?" Mikaela squeaked.

"I promise, it's safe." Windy grinned. "Ask Sam."

"Oh, it was tons of fun," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "I only thought I was going to die fifty percent of the time."

Windy replied in a serious tone, "You only prayed to your God twice. I thought you were doing good."

"Were you _deliberately _screwing with me?" Sam gave Windy a suspicious look.

Windy's response was completely unruffled, and far too blandly innocent. "I stayed within human design tolerances and was monitoring your vitals the entire time."

Mikaela giggled. "Did you shoot video of his face?"

"I most certainly did." Windy bounced on his toes, innocence replaced with impishness. "Well? Want to come with me?"

Mikaela's face stilled, for a moment, and he could not read her expression. Then she hook her head, "Sorry, Windy. Maybe next time."

"Aww," Windy grinned, "c'mon. You know you want to. I'm completely safe, really. I haven't crashed in at least three days."

"No, thank you," Mikaela muttered, taking a step back.

Windy's expression went instantly sober and serious. "I'm sorry, Mikaela. I didn't realize you were afraid."

"Mikaela, afraid?" Sam shook his head in disbelief at that misconception. Whatever was bugging Mikaela, it wasn't the idea of flying. "She's got more guts than ten soldiers. _Way _more than me."

His girlfriend shook her head, said, "No, I'm not scared. It looked like fun, actually. I just don't feel like flying today, Windy. Maybe later. Anyway, I don't think my dress is up to that much wind."

Windy cocked his head to one side. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Look, I'll see you two at the party. I'm going to catch a ride back with Wheelie."

"... _Wheelie_?" Sam said, incredulously.

"He does have an alt mode, and it's not like I've never ridden a motorcycle before," Mikaela said, but offered no other explanation about that choice.

"Oooh, burned," Windy said, cheerfully, teasingly, faceplate lifting into a real grin. "The motorcycle wins over the flier! The burn, the burn! I'll never get over the disappointment."

Mikaela patted him on the shoulder as she walked past Windy, in Wheelie's direction. "Later, Manywinds."

Both Windy and Sam watched her walk away. When she was well out of human earshot, Windy said quietly, and in a concerned tone, "Sam, did I do something?"

"Did you do something wrong? No." Sam shrugged helplessly. "Don't expect her to be all hearts and doves about you, though. She loves Bee."

Manywinds hunched his shoulders and said apologetically, "I didn't know that. I guess I should say something to her. She's known Bee a couple of years, hasn't she? And then here I am, walking in, knowing him just a few weeks, and we're talking about making a lifetime's commitment to each other. That's got to hurt. I didn't know how she felt about him or I'd have been a little more tactful. Bee says you two are really good friends, but he must not be aware she has any stronger feelings than that or he'd have said something to me."

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. "She'll probably get over it. If she's weird around you, though, that's why."

"And you?" Windy said, bright blue optics too sharp as Windy regarded Sam with keen interest. Sam's eyes widened until he realized Windy was asking about his relationship with Mikaela, not about his non-relationship with Bee. "Mikaela's your girlfriend. I thought humans pair bonded."

There were, Sam realized, three distinct questions in Windy's statements. He answered only one of them. "I'm not sure where I stand right now with 'Kaela, to be honest. Sometimes she's a bit hard to understand."

Had he realized just how perceptive Manywinds could be, he probably wouldn't have said a word, or would have lied through his teeth. Windy was silent for a moment, regarding him with his head tilted to one side and optics tightly focused on Sam's face. "You're having a rough time of it, aren't you?"

"Yeah." It was an easier admission than he might have otherwise thought. Still, he couldn't help but avert his eyes from Windy, and study the cracks in the pavement instead.

"If you need anyone to talk to ..." Windy hesitated, then shook his head, as a better plan seemed to occur to him. "Bee and I had planned tomorrow, you know, between us. Cementing bonds, if everything works out. But it's not like that's set in stone. You should talk to Bee ... everyone says you two are very close."

Pretty much the last person in the universe that Sam wanted to have a heart to heart with was Bee at this moment in time, and that was particularly true if it interrupted what would be effectively Bee's honeymoon. Sam hastily shook his head. "Mikaela and I will probably work it out, and I can talk to Bee any time next week, if I need to. Umm, uh, he's a good guy. I think you'll be happy."

"I know." Windy smiled a gentle, quiet smile that spoke of real feeling. "I'm so lucky, I think. I can't believe he's chosen me, of all the mechs in the universe. I've only known him a little while, but I can tell he's something special."


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

* * *

Author's notes: So, uh, two chapters have stretched out to five for the "good stuff" that I've been building up towards. This story just keeps demanding more and more words. I'll be posting several more chapters over the weekend. I'm going to be out of town again, but I'm hoping to find some time to do some final edits and get everything up.

(And right at this moment, I am sitting in frustration on the couch at home, waiting for FedEx to deliver my power cord for my good laptop. I can't leave until the power cord arrives. Growl. As soon as it arrives, I'm on the road. Truck's loaded and ready to go.)

* * *

Optimus's cab was quiet, air-conditioned, with comfortable leather upholstery. Sam sat somewhat nervously in the passenger seat, arms folded, staring out the window. He tapped a foot and fought the urge to chatter like Bluestreak. Optimus, for his part, idled for a moment as the other Autobots rolled forward, heading for the gates after the public had left. He didn't move until everyone else was rolling out.

"Thank was a pretty good speech," Sam finally offered the compliment as a way to break the silence.

"Thank you," Optimus replied, "and I hope your people feel the same way."

"Good luck with that." He couldn't keep the skepticism out of his voice.

"Have more faith in your own kind, Sam." Optimus's tone was a little chiding. "It will simply take time."

"Huh." Sam ran a finger over one of the bruises on his arm. It was a little sore, like the black and blue marks on his ribs, though even that evidence of the accident would soon be gone.

"How are you feeling?" Clearly, Optimus had noticed him inspecting his damage.

"Better. Bee didn't mean to hurt me." He hunched his shoulders added, "He's really fond of Windy, isn't he? It's like they met and clicked immediately or something."

"Love happens that way, sometimes." Optimus sighed, and started to roll. "Other times, the partners take far too long to recognize the obvious. And the subject of love reminds me, Sam. Mentors aren't always perfect, and sometimes they say things that are harsh and cruel with the best of intentions, or at least no true ill intentions."

Sam ran a hand over his face. He had feared that Optimus might want to talk to him about his dad, though he had also hoped the leader of the Autobots would have more important things to do after the speech. Optimus, true to form, considered his people's welfare more important than anything else in the universe. Sam was less than pleased to be a target of that concern, however. Grudgingly, he said, "I take it you heard about the argument with my father."

"Which one?" Optimus's response was gently teasing, a little, and if he'd replied in any other way Sam would have completely clammed up. He truly did not want to talk about his problems with Optimus. Teasing, however, was something Sam knew and understood.

He smirked a bit and replied in kind. "Okay, okay, we have had a few."

"You know that Bee has asked me a few times about what to do in regards to your father. He's been aware that your father is hard on you, and that you take it badly, for a long time. I've advised him consistently that it is your battle to fight." Optimus's voice held deep regret, "Sometimes I wonder if that was the best course of action."

"Oh." Sam shrank down in the seat. "He loves me. My father, I mean. Not Bee! Well, he does, I mean, he loves me like a friend. Not like _that._"

There was a prolonged period of silence from the leader of the Autobots, in response to statement. "Would you like me to have a word with him?"

"My father?" Sam hoped Optimus was talking about his father and not Bee.

"If you wish."

"Umm. No. World of no, big boss. It'll just make it worse. He would never listen to what you were trying to say, and then he'd harass me about it later." Though, Sam thought with the blackest of amusement, he would love to be a fly on the wall during that discussion.

Optimus sighed. "I fully believe he loves you, Sam. I will simply tell you what I told Bee, when he was a very young soldier who had just joined my army, and that is that you are a distinct person from your family. You are free to believe what you want, make the choices you feel best, and love whom your heart desires. Sam, your parents have given you many strengths, have taught you well, and raised a son who is a true hero. You have saved my life, and your world, twice. I owe them a debt of gratitude for the courage and honor that they have instilled in you."

He felt about two inches tall, for some reason, and he said softly, "But sometimes I _hate _my father a little."

"And having heard a few of the comments he's made to you, I am surprised you do not hate him even more." Optimus's tone turned wry. He stopped at a light, and Sam heard the turn signal click on the steering column of the truck. Optimus started to make a left turn, then stopped and waited patiently as placard waving Nobots filled the street in front of him. Police were quick to clear them away and Optimus proceeded down the street.

"But I love him. He ... you're right. He's not all bad. I just don't know what to do when he's such a jerk. He calls me gay, and I _hate _it." Sam hunched his shoulders.

"Would you like to know of a tactic I've used quite successfully on obnoxious lobbyists and politicians and the like, when I was leader of my own people?" Optimus said, tone wry. Apparently, it was a rhetorical question, because Optimus didn't wait for Sam to respond. "I walk away."

"... huh?" It was such an unexpected answer that Sam could only make a questioning noise.

"It's surprisingly effective. I will listen to reasoned, polite arguments. I'll even tolerate impassioned speeches. However, the moment the speaker begins to lose respect for me, and begins to be insulting or demeaning, I walk away. I will not tolerate rudeness. I remove myself from their presence as many times as necessary, until the lesson is learned. If someone wishes to speak to me, they must remain reasonable, or the discussion is over."

"Oh, my father would _freak _if I walked away from him."

"Yes, he would." Optimus agreed. "But he would have to 'freak' without you as an audience. Am I right in suspecting that you cannot win by directly confronting him?"

"Yeah, he never backs down, even when it's obvious to everyone he's wrong." Sam stared out the window. There were Nobots on one side of the street, and Autobot supporters on the other, and they were screaming at each other. Mounted police were riding between the groups, as well as cops wearing riot gear. He hoped that the protests would not escalate.

"Sam, sometimes the direct approach is not best. Even if your father is furious at you, there is little harm to _you _if you refuse to speak to him until he is calm and polite. Simply walk away, and let him fume. He is an intelligent man, and he will figure it out eventually, though I imagine there might be some drama on his part until he learns you will no longer play your role in his games."

"Games?"

"He's amusing himself at your expense, isn't he?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"And he doesn't realize how harmful and hurtful his words are."

"I'm not gay," Sam said, suddenly, then cringed into his seat.

Prime was silent for a long moment again. Finally, he said, "If you were gay, it wouldn't change who you are. You would still be the same person."

"I like women." His voice shook when he said it. "My father's always teased me about being gay, and I'm _not. _He's wrong! It hurts and I just wish he'd stop."

"I am led to believe that some human men have an attraction to both sexes. Regardless of your orientation, you would still be Sam, a hero and a friend. I suspect your father might be more worried that you would turn into an embarrassingly effeminate caricature of a gay man than anything else. He is very concerned about image and appearance, and it would threaten his own self-image to have a son who was insufficiently masculine by your society's standards." Optimus's words were calm. They did not contain the eerie, emotionless stillness of a mech who was upset, but he simply sound simply unruffled. "And I also firmly believe that he loves you enough to eventually accept you as you are, even if what you are is not entirely what he wishes you to be."

"He'd just give me hell. He'll pick on me until I _cry _and then he harasses me for crying!" Sam bounced the back of his head off of the seat. "He'd never accept me. Not if he really knew ..." He bit his lip, and didn't finish that statement. It was far too hard to admit.

"He loves you, but he has been very cruel to you." Optimus said, serenely. They stopped at a traffic light again.

Suddenly, an egg sailed out of a crowd to their right. It smacked into the windshield, and Sam said, "Shit!"

"Do not be alarmed," Optimus said, calmly, as a bottle broke in the same fashion. His windows were made of material that was distinctly tougher than glass, and no damage was done other than to Sam's nerves. Ahead of them, half a dozen other mechs waiting on the light to change were being hit with garbage and more eggs. Mikaela and Wheelie scrambled for cover inside Ironhide's cab, and Sam held his breath until they were safe. "We expected some degree of protest after my speech. The authorities will disperse it."

"I hope nobody gets hurt." There was a rather large mob of protesters gathering on a street corner. They started to spill out into the street towards the mechs, then scattered when the police arrived, lights flashing on patrol cars.

"As do I. Injuries from any riots will be on my conscience. The police say these protests are localized, and the media is being very scornful of them and showing video from Egypt and Mission City which portrays us as heroes. In the end, our presence on Earth will be deeply beneficial to humanity, but that does not help those who are injured today." The police parked in the intersection and waved the Autobots through before the light changed.

Someone threw a molotov cocktail, then, hitting one of Arcee's forms dead on. Arcee went down, skidding sideways along the pavement. Flames streaming from her chassis, then she transformed and Inferno hit her with a blast of foam. A second later she was back on two wheels and all three of her calmly cruised down the road between Ironhide and Sideswipe.

"Is she okay?" The police had caught the man who'd thrown the bottle of fuel. He watched as they carried him off towards a patrol car, physically lifting him up as he apparently refused to walk on his own.

"Gasoline does not burn at a high enough temperature do do anything other than cause cosmetic damage. She was simply startled by the fire." Optimus sounded a little more annoyed now. "Many of the comments I'm reading on the internet by reasonable people are positive, Sam. The hate you see here is simply fear, and we will eventually be able to defuse it by working actively to build bridges with those who are afraid of us."

"Good luck with that, Optimus." It was hard to believe the Autobots would _ever _be accepted by humans when a mere speech by Optimus generated garbage-throwing riots.

"It won't be luck, Sam, just deliberate and hard work and time." Optimus sighed. "A bit ago you said your father would never accept you if he knew something. What was that?"

"I really don't want to talk about it." He was _not _going to discuss his issues with any alien robot, particularly _this _alien. He picked at the seat belt, and stared down at his hands. Ahead, the line of Autobots had stopped at a barricade and the police were moving wooden barriers aside so the 'bots could proceed. The police had allowed crowds fairly close to the Ark earlier, but had since cleared the streets for 'safety reasons'. Nobody could approach within a quarter mile of the alien ship without authorization.

"Sam," Optimus said, very seriously, "I have a personal policy of not involving myself in the private lives of my people unless their problems start to interfere with their work, or cause discord among the team. You may not want to talk about it, but I suspect you need to. There is friction between you and Bee, and I cannot allow that to continue if you are to work closely together."

"So you're appointing yourself my shrink?" He couldn't keep a note of resentment out of his voice.

"No," Optimus said, "in this, I am approaching you as a friend."

He sighed, "Sorry, Optimus. I just ..." his heart was racing, his throat felt tight. He closed his eyes, for the world was suddenly far too bright. He wanted to run, but he couldn't, and he couldn't _breathe _and his heart was thundering, pounding, in his chest.

"Sam." Optimus's words were concerned. "I won't push you any farther today. I am very sorry. I did not intend to upset you nearly to this degree, and with the reception in a few hours, it was cruel of me. You should enjoy this evening. You've worked so hard for it, and you've earned a bit of fun."

"It's okay. You didn't harsh my squee, I was already pretty de-squee'd." He covered his face with his hands and leaned as far forward as the seatbelt would let him. "I can't, I can't, I can't tell anyone. I can't."

"Sam, please, accept my apologies." Optimus sounded deeply distressed. "I didn't mean to upset you to this degree, and I believe I've made your upset worse. I didn't know how traumatic you found the subject."

He scrubbed at his eyes, fiercely willing himself not to cry. "I like boys, okay? Always have. I just can't _do _anything about it, because my father'd freak, and it's not ... I get sick whenever I even think about it ... I know it's not wrong, but I can't even breathe when I think about it."

Optimus said, quietly, "We're almost to the ship. I owe you an apology. I thought you were upset, but not to this degree. This is not minor and I should have chosen a better time, Sam."

Sam was silent, struggling for control. He wanted to vomit, but the thought of barfing in Optimus Prime's footwell was enough to make his heart race even faster. "I've never admitted that to anyone, ever. I try not to think about it too much myself, but sometimes I'll see a guy, and it's like he's so gorgeous, and ... _damn it_."

"Sam," Optimus's response was very measured, "there is nothing wrong with those feelings."

Sam made a fist and thumped the seat. "I _know_. -- Sorry. I didn't mean to hit you."

"You did not harm me." Optimus's pause was long enough to make him wonder if Optimus was talking to someone else. The Autobot tendency to comm each other with quick questions in the middle of a conversation with someone else had never bothered him before, but now he wondered if Optimus was asking Bee questions. It was a realistic concern, given the fact that Bee was his closest friend among the Autobots.

"Don't tell Bee!" He blurted out, desperately. "Sir, please! He doesn't need to know, he doesn't, he's got Windy, they're happy, he doesn't need to know, and anyway, I don't want that with him, I don't, I don't ..."

"Easy, Sam." Optimus's voice was soothing. "I was just telling Ironhide that I wanted to take a minute with you when we arrived."

"Oh." Sam blinked at the dash. "You won't tell anyone, right? Please?"

"I swear on my honor." Optimus's voice was grave. "I would not wish to cause you pain, Sam. We've done quite enough of that over the years as it is."

Optimus's tires bumped up the ramp into the hold. He pulled off to the side, and shut his engine off. There was a ticking of cooling metal, but he made no other sound. Sam leaned back in the seat and said slowly, "It doesn't really matter one way or another to you guys, does it? It's just not relevant."

"Your orientation? Not to most of us, no, it does not." Optimus's voice relaxed just a little, "Only one of us would care at all, and you might wish to speak to him and tell him what you have told me."

"_God _no." He knew who Optimus was talking about. He saw Bee as male, and to Bee, his attraction might matter. "Anyway, he's got Windy!"

"Very well." Optimus sighed audibly. "I look forward to the party tonight. It's been a very long time since I've seen my soldiers enjoy themselves. I will see you then, Sam."

"See you later, boss." He managed a credible smile, and hopped down from the truck when Optimus opened the door. Out of habit, more than anything else, he scanned the room for Bee's mech half and Mikaela. Bee wasn't back yet, but Mikaela was standing over by the stage, talking to a blond human man. For a moment he thought the blond hair belonged to Bee's organic protoform, but the man was too tall and the hair was pulled back in a rough topknot that he had a hard time visualizing on Bee. He wore a leather jacket, skintight jeans, and a glittery shirt.

Mick van Knight, of the Van Knights, Sam recognized with a flash of star-struck awe. He headed in that direction. Mikaela smiled tightly at him, and his heart, which had been elevated just a little by Optimus's words, sank again. She wasn't smiling with her eyes. "This is my boyfriend, Sam Witwicky."

"Hey!" Van Knight said, cheerfully, "You must be something else to win the affection of this gorgeous lady. I was sure disappointed to find out she was taken!"

Sam's stomach twisted in on itself. Mikaela _was _stunning. She was the sort of beauty who turned heads, including, apparently, those belonging to famous rock stars. She was not happy with him, and Van Knight had just made a rather blatant statement of his interest. He was gazing at her hungrily, openly, obviously.

Mikaela pouted, "I dunno, I might not be _that _taken if you keep up with the flattery."

Sam laughed, knowing Mikaela flirted like that with everyone. He'd heard her use the exact same tone on the Circle K clerk.

"Girl," the singer said, with a grin at Sam that Sam didn't like at all, "you ever get tired of dating the high school boys, look me up. You've got my e-mail address."

"Hey," Sam said, annoyed at Knight, if not Mikaela, "She _is _taken."

Mikaela tossed her hair, and turned her pursed lips in Sam's direction. "What, my little Sam's _jealous_?"

"He is kinda short," van Knight observed. "You could do better."

They were both teasing him. He knew it, but he still balled his fists, rage rising. Only the awareness of just how bad it would look for the Autobots if he threw a punch in reaction to a bit of sophomoric humor saved Van Knight from a broken nose. All in all, he'd had a pretty crummy day and it showed no signs of getting any better.

"Hi Mikaela! Hi Sam!" He was rescued by Bluestreak, who came trotting over. "You must be Mr. Van Knight! I love your music, Bee sent me some files, and I really like the way you harmonize with discordant numbers ..."

"Huh ...?" To his credit, Van Knight didn't seem to be afraid of giant robots. "Sorry, didn't follow that, err, Bluestreak, right? I think my drummer rode with you."

"Math." Mikaela said, succinctly. "Autobots love music, but every one of them sees it as artistic math."

Sam stared up at Blue, who gazed back down at him very briefly. One optic shutter flickered shut. Had that been a _wink_? Of course, with Autobot hearing, every 'bot in the hold had probably overheard Van Knight hitting on Mikaela. He supposed the only question was if Bluestreak had decided to intervene on his own, or if one of the others had put him up to it.

Van Knight blinked. In a very different tone of voice, one that was both serious and curious rather than blatantly flirting, he said, "Well, there is a lot of math involved in music ..."

Bluestreak nodded happily, and said something that sounded like Greek to Sam. A lot of Greek, involving octaves, fractions, division, amplitude, and a few words Sam didn't even recognize as being _human_. Van Knight brightened even more, however. He hitched himself up to sit on the edge of the podium and responded in the same language. Blue chattered back. Van Knight made expansive gestures with his hands. Blue projected a diagram of something and pointed at it, and Van Knight blinked rapidly at this demonstration of Autobot holomatter, then hesitantly touched the diagram. They started discussing the subject, whatever it was, with real enthusiasm.

He edged closer to Mikaela and whispered, "Are they actually speaking English?"

She said loudly, "Mr. Van Knight, if you need me, ask Teletraan to hail me. Just say 'Teletraan' and ask him a question and he'll know you're talking to him. I've got to go help with a few things."

"Bye, sweetie," he waved cheerfully.

As soon as they were reasonably out of earshot, Sam groaned. "What a slime ball."

"Hey, I think he's sweet," Mikaela protested, sounding wounded. She pouted at him.

"He was hitting on you! In front of me!" He protested. "And you wre encouraging him!"

"What, feeling a little insecure, Sam?" she giggled.

"Yeah, I am." He caught her arm, and stepped into an alcove, pulling her with him. "Mikaela, look, I love you so much. You were flirting back with him and ..."

She pulled her arm free, and glared at him. "What, don't trust me, Sam?"

"Pit!" He borrowed an oath from the 'bots, having run out of obscenities of human origin on this day. "Mikaela, I _love _you."

She just looked at him for a moment. "Then trust me to recognize that I've got a good thing with you. What, are you afraid I'll leave you or something?"

"Yeah, actually." He closed his eyes, and leaned against the wall. "This has been a really shitty day, Mikaela. I don't want to fight with you, too. I'm losing Bee and I don't want to lose you too."

The words were uttered before his internal censor had time to react to them. He realized what he'd said, remembered that Mikaela could be nearly as perceptive as Optimus or Bee, and opened his eyes to see she was staring at him. It had been his tone, heartbroken, that had undoubtedly clued her in. She whispered, "Losing Bee?"

He straightened up from the wall. "I didn't mean it that way. You know what I mean."

"I think I might." She searched his face, all semblance of humor vanishing, then she said quietly, "You should have said something to him long before now. Now, it's too late."

"Mikaela, I didn't mean it." He shrugged, trying to affect an appearance of calm that that he absolutely didn't feel. The nausea was back. Had someone written secrets he never wanted anyone to know on his forehead for the world to see? "Anyway, there's us. If I had to chose, I'd chose you. I love you, and I committed to you first."

She sighed, and ran a hand over her hair, and said, "Okay, okay Sam. I get it. C'mon, I'm going to go change into some jeans so I can help with the setup for the party, and I'm going to get someone with no boobs to babysit the band."

"My dad," Sam suggested, "or one of the marines."

Mikaela considered for a moment, then said, "Epps."

"Epps," Sam agreed, with a smile. "He'll probably be happy to be pulled off the security detail for a few hours."

* * *

It was strange, Bee thought, to sit _inside _Ratchet's cabin. He perched on the edge of a bench and regarded the other two occupants with mixed exasperation and fondness.

Doc, braced against the motion of stop and go rush hour traffic with one hand on a cabinet, regarded Bee intently. Judy, next to him, was in full mother-hen mode. Bee felt the whisper of scans sliding over his form. To the Camaro half, it would have been blatant. His humanoid protoform had far fewer sensory arrays.

Doc frowned, and pinged Bee with a medical code that triggered a reflexive dump of recent errors and system data. His dark look intensified. "Bumblebee, when was the last time you ate?"

He ducked his head, a bit embarrassed. "I had a blueberry muffin for breakfast. It was good."

"That's hardly a complete or nutritional breakfast. Far too many carbs, not enough protein, and probably not enough calories to support the exertions you made. In addition to low blood sugar, you are also mildly dehydrated." Doc slid a hand into a subspace pocket attached to his hip and produced an apple, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a plastic bottle of milk. "Eat."

"Can he get cavities?" Judy said, curiously.

"He most certainly can," Doc said, "and I will personally let Ratchet smack him silly with a wrench if he does."

"We know you, Bee," Ratchet added, sounding amused. "We had a bet on how low your blood sugar would be."

Judy giggled. "You guys should have let me know he needs to eat. I didn't know that. I'll make _sure _he does in the future. And Bee, we're having you over for dinner in the future. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'd appreciate it," Doc said, "he is not going to feel hunger like a human does. It will manifest as minor non-painful alerts noting his blood sugar levels are dropping and that his stomach is empty, but it will not affect his mental state. That was deliberate; we didn't wish to compromise him with hunger in an emergency for the mere sake of realism."

Bee sat on the edge of a bench in the back of the cabin, and took a careful bite of the sandwich. It stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he was glad for the milk. The taste was not bad, despite the gooey consistency. However, he handed the apple back to Doc and explained. "I don't think I like apples."

Actually, he'd tried to eat an apple earlier, and had nearly choked on a bite. There was a distinct and complicated learning curve to eating, and he had no desire to damage his protoform in front of two of the mechs who'd created it.

Doc frowned, but started to return the apple to his storage space. Judy Witwicky held a hand out, "I'm hungry too."

"Oh, sorry, Mrs. Witwicky," Doc handed it to her. "The apple's all I have."

Bee ducked his head, a bit embarrassed to be eating a sandwich when Mrs. Witwicky had nothing but an apple. He should have thought about it. He offered one half of the sandwich to her, "Do you want some of this?"

"This is fine," she waved a hand airily about. "I'm good with an apple."

He took another bite of the sticky, gooey sandwich. His sensors informed him that it had a high percentage of healthy fats. The bread was whole wheat. It was nutritious. Good for him. And not bad tasting. He finished it in several bites, and then discovered his fingers were sticky. He eyed his hands. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt; the tux was hanging up back in the cabin on the Ark. He suspected Sam would simply have wiped his hands off on his jeans, and after a moment's consideration, tried to do the same. However, the jam and the greasy ground nuts didn't wipe off easily.

"Got any cleanser?" he asked Doc and Ratchet hopefully.

"Not organic-suitable, no. Sorry." Doc shrugged.

Bee made a face and licked his fingers clean, then wiped his damp hands on his pants. He hoped he wasn't going to need to shake anyone's hands.

Judy rolled her eyes. "I can definitely tell just which boy-child you got your table manners from."

"Sorry?" He offered the apology tentatively.

Her laugh was light and musical. "Oh, don't be. It's just funny seeing you do things Sam does. Bee, you're over a hundred thousand years old, and you act like my teenage son. It's hilarious."

Ratchet snorted. "You're only now figuring out that Bee's our version of Peter Pan? He's never going to grow up."

"Well, if I was Peter Pan, it would certainly make Windy happy, what with the flying and everything."

Doc smirked. "The maturity level between Bee and Sam is certainly about the same. Bee, do you have any other issues?"

"Some minor pain from my feet. I'm not sure if it's enough to trigger errors you'd have seen." He knew that Doc would have his bolts if he wasn't totally truthful. Bee bent over and pulled a boot off. He wiggled his toes in Doc's direction. Doc bent over and squinted at Bee's toes, then made a face. "You've got blisters."

"Oh, ouch, Bee!" Judy exclaimed, when Doc moved back and she could see the damaged skin,. "That looks like it hurts!"

"Hnh. Got any of that magic cream?" he asked Doc, and forbore mentioning to Judy that, on the scale of his usual injuries, blisters barely rated about dented armor.

"I've got band-aids. If I repair the damage with nanytes, you will not develop the calluses you need to prevent future damage." Doc crouched down, propped Bee's foot on his thigh, and produced alcohol swabs and bandages. Bee hissed and swore when the antiseptic touched the raw skin. Doc's armor was bumpy and hard under Bee's heel, and his fingers cold.

"Before you do a long walk again," Doc said, "we'll put some athletic tape over the pressure points on your feet to prevent this from happening."

"How's your mental state?" Ratchet asked, bluntly.

Bee was unsurprised by the question. "I will _never _be completely used to two sets of input. However, I believe I'm stable. Why?"

"Because you'd best not interface with your little boyfriend if you're not one hundred percent." Ratchet accelerated aggressively around an SUV. "If you don't think you're ready, for _any _reason, I will be happy to make it a medical order that you're not to interface with anyone. Any reason, Bee, do you understand? No questions asked. If you think you need to put off tonight, for your own good and Windy's, you'd _better _tell me, and I'll make it happen."

Ratchet was offering him a way out, Bee realized, if he wanted to tactfully delay things with Manywinds, he could. However, there was a very basic problem with that, and Doc realized it as soon as Bee did. Doc stated, "Relationships need to be based on honesty, Ratch. Bee can't _lie _about his reasons for delaying the interfacing, because Windy would find out later."

"Hnh." Ratchet grunted. He accelerated again, "We have paparazzi following us, by the way."

Bee, whose Camaro half was trailing Ratchet and Sunstreaker, was well aware that they were being followed by several SUVs full of photographers. He said, "Do you think we need to lose them?"

"We can't do so safely. Just ignore them." Ratchet made a harrumphing noise. "Sunstreaker's going to try to draw some of them off, though."

_:Sunstreaker,: _Bee said, even as the yellow Corvette accelerated past Ratchet, over a comm line the four of them were sharing, _:Be careful.:_

:Yeah, yeah, don't run the squishies over.:

:Don't cause a secondary accident, either,: Ratchet added. _:Remember human reflexes are much slower than ours.:_

:Yeah, yeah. Do we have some energon to spare for a couple transcans?:

:Plenty, why?:

:Because I'm going to transcan something and rejoin you guys in a few minutes,: Sunstreaker said, in a tone that was just a few notes shy of rude. He didn't _quite _say 'duh' but you could hear it in his words. Apparently 'polite Sunstreaker' only happened when Judy Witwicky could hear him. _:My scans are picking up the same make of Corvette as me up ahead. Permission to speed as long as it's safe?:_

_:Authorized,: _Ratchet replied, with a snicker audible in his voice. _:Make sure there's no cops watching, and jam that photo radar installation a mile ahead.:_

Sunstreaker accelerated hard, faster than any mortal car could. From a 65 mph start he smoked his tires, fishtailed, recovered, hit 85, and -- probably reluctantly -- slowed down to allow the paparazzi to catch up. Faced with two sedately driving Autobots, and one that was zooming ahead and swerving through traffic, the photographic stalkers chose the more exciting option. Only a handful remained behind to watch the Camaro and the Hummer.

"You might want to put your seatbelts on," Ratchet warned, as he took an off ramp at slightly above the recommended speed.

Sunstreaker gleefully transmitted video showing that he was repeatedly letting the paparazzi close the gap and then shooting ahead again. There were close to two dozen cars trying to follow him. Ratchet chose a course that would put some significant distance between the two groups, so that hopefully they could pick the kid and her family up before the whole mob rejoined them. Sunstreaker, meanwhile, also pulled off the freeway because the Corvette he was chasing had done so. He put on another rubber-burning burst of speed, accelerated out around the corner and out of sight of all of the photographers, passed the other Corvette (honking cheerfully as he did) and transcanned another car, a small SUV. He flipped a U-turn and returned the way he'd come, just in time to see at least twenty other cars surrounded the confused driver of the strange yellow Corvette.

_:Worked,: _Sunstreaker reported with satisfaction. _:I _so _rock!:_

:You do,: Bee agreed, with a laugh.

* * *

The kid lived in a run-down apartment complex in a sketchy part of Los Angeles. Bee called the kid's mom, who answered tentatively, "This is Emily."

"Hi Emily, it's Bumblebee. We're outside, but there's a couple of photographers that followed us. Is there some place private close by that you'd want us to pick you up? They can be pretty persistant and they won't leave you alone."

A squeal greeted his words. "I can't believe you're actually here to pick us up."

"Not a problem," Bee assured her.

"I'm not worried about the photographers," the woman said, finally. "Let 'em be nosy. It's probably good PR for you guys, and anything we can do to help ... we're ready when you are. Thank you _so _much."

"Okay. We're in your parking ..." Bee's words were interrupted by his surprise when Ratchet hit his horn. A photographer had tried to climb on Ratchet's bumper to see through his back window. He completed the sentence, "...lot."

"Step on my aft again and I'll report you for assault," Ratchet growled loudly at the man. His weapons capacitors started to hum. "No touching!"

"What was that?" The woman on the phone said, sounding startled. She'd probably heard the honking inside.

"Our chief medical officer, who volunteered to tag along because it gets him out of helping set the party up," Bee said, with a mental grin. "He's a search and rescue Hummer. Looks kindof like a big ambulance."

"Oh."

"You've probably seen me on TV, I'm a Camaro. And a guy. Sunny should be here in a moment. However, I'm not sure what he'll look like when he gets here."

"We're coming out," the woman said, "and thank you, again."

Ratchet honked again, this time because they were trying to peer underneath him. The medic growled, "Do I look up _your _skirts, ladies?"

Every single paparazzi was male. Most were shooting video. Bee snickered over the com, _:You realize you just made TMZ.:_

:Oh, goody. I'm going to make a mug shot if they don't back the slag off. If they were any closer we'd be interfacing. They're in my space!:  
  
"I'll distract 'em, Ratchet." Bumblebee transformed the Camaro, suddenly towering sixteen feet over the heads of the men with the cameras. He waved and played a clip of 'Who Let the Dogs Out' as the men spun to face him.

The girl and her mother appeared from inside an apartment. Both were dressed in stylish satin gowns, well tailored. The girl's was rich amber, strapless, and swishing around her ankles. Her mother had on a cream colored dress with a high neck and no sleeves. When he saw the girl's face, though, Bee's spark contracted. She looked ill: puffy, pale cheeks, bald, and painfully thin. She was moving like she hurt, and when she got closer he could smell the pain killing chemicals in her blood. However, her eyes were bright and alert and she was smiling.

Ignoring the photographers, who were snapping frantic photographs, she walked right up to Bumblebee, looked up at him and said, clearly and with enthusiasm, "You are _so _cool."

Bee crouched, lifted an optic ridge, and informed her, "Believe it or not, we feel the same way about humans. You guys are _fascinating._"

She giggled.

"Katherine," Emily said, "we're riding in the ambulance."

"Awww, mom, I don't need an ambulance." Katherine sounded very unhappy about this.

Bee shuttered an optic in a wink. "He is one of us too."

"... Okay." Reluctantly, she turned back and, moving stiffly, headed for Ratchet. Ratchet, after apparently sizing her gait up, deflated his rear tires and sank far down on his shocks so she could climb in easier, and Doc extended his hand out to pull her up. Her mother climbed in after her.

"Hi, I'm Judy," Sam's mom said cheerfully. "The mech you met outside is Bee and this is his other half -- they're one mind, two bodies. This is Doc, and our ride's Ratchet. Don't let him fool you, he's really a sweetheart, even if he bitches and growls about everything."

Bee waggled a smaller set of fingers in a wave.

"I am _not _a sweetheart." Ratchet objected, even as he shut his doors.

"Ratch," Doc said with a grin that lifted his faceplate up, "I do believe she has your number."

"Oh, shut up, you."

Ratchet started to pull forward, then blew his horn at several men with cameras standing in his path. They didn't seem too impressed by a Hummer, even a talking one, but when Bee marched his mech half towards them and made an irritated "out of the way!" gesture with one hand, and snarled, "MOVE! You're in the way!" they moved. They also shot video as they backed away. Bee planted both hands on his hips and glared imposingly down at them, unimpressed. The fact that he _wasn't _blasting the annoying parasites into carbon smears would probably count in his favor on the public relations score; he was well aware that most normal American citizens didn't have a very high opinion of paparazzi.

In Ratchet's cabin, the mother and daughter were staring at Doc and Bee with faint wariness and rabid curiosity, respectively. The girl sized Bee up for a moment, then said, "You're really one consciousness in two bodies? How does that work? Is one body, like, under remote control or something?"

"Kat!" Her mother scolded, voice rising in tone. "Sorry, she's so curious!"

The girl looked chastened, but also unhappy. Bee settled onto one of the benches and the girl claimed a seat next to him, snapping the seat belt tight. She shot the stretcher that Ratchet had formed a dark look, but didn't say anything. The way she looked, and as unhealthy as her vitals were, Bee suspected she'd had a few ambulance rides. "I'm sorry. I want to be a robotics engineer. It's just so _fascinating_."

She had, Bee remembered, around three months to live. The doctors had done everything they could for her. Her lifespan might be measured in mere weeks, or it might stretch past the three month mark. Death might come quickly, of a hemorrhage or infection, or slowly and painfully, of suffocation from metastasis to her lungs. It would come.

_:Doc ...: _Bee started to ask if there was anything they could do. Those bright eyes, that intense curiosity, deserved a future. She was sixteen, almost seventeen, and that was less than two years younger than Sam. She was older, Bee thought, than Sam had been when they had first met. It wasn't fair.  
_  
:I know exactly what you're going to say.: _Doc met Bee's gaze. _:Legally, we can't. We're looking at some options, not just for her, but for others. The situation is complex.:_

:Unfair.:

:We are sworn to follow the laws of this country, even the ones we don't like. It's one thing to treat Sam, who is part _of the team and would have died had we not__. It is another to treat a stranger, who almost certainly would tell others what had happened.: _Doc's rebuke was made without anger, just with firm explanation.

Bee sighed a strictly mental sigh, and said brightly to Kat, "Curiosity is a good thing. We'd rather answer questions than have people run away going 'Eek! Monsters!'"

"That's certainly true," Doc sat down on the floor next to her as Ratchet accelerated out into traffic. "Transformers have sparks, what you would call souls, but which we know how to measure, manipulate, and control. In Bee's case, we split his spark between two bodies. It's linked on a quantum level, as are his processor core and memory core."

"So he has two sources of input to effectively one hard drive?" She considered the concept. "Do you have issues with data being overwritten by that? How do you prevent it? Some sort of partitioning process?"

"The data's initially written to two separate sectors and then nearly instantly loaded into his normal file hierarchy by one centralized process, so that both protoforms perceive the data in real time. The delay is a fraction of a nanosecond." Doc was vastly simplifying the explanation, Bee recognized, but he was impressed that she'd thought of that problem at all. "A bigger issue we have to overcome is harmonic feedback between his processor cores."

"Harmonic feedback ...?" she said, clearly intrigued.

Doc launched into an explanation that eventually involved pen and paper borrowed from Judy, and diagrams, and math problems, and a lot of laughter from the girl, who seemed delighted beyond belief that the mechs were willing to speak to her. Bee realized, listening to her, that she had to be one of the most intelligent humans he'd ever met, bar none. Sam and Mikaela were average smart, and he'd spoken to a few scientists who were startlingly intelligent. This child seemed to have almost an intuitive grasp of quantum mechanics -- which was _not _an easy field of science even for mechs -- and she peppered him with questions as fast as he would answer.

Her mother leaned over to Bee and whispered, "I can't thank you guys enough for this. When the news broke that real aliens had come to Earth, she didn't sleep for two days. She was so excited. She _loves _science, particularly robotics, and you guys are the most exciting thing I think she's ever seen. She spends all day on the internet, scouring every forum, every web site, for any information."

Doc, overhearing the words of her mother, abruptly interrupted the girl's rapid-fire questions about how intense gravitational fields might interact with the quantum state via affecting the temporal link between the cores with a quick, "Katherine, would you like my e-mail address?"

That earned him a surprised blink and then a bright grin and an absolutely gleeful nod.

Doc scribbled it out on a piece of paper and handed it to her. Then they resumed the question and answer session. Bee leaned forward, watching, even as he turned the problem of 'defeating stupid laws' around in his head. There had to be a loophole, or if not, Optimus needed to do some heavy-duty diplomacy, or maybe they could get her into the earliest clinical trials possible ...

* * *

Bee studied his humanoid half with his mech half's of optics. His hair was mussed by the day's activities. He turned around, and picked a comb up from the suitcase of brand new maintenance tools he'd acquired, and with his mech half began to comb through his own blond hair. It was easier to do it that way, than to try to reach up behind his head with humanoid fingers and work blindly, or try to coordinate movements of one protoform based on what he was seeing with the other. Metal fingers nimbly manipulated the tiny bit of plastic, and the even thinner strands of hair, though he quickly discovered he had to be careful of the joints in his hand after catching a few hairs and pulling them out. Windy's pseudo-skin hand coverings made a lot of sense once you worked around organics for any length of time at all. They were just so fragile. _He _was just so fragile.

He swept his hair back into a low pony tail again, clipped it in place, and studied himself critically. Despite the application of sunscreen he'd acquired a little bit of a tan on his face during the morning's walk. Humans would consider that healthy, though Doc would gripe at him about cellular damage if he let it continue. He needed to find a stronger sunscreen, or start wearing a hat outside. His olfactory sensors informed him that he didn't have any unpleasant odors, and the tuxedo he'd put back on still looked presentable except for some dust around the ankles, which he brushed off when he spotted it.

Windy pinged him from the hall.

He absently opened the door with a quick burst of code. Windy bounced into the cabin. Bee glanced at him, then lifted two sets of optic ridges at his appearance. Windy had clearly just washed his armor (what there was of it) again because little droplets of water were still clinging to the surface. However, something was missing. Bee observed, "No wings?"

"Not for dancing. They get in the way." Windy rose up on his toes a couple of times. "I'm looking forward to dancing with you. That'll be so fun."

He laughed as Windy grabbed his short half's hands and proceeded to do just that, pulling him into the graceful steps of a Cybertronian waltz that Bee hadn't seen or done in a lifetime. Warriors generally went for something a little more high-energy than this, which was definitely a high-society upper-crust dance. Windy, he recalled, had been directly supported by Vermillion Prime, who had been fascinated by his research into the factors that led to the evolution of sentience in organic species. That probably meant that Windy had been invited to plenty of society events.

To tell the truth, he'd never been a guest at a party that had featured that style of dancing. However, and HightNotes, had provided the music to more than a few such balls.

Laughing, he triggered a recording of one of his old songs and tried to let Windy lead him around the room. Windy, grinning, dropped his hands to Bee's hips even as Bee did the same to Windy. For this particular dance, the leader wold have his hands on the shoulders of the other mech. Their hands collided, and Windy burst out in giggles. "Your hands up, mine down."

Windy, apparently, thought Bee had made a mistake. He hadn't, he generally followed when dancing with anyone his equal or higher ranked. It was habit. Windy's military rank was far below his, but he certainly considered the flier his equal given they were intended partners. No one would think it odd, at least no one who knew him well enough to matter, to see him let Windy lead. Anyway, they were in private.

"You ready?" He said, after spinning Windy around the room a few times. "I think I hear people arriving."

"Oh, I'm so ready."

Somehow, he didn't think Windy was talking about the party when Windy said that. He smiled hesitantly. "So am I."


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

* * *

Author's note: For my international readers who may not know this, the drinking age in America is generally 21. Often, depending on the state, this even applies to parents giving an older teenager a glass of wine at a dinner within the house, or a beer at a family barbecue. However, in a dining/restaurant setting (or at an event like this) it's not always enforced that well. It's funny -- teens can't go to a bar/tavern/etc and order a drink, but I know quite a few teens who are well aware of what restaurants don't check ID when diners order, so they'll order a glass of wine or a margarita with dinner just to get away with it.

* * *

His mother had handled seating arrangements, which had been nearly as complicated as the invitations and security. She'd spent quite a bit of time online researching relationships between people, and on the phone making discrete inquiries with the guests' reps and agents, making sure that she didn't, say, seat two mortal enemies together or a husband and ex-wife, or anything of that nature.

Sam found himself seated at a table with a bald and obviously ill teenage girl, her mother, a famous elderly actress who was known for her humanitarian works and her date (who was at least thirty years younger), a teenage pop star and her father, two teenage boys Sam's age who were apparently the children of a wealthy Silicon Valley tycoon, and a matronly and middle-aged senator who'd been instrumental in getting much of the legislation recognizing the Autobot's legal right to live in the US and conduct business passed.

The girl -- the kid with cancer that Optimus had told him to include -- looked tired and drawn, with spots of bright color on her puffy cheeks. However, she was grinning broadly. To the pop star seated next to her she said cheerfully, "You're Jessica Sirius, aren't you?"

"Yeah," the young singer replied, somewhat cautiously.

"I'm Kat. I'm _so _exited to be here. I can't believe this! The Autobots are _so _cool."

One of the boys said, "What's wrong with you?"

To Sam's impressed amusement, the girl rattled off a long string of medical diagnoses, using extremely technical jargon. Her mother, the actress and the pop star's father all hid smiles behind their hands. Both Rich Boys looked confused. Sam thought they shouldn't haven even asked; any nimwit knew that 'skinny' and 'bald' plus 'swollen chubby cheeks' meant she was sick, and cancer was a good guess if you wanted to know a specific ailment. The girl concluded, "... and they tell me I'm going to die in the next few months, but I'm hoping I can live long enough for the cures that the Autobots say they can give us to reach the market. Because I really want to live. There's so much I want to do in the world yet!"

Then she subsided, and sat quietly, looking a little paler than she had before.

Jessica said quietly, "My grandmother died of cancer when I was six."

Her father closed his eyes in an apparent emotional reaction to those subdued words. Sam was betting it was _his _mother who had died by that pained look.

"Well, I don't intend to die," Kat said, with a hint of defiance in her voice. "I'm _going _to beat this."

_Optimus said she had three months to live, and the doctors could do nothing further for her. _It really was shaping up to be one of the worst days of Sam's life. He'd liked Kat almost on sight, once he'd gotten past the initial nervous reaction to her appearance. _Maybe Doc can do something for her._

The Senator said, "I've been keeping abreast of Doc's research. Nanyte cellular repair technology has some distinct promise in the area of cancer treatment. The nanytes can be easily designed to search and destroy cells with specific DNA markers, and the treatments promise to be far less toxic than traditional chemotherapy."

Kat nodded. She spoke a little slower now, making her mother give her a concerned glance. "Human science is already developing similar techniques, but the 'bots have quite a bit more experience than we do. Why reinvent the wheel when they likely already have the solution?"

"They're robots. What do they know about human medicine?" One of the Rich Boys objected.

"They've worked with similar species to our own," Kat explained, before Sam could answer, or, really, react.

Sam shot the kid a glare that probably wasn't as diplomatic as it should be. He managed a polite correction on the terminology, however, "You know, they prefer not to be called robots if you're being serious. You'll hear us tease them by calling them things like 'giant alien robot' but it's a little bit of an insult, so you kinda want to know the mech you're teasing. If you're being polite, you can call them a mech, mechanoid, 'bot -- short for Autobot -- or Cybertronian. Pretty much, those of us who know them and work with them call them mechs."

Kat's voice was a bit more subdued, but she asked, "So they understand teasing?"

"Oh, hell yeah." Sam managed a smile. "Pretty much, if we think it or do it or feel it, the mechs do too. Love, humor, anger, jealousy, hope, fear, the whole spectrum. They're so much like us it's hard to believe. It's really natural, when you work with them a bit, how much like us they are. I don't hesitate to tease them or joke with them, because, pretty much, they get it. There's a few Autobots that don't have much of a sense of humor, but that's true of people, too."

"How do they tease each other?" She picked at her dinner after she asked the question, and was apparently not hungry because she'd barely eaten anything -- which was a shame, because the meal had turned out beautifully. The guests had a choice between fish, chicken, or beef. Sam had chosen the beef plate, which was an herb crusted filet with asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes. It was both 'real food' and _very _good. She had the fish, and she was so thin he wanted to order her to eat more.

He answered, "Oh, geeze, a million ways. Mostly the same ways we do. Lots of sarcasm and insults. They get physical sometimes -- Ratchet regularly smacks his patients when he's annoyed at them, or pretending to be annoyed. Bringing up past mistakes, and joking about them. Innuendo, occasionally, though not quite as often as humans do, because they're much more matter of fact about relationships ... usually if it's innuendo, the funny part is an implication that the mech was intimate, or wants to be, with an enemy. Or sometimes they'll claim the only way someone could get a lover would be to buy a datapad -- that's basically a laptop. It's like saying the only way someone could have sex would be to buy a dil..." he cut the last word off, remembering there were adult women at the table. Both women were grinning at each other, however, clearly having silently completed his word.

"They have relationships?" That was the senator. For the life of him, he couldn't remember her name, and her place card was aimed away from him.

"Lovers?" The actress echoed, sounding intrigued.

Sam grinned. "Yeah, and it'll be interesting how our marriage laws work out the first time two mechs decide to get married for the legal benefits, given that they're asexual."

The Senator blinked. "How does that work?"

"Marriage?" Sam said, brightly, earning snickers. He was in a dark enough mood to not even _care _that he was hassling a woman who'd been elected to the Senate. "Generally, when two people fall in love, one asks the other to tie the knot, and then there's this really big party called a wedding ..."

Fortunately, she had a sense of humor, because she grinned. "Seriously. What motivation do 'asexual aliens' have to form relationships?"

Sam's meal was suddenly a lot less appetizing. He set his fork down and sipped at the glass of red wine that one of the waiters had set down in front of him. He wasn't old enough to drink, but it had been an oversight and it wasn't like his father hadn't been passing the occasional can of beer his way since he was fourteen or fifteen. It occurred to him that he was engaging in underage drinking in front of a _senator _and he was in the sort of mood where he really didn't give a damn. Anyway, as part of Optimus's staff diplomatic immunity would cover him. He explained after swallowing, "Love, pure and simple."

"Love?" That was the actress.

"Love's never pure and simple," Jessica Sirius's father said, dryly, as he intercepted a glass of wine that the waiter tried to set down in front of his daughter and put it in front of his own plate. Jessica's figure and dress made her look older than she was, though Sam was surprised that the waiter hadn't recognized her from her music videos and television show and remembered she was sixteen. Her sweet-sixteen party had made the mainstream news because she'd invited a number of kids from a children's hospital to it. "If it was, we'd have a lot less to sing about."

The waiter skipped the rich boys, who were too clearly underage, and then paused before Kat, clearly trying to figure out how old she was. Her illness made her age difficult to judge. He hesitantly held a bottle of wine up, and she shot her mother a look, and her mother nodded once, somewhat to Sam's surprise. Kat reached a hand out and claimed her own glass of wine from the waiter.

"Bee would probably agree with you there," Sam said, with a low laugh that was echoed by the actress and the senator. "He's my best friend among the 'bots -- really, the best friend I've ever had. He's fallen for Manywinds ..." Sam pointed with a fork towards Windy, who was seated two tables away with his own collection of guests, "... and they're planning on making it official soon."

Sam definitely wasn't hungry now. He took another sip of the wine. Kat sipped hers, somewhat experimentally, then glanced up at him over the glass. They were all looking at him: famous, influential, powerful people, or the children of the same. He was certain his mother had deliberately put the other teens at his table (along with a couple responsible adults) in an effort to give him peers his own age to talk to. He was supposed to answer their questions, and generally make a case for the mechs with the Very Important People.

He glanced off across the room, taking in the scene. Every table -- and there were sixty tables -- had six to eight dignitaries, plus either a mech, one of their human friends, or a N.E.S.T. soldier. The only kids were at his table, or Mikaela's. Mikaela's group included several younger children that looked to be between six and twelve or so, and Wheelie was with her. Mikaela and Wheelie were walking the younger kids through programming some sort of robotic toy that Wheeljack had created for them. Sam had suggesting banning younger children from the party, and Optimus had firmly overriden that with the explanation of, "If they trust us enough to bring their children, it's a powerful statement, Sam."

There were thirty mechs attending the dinner, and the bigger 'bots were either sitting down on the ground or had been assigned tables along the edge of the raised floor, so they could talk over the railing with their assigned guests. The only mech who didn't have an assigned table, but who was attending the party, was Grimlock -- he was stationed by the door and was greeting guests as they entered. With Grimlock's persistant language difficulties they'd judged he would be best placed in a position where he didn't have to do more than basic interactions. Sam (and most of the rest of the staff) had begun to suspect that Grimlock _could _speak significantly more fluent English if he chose, but Ratchet claimed some of the language difficulties he had were, in fact, genuine. Grimlock himself had gruffly admitted he didn't think he could maintain a polite, in depth, conversation in English. (And Bee had promptly added that made sense, since he couldn't do it in Cybertronian, either. Grimlock had then chased Bee entirely around the outside of the Ark before catching Bee and thumping him a few times.)

"How do giant alien mechs make it official?" Kat said, with evident interest despite the fact that she seemed to be speaking slower and slower.

"Oh." Sam couldn't quite keep a blush from touching his cheeks. "Umm. I don't know all the details, but they, uh, instead of sex, they interface with each other. Like two computers making a network, only they apparently enjoy the experience. I think it's more about emotional intimacy than anything else. If they like someone enough to consider a lifetime's partnership with them, then they interface. If they're compatible, they keep doing it, and it makes for a very close bond between them. Optimus," he pointed the leader out, "and his partner Elita," he indicated her with his fork, "have been together for a several hundred thousand years, since long before the war, I guess. They were separated for thirty thousand years because he refuses to allow her in his direct chain of command and they'd broken up into groups too small to avoid that. He says he can't be impartial about Elita, so he won't put himself in a position where he has to try. They just got back together a few weeks ago, when she arrived on Earth. She almost died, too, in the battle with Soundwave and his symbiotes. The first time I saw Elita, Optimus was carrying her, dying, into the med bay. I can't imagine what it was like for him to see her for the first time in thirty thousand years, and she was so badly injured."

Jessica said, "Wow! That's so romantic."

"It is," her father agreed, lifting an eyebrow at her.

Jessica grinned. "Do you think he'd care if I wrote a song about that?"

"Optimus? I don't see why not. If you give me your phone number or your e-mail I can ask and get back to you." _He'd probably be embarrassed as hell, but he'll allow it, in the spirit of taking one for the team. _Then it occurred to him that he'd just asked Jessica-ever-loving-Sirius for her phone number, with a plausible chance of getting it. Had he been in a better mood, he would have grinned and made a joke about it, probably stammering as he did it. As it was, he just felt tired, and _wished _he could summon enough energy to feel the humor.

"It's just too cool that they've been partners that long," Kat agreed. She met Jessica's gaze and the two girls suddenly burst into giggles, for reasons that mystified Sam entirely.

Kat said, "I _so _want to hear that song when you write it. It's so cool. They must really, really love each other."

"Totally," Jessica agreed.

"It's like something out of a fantasy novel," Kat grinned, looking a bit more animated again.

"Oh, yeah. And the whole interfacing thing -- it's too cool." Jessica waved a fork with a piece of asparagus on it in the air, earning herself a pointedly parental look of disapproval from her father. "Do you think they can feel each other's emotions and hear thoughts and stuff?"

"They can," Sam confirmed. "I think that's the point."

"Oh, wow, that's like something out of a Mercedes Lackey novel," Jessica suggested.

"Or Anne McCaffery," Kat added.

The two girls looked at each other and started giggling again.

"It makes them seem very alien," the Senator said, in a tone of voice that was pitched primarily for Sam's ears. She was sitting in the next seat to his right. "We can't do anything like that. What do they think of human relationships? Our bonds are obviously much less secure. Do they see us as ... trivial?"

"Not at all," Sam said, with a firm shake of his head. "If anything, they're very respectful of family ties, and human couples' feelings for each other. Bee's the biggest cheerleader in the world when it comes to my relationship with my girlfriend. I think he'll be more upset than I will be if we break up."

He shut his mouth, and tried not to look as gloomy as he felt. This wasn't a good time for angst.

"Your girlfriend is apprenticing with Ratchet, isn't she?" The senator asked. "That came up a few times in discussions, because they wanted the right to legally employ humans, and she was cited by Optimus as one reason why."

Kat, who had been chattering with Jessica about the plot of a science fiction novel that both girls had liked, looked sharply over. "Ratchet's got a human apprentice?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Mikaela's got a pretty good aptitude for fixing things. He wants to train her as a medic." Sam said, then added, "Me, on the other hand, I'm doing good if I can figure out how to screw in a lightbulb."

"Some of those lightbulbs can be pretty darn challenging, you know," Kat said, with a teasing smile.

_Oh, Primus. _Sam was really, really, starting to hate this day. It just wasn't fair that Kat was so sick. It wasn't. She was the sort of person he'd love to have as a friend. Bee would _adore _her, and given that Doc had walked her to her seat earlier, he suspected the medic already did. The 'bots were suckers for teens, and suckers for anyone who wasn't afraid of them, and she was clearly both. He blurted out, "You're seventeen, right? When do you graduate?"

Her expression darkened. "I'm home schooled, and I finished high school level work a long time ago. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept me sane, you know, when my immune system was too depressed for me to go outside, or see any of my friends. So I studied. Lots. I finished the high school level stuff and got a diploma when I was eleven. I'd be going to college, 'cept I'm too sick. Been sick all my life. Get better for a bit, go into remission, and I'd start to think I might have won the fight, then I'd have a relapse. It pretty much sucked. "

She slumped in her seat and closed her eyes.

"Maybe ..." he hesitated. "Look, I'll talk to the 'bots. Maybe you can come to Nevada and help us sometime. God knows we could put you to work. I'll have to clear it with Optimus, but I bet he'd agree to it."

Her eyes opened and lit up, but her mother said softly, "How will you get there? We have no car and it's not like I can afford a plane ticket."

"I ..." she sighed, and bowed her head. "Yeah. I'm sorry, Mom."

"If it's okay with you, ma'am, I can talk to the mechs. Transportation isn't a big issue. She could come visit for a week or something, work with the guys, learn how we operate. They love kids -- they have very few younglings of their own, as they call them, and I'm willing to bet a month's salary that Optimus would clear it. She could work with me ... if one of the mechs can't pick her up I can pay for tickets."

"She's very sick," Emily said, voice strained to the point that it cracked. "N-no. I can't allow it. It would be t-to much risk for her, and t-to much trouble for you guys. If she got sicker while she was at your base, it'd be awful. I d-don't want that. What you've done for her today is more than enough. I just e-mailed your leader to ask him if he could have one of the mechs visit us while you were in town, because I wanted Kat to get a chance to meet them while, while, while she still could. I never expected to be invited to this. Okay? It's enough. It's more than enough."

"It's enough," Kat echoed, quietly. She set her wine glass down with a clink.

_This has got to be the worst day of my life. I really should have kept my mouth shut. _He realized he'd broken her heart, when he'd intended to lift it. _God. This sucks. This is the day of maximum suckage of suckitude. I cannot do a single thing right, period, end of story. _

The girl fell quiet, then, eyes half closed. She looked exhausted, as well as disappointed. Emily leaned over and said, "Kat, do you need to go lie down somewhere? Doc said if you needed a rest that they could get you a cot and a quiet room."

"I'm okay. I want to stick around for the music and the dancing and stuff. Mom, _please_. I'm not going to drop dead tonight." Her eyes were open again, and for the moment she was animated and intense again. "This might be my last ..." Kat trailed off, subsiding. She seemed to be breathing rapidly. Sam envied the mech ability to quickly scan vitals in that moment, as he'd gone from abstractly concerned for her to actively so. Then she said suddenly, with startling energy for someone who looked so bad, "Hey, will you dance with me, when the dancing starts?"

"Me?" Sam blinked at her. She looked like she'd break, or possibly have a heart attack, if she tried.

"Sure, you. Unless you're afraid of cancer cooties." She grinned, teasingly. "I'm not _that _scary looking. My mom wanted me to wear a wig today, but I said bald was beautiful."

"Oh, yeah, sure. Not a problem. I can do that." _Mikaela'd probably kick my ass if I _didn't_ dance with her. _"Just, you know, I have a girlfriend. She's pretty special. You know. Ummm."

Kat turned to Jessica and said, "Damn, he's cute."

Jessica giggled. "Totally adorable."

"Oh, God." Sam grabbed for his wine and took a huge swallow of it, finishing the cup.

He nearly lost the wine out his nose when the senator said, "Boy looks like that? Makes me wish _I _was a teenager again."

"You're never too old," the actress said, with a fond look at her thirty-something boyfriend, "to appreciate a handsome man."

A waiter refilled his wine as he was laughing to hide his discomfort at their teasing words. With a mental shrug he picked up the second glass, and tried to look dignified even as all four women and Jessica's father chuckled at his embarrassment.

* * *

After the dinner was well under way, Ratchet walked up to the stage. He didn't have the head room needed to stand on the stage, but he positioned himself in front of it and made a throat-clearing noise despite the fact that everyone had looked in his direction when he'd started walking across the room. "Greetings, Earthlings," he said, a statement which caused sudden silence to descend, then a few nervous giggles. Sam blinked with a sudden whiplash of memory to the first thing that Ratchet had ever said to him. Ratchet had learned a lot more about human culture and behavior since then, but he still had his clueless moments.

"... and that description of 'Earthlings' includes my own kind, from this day forth, by the laws signed over the last few weeks by your presidet." Ratchet added, with a smile that genuinely reached his eyes. Sam relaxed. Optimus would not have allowed Ratchet to speak without someone with more social savvy reviewing his planned words. And, he recalled, Ratchet had been a politician long before he'd become the Autobot's Chief Medical Officer. That implied he actually _could _give a speech, as improbable as it seemed to anyone who'd only known him as a cranky, tactless medic. "As many of you are aware, I am Ratchet, Optimus's chief medical officer. Before I became an Autobot, I was a Cybertronian physician, and a politician of significant rank -- equivalent to one of your congressmen."

He paused, scanning the crowd, then added, "A very long time ago, I joined Optimus. He was, and remains, our greatest hope for peace, and the salvation of our race. I believe that, at long last, he has led the last few weary Autobot survivors to a sanctuary where we will find peace, and a time of healing and recovery. It has been a long, hard, almost impossibly painful road but we are Earthlings now by your laws, and for as long as you will have us we will stay and make Earth our home."

He shuttered his optics, then opened them again and said, "I am a Prime, which means I am one of a handful of mechs who carries within us memories of virtually all of Cybertron's history and extensive records of our science and research. Though our civilization has fallen, our knowledge remains intact. None of it is lost, and each Prime carries within us the seeds of our future and the wisdom of our ancestors. This means I am a leader of my people, as Optimus is, though I will forever cede rule to Optimus. He has proven himself beyond all shadow of any doubt that the honor of being our highest commander is rightfully his."

Ratchet paused, and met Optimus's level gaze. Optimus was seated at the back of the room with several high-ranking politicians and their wives. Ratchet smiled, and Optimus nodded recognition of Ratchet's words. Ratchet continued, "I've been a wartime medic for longer than seems possible. I have failed in my duties far too many times. I've had friends, young soldiers, wise elders, a lover, and more than a few enemies die despite every effort to save their lives. I was once oathsworn never to kill, never to commit violence, with a vow very similar to that which your own medical professionals take: Do no harm. I have broken that oath five thousand, two hundred, and seventy-two times in combat because killing our enemies in defense of our ideals, our troops, and our allies was the lesser of two evils."

He gazed down at his hands, spread his fingers wide, then made two fists. "I had given up hope of ever seeing an end to the war, or ever finding a home for our people. Now, however, the four highest leaders of the Decepticon army have been eliminated, and the mech who heads them now, after over a hundred thousand years of war, is someone we believe we can work with. He is no paladin, no heroic savior, but he is honorable to a degree, he does not blindly hate us, and he is pragmatic enough to recognize that peace is our only real option. As I told him just yesterday, he has the potential to become someone we can believe in. It is entirely up to him, but I have high hopes for Fangface. On our side, we only fight because we are forced to and we have long been ready for peace."

Ratchet sighed, and lifted his fists up, then spread his fingers again, as if letting go of an unseen force. "I've fought, and I've killed, and my people have died by the hundreds of millions. I thought the war would never end, but now I have hope. I have hope that someday these hands will bring sparklings online rather than kill youngling Decepticon soldiers. I have hope that my people will be able to live in peace, those few of us who remain, on a world that we can call home. I have hope that we will be Earthlings by loyalty and citizenship, and someday our younglings will be Earthlings by birthright."

He shook his head, and said in a lower, almost apologetic tone, "We know we are asking for a lot. This is your world, your country, your society. We are not saying 'give us charity' -- we are saying we wish to immigrate, to become a part of your world, to contribute and share and settle on your world. We believe we bring with us a fair trade that will benefit your entire world. We will never take advantage of your hospitality, and we will never betray your kindness in accepting us." Ratchet ran a hand over his face, a sudden and candid gesture that Sam had learned from observation meant 'I'm seeing things I don't want to' to the 'bots, similar -- but not the same -- as the human gesture that meant, 'I'm frustrated and I'm thinking'. "Your world needs so much that we can give you, and while I know you may find this hard to believe, we care about _all _sentients. Those of us who joined the Autobot side did so initially because the Decepticons attacked an allied world of organic sentients without provocation or need, simply for political reasons, and millions died. We see no moral difference between mechanoid and humanoid life. We are all sentients, and all life is precious. As Optimus continually reminds us, all sentient life has a right to freedom."

Sam leaned back in his chair, listening to Ratchet speak. Ratchet's appeal was similar to Optimus's though delivered with less stately, dignified grace and more passion and vehemence. The crowd listened, rapt, though he wondered how many of them believed that Ratchet was telling the complete and total and unadorned truth. Sam knew it, but the crowd? Who knew.

Ratchet finally sat down, to thunderous applause, and Wheeljack stepped up.

"Hi. I'm 'Jack."

Wheeljack waved, and earned a laugh from the crowd purely for his unassuming delivery. After Ratchet's imposing presence, Wheeljack's mischievious grin was a sharp -- and probably deliberate -- contrast.

"Actually, it's Wheeljack, but you can call me 'Jack. Everyone does." Wheeljack rubbed his hands together. "Ratchet's given you the big fancy speech, and believe me, he meant every single word. Me, I'm just an inventor, and engineer, and ..."

"... a pain in the aft ..." Ratchet muttered from the crowd, in a tone that carried, causing another burst of laughter.

"... and that." Wheeljack saluted Ratchet. "Love you too, Ratch."

More laughter. The crowd was probably relieved to see someone who wasn't going to make a passionate and emotional appeal.

"I'm just here to show you some of our gee-whiz-cool stuff. You've seen this ..." lightning quick, he transformed into the DeLorean and back, to the oo's and aa's of the people, "... on TV and maybe in real life if you were lucky enough to see it. However, here's something we just submitted for a patent that will come on the market really quickly."

Suddenly, Wheeljack's colors rapidly shifted from silver to brilliant red, then to purple, then to black and gold, before cycling back to silver. "Paint nanytes are pretty basic. Here's a really big paint nanyte."

He held a hand up, and a holomatter image of gigantic nanyte, bigger that Wheeljack's head, appeared to balance on his fingertips. It was a spiky thing, looking vaguely like a metallic bacteria, with a multitude of segmented tentacles waving from it. Wheeljack proceeded to bounce the nanyte with his fingertips for a moment before tossing it out into the room. He materialized a couple dozen more and tossed them out to people. The crowd obligingly bounced the giant holomatter nanytes around, person to person, like sofa-sized balloons. When one came Sam's way and he and Kat batted it away, he discovered it didn't weigh more than a soap bubble.

"Color, of course, is caused by what bandwidths of light are reflected versus what are absorbed." He held up two somewhat smaller nanyte models over his head, and brought them together until the tendrals touched. "The closer together they are, the higher the bandwidth they reflect. Paint nanytes hook together like this," the tendrils fused together, "and by altering the amperage of a very low power current through them, you can cause the connections to contract or expand."

The paint nanytes floated in the air and he appeared to zap them with a sizzling arc of electricity from his fingertips. They moved closer together and changed to bright red.

"Humans actually have the beginnings of this technology, but ours is lots more advanced. Now, the obvious application is paint ..." he held his arms wide and rippled rainbow colors across his armor, then made pink and purple polka dots. Then he turned around, pinned his doorwings flat, and on that wide surface made the message 'Ratchet loves Ironhide' appear inside a heart. The 'bots laughed more than the humans did. Ratchet covered his face with his hand. Ironhide made his weapons capacitors hum loudly at Wheeljack. Jack grinned at both of them when he turned back around and said to the crowd, "... obviously, you could change your car's colors to match your clothes, or your mood, or just to satisfy a whim. However, paint's just the tip of the iceberg. I'd like to draw your attention to the ceiling ..."

Everyone obligingly looked up ... in time to see a blue sky full of puffy clouds appear over their heads. The clouds moved, scudding across the ceiling with speed.

"I'm sure most of you are thinking of practical applications now for this. Here's what _I _like to do with it, however ..." he pointed at a wall, then made a swirling motion with his fingers. A tunnel straight out of Looney Toons appeared on the wall. And then Wheelie, who had discretely gotten up and moved into position, suddenly transformed and screamed towards the wall at a high rate of speed.

Sam cringed, expecting the young mech to go splat. Instead, he disappeared through it.

"Ta-da!"

_Oh. Wait. There's a door there. Holo-matter, duh._

With a fireworks-like sparkle, the wall -- and the floating paint nanyte models -- dissolved. Behind the wall and fax tunnel there was the door that Sam had forgotten about. Wheelie waved and ran back to his seat, grinning. The crowd applauded. Wheeljack said, "Now _that _obviously wasn't just paint nanytes. That was holomatter, and we've already licensed that technology for entertainment purposes. It can be made either solid or illusory, as the wall was, and it can seem quite real ..."

The clouds on the ceiling had been building up to thunderheads, darkening. Thunder suddenly rumbled and rain started to fall from the ceiling.

Sam gasped right along with the crowd. A chorus of startled, even angry voices rose, shortly followed by noises of wonder and a few expressions of fear. Sam could see the rain, pouring down in sheeting gusts, could feel the patter of drops on his skin, but when he ran a hand over the sleeve of his tux he realized he was not getting wet. It was an eery sensation.

People had stood up, first in surprise, then in wonder. Hands were lifted towards the holomatter rain. Sam spotted a famous director who was so excited he was standing on his chair and waving his hands in the air. He was seated at Kup's table, and Kup said in a low voice that still carried to Sam's ears, "You could make a _hell _of a movie with this, now couldn't you? Sure beats surround-sound."

The rain cleared and the clouds grew lighter. A vast sky of endless twinkling stars appeared overhead, and then the room itself disappeared. The chairs and tables appeared to be on the top of a tall tower. Wheeljack said mischeviously, "Everyone please remain seated while we take you on a tour of some of the greatest splendors of the universe. We will be using our intertial dampers to simulate the feeling of flight, but I assure you, the ship itself is remaining firmly planted on the ground."

_I really hope they believe him, _Sam thought -- though apparently Optimus had thought of this, because the doors had discretely opened to the outside. If anyone was worried about the ship _really _taking off, they could see a 'window' through the illusion to the street outside, and leave if they wanted. Most of the crowd had settled down and was staring about in rapt fascination.

Suddenly, the sixty or so tables were surrounded by the illusion of the observation deck of the Ark itself. Sam was pretty sure they hadn't actually teleported outside, but the holomatter projection was incredibly convincing, particularly when a cool breeze began to blow through the room. A low thrum vibrated under their feet and then the ship 'took off' and launched skywards. Artificial gravity increased and pulled them back towards the stern of the starship, just enough to feel like acceleration. There was a blurring rainbow effect around them and then they were soaring between buildings the size of monolithic mountains, miles high, shining and shimmering metal. It truly felt like they were sitting on the top of the starship in active flight.

He glanced out the doorway, and he wasn't the only one. Nope. Street still visible outside, a solid and consistent break in the illusion. (It occurred to him that the mechs could fake the appearance of the street, though he personally knew they wouldn't.)

They swooped low over a street full of pedestrians -- mechanoids, Sam realized, whent the ship 'tilted' to one side to show vast crowds.

"Cybertron, as it once was," Wheeljack said, softly. The ship rose higher, lifting above the rooftops. A shimmering, glittering city of glass and steel, brilliantly lit, populated with throngs of mechs, stretched out on all sides. "It's gone, now. The planet is a charred cinder, the city in ruins, populated by small numbers of still-warring survivors. We've a few small factories there, and more mechs who scavange supplies and parts from the ruins, but that's it. What you see will never be again. But other places ... there's so much beauty in the universe, that we've seen. Each of the Autobots here on Earth has contributed a memory of a special place somewhere in the universe. I hope you'll find them as beautiful as we do."

Sam watched with awe right along with the others as the ship 'accelerated' and the view 'blurred' and then suddenly they were soaring above a vast landscape of craters and ridges, with a sun rising low over the horizon and casting long shadows. Wheeljack said, "A moon in a distant system far from here ..." the ship floated low over the landscape, and to the right they saw the bubbles of a small settlement. "Contrary to popular rumor, Ironhide does not predate the point of singular chaos from which the universe arose. He was brought online -- born, you would say -- in the small city you see to the right. His original purpose was that of a miner, as that was his mentor's occupation. However, he joined the army long, long before the conflict with the Decepticons began. It was so long ago I'm not even sure the other Primes could remember it ..."

"... you do remember you're scheduled for gunnery range practice with me next week?" Ironhide interjected, to the laughter of the crowd.

Wheeljack saluted Ironhide. "Yes, sir!"

More laughter, and a smattering of applause.

_He's good! _Sam realized. Wheeljack had always seemed affable, even downright friendly, but he'd never expected that the engineer could work a crowd like this. He was doing a good job at it. Sam found he was actually enjoying himself, and the dark cloud of gloom over his head seemed to lift a little.

"You'll note that if the cities you see are on airless worlds there are atmospheric domes. We do not require oxygen to survive, but we require special modifications to operate efficiently in a vaccuum. Heat dispersal becomes a significant problem, and there are issues with hydraulic lines and fuel systems that need to be addressed."

Sam watched as Wheeljack narrated a tour through the universe. They saw more of Cybertron including vast canyons, endless cities of skycrapers and crystal gardens and civilizations on other worlds. Hound's contribution was a city carved into the cliffs of a canyon. Flora and Windy had provided a joint memory, of a city made of living trees and populated by a race of winged bipeds that looked more fragile than the Autobot flier, and which swooped and dove on the winds. Ratchet showed them a building carved entirely from crystal, on world inhabited by elephant-sized centaur like sentients.

Wheeljack added of the natives of that world, "Only time I've ever seen organics that could beat us at hand to hand in training practice. It was way cool. Starscream, Megatron's Air Commander, was leading a raid on their refineries to get the raw materials for energon, and we teamed up with them to drive them off. Turned out they probably didn't need our help. I watched one of their leaders get ahold of Screamer and pull his wings off. Couldn't have happened to a nicer 'con."

Sam said softly to his table, as they flew over an endless crowd of sentients who were worshipping at a temple on an alien world, "I'm betting almost all of these will have people in them. Something I've noticed about the mechs is that they're not very comfortable alone. They don't require the company of others of their own kind, they're just as happy with the company of _any _sentient species, but they don't like solitude. You know Jetfire was almost out of energon, down to the last few fumes, despite conserving every drop he could for thousands of years, right? Well, he could have gone off somewhere to enter stasis lock by himself, but he didn't. He took the place of a plane in a museum, a place where there would be crowds, just so he wouldn't be alone."

He was right about that guess, too. There was only one memory without other people in it. Sunstreaker's choice was the top of a mountain at sunrise, an alien sun, larger than Earth's, was rising low over a horizon and the clouds overhead were vivid red. Below them, peaks poked through a dense, billowing layer of fog and the occasional break in the white exposed vivid, almost incandescent, greenery.

"And then, of course, there's Bumblebee, our resident scout, diplomat, and human expert. He asked me to show a favorite memory from very shortly after his arrival that he finds symbolic of where we are today. Bee was once a musician on our world, before he joined the Autobots at the start of the war. One thing we've discovered is that species which create music and art tend to also have the traits necessary to establish true civilization, and develop a solid understanding of the science. Art and science are two sides of the same coin, we believe, both requiring creativity, discipline, and an intuitive understanding of mathematical principles which are so basic you may not even be aware of it. Humans have an astounding amount of talent in art, and a correspondingly bright future.

"Bee says he was exploring a city when he heard a distinctive pattern of sounds which could only be music and went to investigate ..."

A blur, and they were flying over a city that Sam didn't recognize, though it looked like it was somewhere on the East Coast by the architecture.

"... and then he found a hill overlooking a city park. The park was packed with people, and a musician was playing what we later learned was rock and roll. Bee says he was fascinated, both by the music and by the crowd."

With a soft 'bump' from the inertial dampers, the ship set down on the hill. Beyond the railing there was an enormous mass of people. Softly at first, then louder, the strains of a very well known song by Van Knight began to play. The song was about peace and an end to war, a famous anthem, and Sam realized, deeply appropriate. The mechs stood up quietly, ghostly shadows in the darkness that had fallen over the hold and the stage. Wheeljack was lit by a spotlight, but Sam couldn't see any detail of everything else.

The song had a slow beat. Crowds normally clapped to it, and the crowd that Bee had remembered was, a steady rhythm.

_Thump._

The sound came from all around.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

He realized with a blink that the Autobots were stamping their feet in time with the music when he saw Wheeljack's foot move. Autobot hands weren't really designed for clapping, but with their mass, and the hollow deck plating, the sound of their stomping feet was impressive. The music changed, gaining that certain timbre that indicated it was a truly live performance. A spotlight brightened on the stage, illuminating the Van Knight and his band, who had slipped silently onto the stage while the diners were distracted by Wheeljack's performance. The Autobots kept stamping ... and after a moment, people stood up and started joining them.

_Wow! _Sam thought, as he jumped up and joined in. He might think that the lead singer was a jerk, but _damn _what an entrance! He'd been so wrapped up in guest list issues that he'd had no idea what the 'bots were planning beyond the basics -- some demonstrations of Autobot science, a speech or two, and the music and dancing. The Autobots had been absolutely insistent on the latter because, apparently, giant alien robots liked to dance. Additionally, Bumblebee had commented that humans associated positive emotions with both energetic activity and music. The dancing was a very deliberate attempt to lift the moods of the guests, and leave them with an association of positive excitement in regards to the mechs. Sam wasn't sure if it would work or not, but it was an interesting theory.

He had been surprised at how _calculating _the Autobots sometimes seemed in their attempts to gain the approval of humanity. On reflection of the matter he'd realized they had millions of years of history to draw on, and that the Primes remembered many of those first contacts personally. They'd done this before, perhaps many times. If their presentation seemed polished, it was because they had done this before. Optimus, Elita, and Ratchet were all politicians, additionally, and Bee had some experience as an entertainer.

_Why Wheeljack? _Sam wondered, about the choice of 'Jack as a primary speaker. He was a scientist, high ranking but not a Prime, and he had not been working with the human VIPs before. He was new to them and new to Earth. Still, he was clearly good at the job.

The song played to its end and cheers erupted. Wheeljack indicated the stage with a wave of his hand, "I give you the Van Knights. We are honored by their presence." He put his hands together over his head and clapped human style, prompting another round of applause. Then he trotted off to the side, and the Van Knights continued the song to its conclusion, then fell silent for a moment.

A spotlight shone out on the dance floor, illuminating two mechs who'd quietly walked out there without the audience's awareness. It was Ironhide and Ratchet, and Ratchet had removed the usual decals and logos on his armor. Sam wondered if eliminating the writing was the mech version of putting on formal wear.

_When did they find time to coordinate with the band? _Sam wondered. He'd suggested the Van Knights to Optimus, Optimus had okay'd them, then he had lost track of the plans for the events in favor of his own problems, both official and unofficial. Thinking of Mikaela and Bee made him scan the room for them. He couldn't see Mikaela, or Bee's humanoid half, in the dark. However, Bee's yellow armor was a paler shadow three tables over to his right, blue eyes glowing bright with what was likely appreciation of the music.

While he had his head turned, the band struck up an upbeat song with a beat slow enough for large mechs to dance to. The theme of this song was brotherhood, and that was definitely a good choice for those two. It didn't look entirely like human dancing because they were mirroring each other's moves with impossible precision, and he noticed with interest that both mechs were pulsing their optics in time with the beat. They moved so closely in sync that they _had _to have either practiced extensively or were communicating movements over the comm with each other.

They spun, they jumped, they feinted, they swirled in circles around each other. It was a little bit like combat practice, and almost hypnotically graceful. The sound of their heavy feet landing with precise counterpoint to the drums sounded as if it was part of the music. He'd never seen anything like it, and yet it seemed as natural as any human dance.

Both took a bow at the end, and then grinning, hurried off the floor. Wheeljack, somewhere off in the darkness, announced, "And we now open up the floor for dancing. Those of us who are short enough to move safely around everyone will remain up here and will join you on the floor. Enjoy the music!"

"You done with dinner?" Kat said, leaning over to him.

He'd been unable to eat most of his meal, though he was in good company -- Kat might have consumed two mouthfuls at most. He glanced over at Mikaela, wondering if he should give her the first dance, but Mikaela was already headed for the floor. Her partner looked to be about fourteen years old, was towing her by the hand, and belatedly he recognized the boy as the child star of a popular sitcom. He grinned. The kid had good taste. He suspected Mikaela, with her looks and her position with the Autobots, was going to be a popular partner tonight.

"Yeah, I'm good." He stood up and offered Kat his arm.

Fortunately, this song was slower. The girl was painfully thin, and she moved with a slight limp and a definite stiffness. Still, she was grinning hugely. And then, halfway through the song, Doc approached. The medic tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Mind if I cut in?"

Her eyes seemed to glow with excitement. "You want to dance with me?" she squeaked, in what Sam suspected was near heart-stopping awe. Apparently, while he was an appealing partner, he didn't measure up to the novelty of dancing with an alien.

"Only if you're going to breathe," Doc teased, gently, as he offered her his hand. As they moved away, Doc asked, "Are you enjoying yourself?"

Kat's answer came quickly, "Hell, yeah! That fake rain was so cool! Do your pulse cannons use holomatter too?"

"Err ..." Doc shook his head at her, as Sam watched them move away. "... err, yeah, actually, a highly accelerated version, but it's the same technology."

Their voices were lost in the music at that point, and Sam made his way to the edge of the dance floor. Kat's mother approached him then, and leaned over, and whispered, "Doc ... I'm sorry, I didn't get his name, it's Doc what?"

"Just Doc, actually. That _is _his designation in our language. I suspect from what Ratchet's said that he has a nickname in Cybertronian that's similar." He hesitated, "Emily, you know your daughter's scary-smart."

"Yeah, she is. She learned to read before she learned to walk." Emily grinned. "She makes me so proud sometimes. I wish ..." she trailed off, and didn't say what she wished. He didn't press, because he didn't want to hear it. His bad mood returned in a rush.

Instead, he turned back to the dance floor. It was a new song, something bouncy and upbeat, and much to his amusement Bee was now dancing with the _flaming _gay host of a late night cable talk show. He had no doubt that the man would get quite a bit of comedic material from the experience. Bee, for his part, didn't seem to mind, even when the man threw in some downright slutty moves. Bee just grinned at the man's attempts to grind up against him, then spun the actor off towards Manywinds. Windy took over, and to Sam's everlasting disbelief, managed to return and _top _the actor's outrageous hip-thrusting, shimmying, over-the-top hypersexed moves. It was absolutely remarkable how a six foot tall robot could suddenly look like he was pole dancing without a pole, while making half the people watching crack up laughing.

Bee made his way over to Sam, leaned close so he could be heard, and said, "If Optimus sees Windy doing that, he's _so _going to be on punishment detail for a week."

"You know," Sam said back, "I think I like Windy."

"He's really remarkable. I don't think I've ever met anyone like him before," Bee said. He regarded Sam speculatively for a moment, a curious expression on his face, then he turned to one of the other bystandards -- a woman Sam didn't recognize at all -- and leaned closer and said, "Anita Tucker, am I right?"

_Oh, yeah, the writer. _She wrote horror novels that often featured aliens as bad guys. Sam had nearly rejected her application on those grounds, but had talked himself out of it. Writers were high on the list of people that the 'bots wanted to meet.

The writer's eyes lit up in surprise. "Yes?"

"I promise I'm a lot less scary than that tentacled thing in your last book. May I have this dance?"

"Oh, wow. Sure."

Out on the dance floor, Wheelie was dancing with Jessica Sirius. The young mech moved as well as his elders, and Jessica was _known _for her dancing. They were getting stares for entirely different reasons than Windy and his partner. Meanwhile, Manywinds, laughing, finally gave up trying to best the talk show host in a war of dirty moves, and scampered off towards Sam. "Your turn!" Windy said, grabbing Sam by the wrist before he realized he was Windy's intended dance partner.

"What? Hey! No!" He had no desire to dance with the mech who'd just been doing pelvic thrusts for comic effect.

Windy, giggling madly, spun Sam out, like Sam was a girl. _Oh, shit, I pull away from him and it looks _bad _to anyone watching, like I don't like him, like I'm afraid ..._

He saw his parents as Windy pulled him back. His chest bumped against Windy's armor, and he saw over Windy's shoulder that his father was laughing and pointing, and elbowing his mother. His mother was politely smiling in reaction to whatever his father had said. Her expression was the one she wore when she didn't want to start a fight, but it clearly said she was unhappy with his father's behavior.

Grimly, he cooperated with Windy, forcing himself to smile and move with the mech. _Damn you, Windy, _he thought, wishing fiercely for his own commlink to hiss a threat at the mech, _I'm never going to live this down!_

Windy was deaf to Sam's angry thoughts, and gracefully swirled Sam around again. Sam thought furiously at him, _You ass. You're treating me like I'm the girl! At least let me lead!_

He saw his father again. His father was laughing aloud, almost doubled over, pointing at him. _Shit, he's drunk!  
_  
A hand tapped him on the shoulder. "Care if I cut in?"

_Oh, thank Primus, Bee. I owe you my life yet again. _Sam stepped aside, assuming Bee wanted to dance with his intended.

"Ah, I guess you can have him. I think I've traumatized him enough for one night," Windy said, cheerfully, and trotted off in the general direction of a giggling knot of young women.

Sam stared at Bee, then down at Bee's hand. His brain stuttered to a halt when he realized Bee was asking _him _to dance. Bee caught his hand and pulled him closer, then rested his free hand on Sam's shoulder. He leaned towards Sam, and for terrified moment Sam thought Bee might be about to kiss him on the cheek. Instead, he whispered, "You looked like you wanted to be rescued."

His stomach tried to revolt. He swallowed hard and said, "Uh, thanks."

Bee's fingers were warm on his shoulder. They were close enough together that he could see that Bee's inhumanly blue eyes had little flecks of gold around the edges of the iris. He'd automatically dropped his own hand to Bee's waist, and he wondered why they were just standing in place until he realized that Bee was expecting him to lead. Uneasily, and swallowing back saliva that had suddenly started to fill his mouth, he took a few steps and Bee followed easily. Bee was looking at him, expression curious, head tilted to one side. His best friend added, "I halfway expected you to panic and run when Windy grabbed you. He says he's sorry, by the way. He didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I yelled at him for you."

"Uh." Wildly, some insane part of his brain thought, _I wish this was for real. _It was, crazily, almost pleasant to be hold Bee in his arms. Then he turned a bit more and saw his father, who was no longer laughing. Now his father was _staring_, mouth hanging open. Then he turned to Sam's mother, and said something that was undoubtedly truly rude, because his mom's reply carried even over the music.

"Ron Witwicky, you're a _jerk_!"

His throat contracted. "Let me go! I don't want this!" He shoved Bee away, and tried to run for the bathroom. He didn't even make it out of the spotlights on the stage before two glasses of soured wine, several bites of steak, and a couple pieces of asparagus all came up in a hot, foul, miserable mess. He jerked back upright after he was done, face flaming, horrified, tears streaming suddenly down his face. Everyone was staring at him. Even Van Knight, up on the stage, was staring at him, though the musician was too much of a profession to stop singing. Doc was heading in his direction, as was his mom.

Bee was just _looking _at him, eyes wide, hand over his own mouth. He couldn't stand to see the hurt in Bee's eyes. He bolted, heading with long, leggy strides for somewhere, anywhere, but the middle of a crowd of people who were all staring at him. Once he was free of the crowd, he broke into a headlong run into the interior of the ship. He couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the look of pain in Bee's eyes, or the disgust on his father's, or the stares of all the strangers. He just couldn't take it any more.


	53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

* * *

He hid in Ratchet's office, ultimately, as he was slightly familiar with the small room. A minute or two after Sam slumped to the ground with his back to a wall, Teletraan spoke up. "I saw what happened, Sam."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Bee is looking for you. Do you want me to tell him where you are?" Teletraan's words were soft.

"Hell no."

"I've locked the door, and advised him you do not wish to see him at this time. Unless he can provide a compelling safety or security reason to find you, I will respect your privacy." Teletraan's words were measured.

"I'm sorry." He didn't know why he was apologizing to Teletraan, except that he felt utterly awful and needed to say it to _someone_.

"About the vomit? It's already cleaned up." Teletraan had misinterpreted what he meant, and Sam was vaguely grateful for this. "Doc wants to know if you still feel nauseated?"

"No, I think I'm done. Tell Doc my nerves just got the better of me." The Autobots had to think he'd let them down. He'd embarrassed them, and himself. He'd hurt Bee's feelings even worse, and he wished he could go back and change everything so it turned out better. He wrapped his arm around his knees. "I just want to be alone."

* * *

_:Any luck?: _Bee asked Windy, after having checked the cabin, the observation deck, the zoo hold, and everywhere else he could think of. It was a huge ship, with a thousand nooks and crannies, and Sam could be anywhere, up to and including the ventilation shafts.

_:I'd tell you as soon as I found him, Bee.: _Windy sounded quite upset. Code transmitted with the response said he was in the med bay. _:Look, I'm sorry, I didn't realize he was even upset.:_

:You're still learning to read human body language. Don't blame yourself.: Bee ran a hand over his face plate, then leaned tiredly against a wall. _:Anyway, he was wound up all day. His father was making fun of him while both of us were dancing with him, and he knew it, and that was the final straw.:_

Optimus pinged him, and Bee responded without any sort of preamble, _:We haven't found him, boss, and Teletraan won't say where he's at unless he's in danger, or a security risk. Sam's asking to be left alone.:_

:How are you doing, Bee?: Optimus's question was pointed.

Bee didn't dare tell anything but the truth. He'd never been able to lie to Optimus. The few times he'd tried, Optimus had seen right through him, and had reacted with a punishment detail of work on top of extracting the truth out of him anyway. He suspected that his rank was a bit too high for Optimus to put him on floor-polishing duty again, but he wouldn't swear to it. Optimus demanded honesty from his troops, above all else, even on matters like this. Therefore, where a human might react with a white lie, Bee replied candidly, _:I am a bit shaken.:_

Optimus sounded unsurprised. _:You're off duty for the rest of the night. Return to your quarters, or Windy's, at your choice. This is not intended as a punishment.:_

:I know, I know, boss. We can't have any more incidents at the party.: He didn't resent Optimus's decision, though he was profoundly unhappy with himself. _:I'm sorry.:_

:Sam will come out and talk to us when he is ready to do so. I am quite certain Teletraan will alert us immediately if his situation changes. It's clear he doesn't want to speak to us now, so perhaps it is best if we leave him alone. If he doesn't emerge from hiding by tomorrow morning, then I will order Teletraan to reveal his hiding location on the grounds that he's scheduled for a duty shift starting at eight AM.:

:Thanks, Boss.: Bumblebee sighed heavily, aloud. _:I am sorry. I am at least partly responsible for his breakdown.:_

:I believe that may be correct.: Optimus sounded displeased, and Bee winced in reaction. He suspected Optimus knew more than he was letting on, and those sharp words were concerning more than just tonight's mistakes.

_:I'll talk to him.:_

:Do that. He's a valued member of this team, my friend, and yours. I am not at all happy to see him hurting so badly because of your behavior.: Optimus's tone was scathing now.

_:I didn't do anything to him deliberately!: _His leader's words stung. He always tried his best to please Optimus, he could not remember a time when Optimus had last used that particularly tone of angry disapproval on him, and worse, Optimus's words confirmed Bee's darkest fears. He shuttered his optics. He couldn't take this.

In a softer tone of voice, sounding almost sympathetic now, Optimus said, _:You and I are going to have a long talk later, Bee. I'm not angry with you so much as frustrated. I saw what happened on the dance floor, and Teletraan showed me the video of what happened at the breakfast buffet.:_

:Slaggit. He won't tell me where Sam is, but he gossips on us to you?: Bee couldn't keep the irritation from his response.

_:I specifically asked if anything of significance had happened between you two, and made it an order to report. Bee. We'll talk tomorrow after we've both had some recharge.:_

:Yessir.:

Windy came around the corner, then, and jumped up onto his shoulder before Bee was fully ready for it. He jumped, a bit startled, then said ruefully, "I'm sorry, Manywinds. I don't think tonight's a good night. We should put our plans on hold for a few days."

"Nuts." Windy's reaction was pointed, and he poked Bee in the head with one finger when he said it. "If _anyone _needs a good interface right now, it's you, Bee."

Bee bowed his head. "It should be a happy occasion. I'm not happy."

At that moment, a door slid open behind them. Sam stepped out, to Bee's immense relief. He looked like he'd been crying, and he was pale and shaken. "Bee. I heard you talking."

Bee knelt, and dislodged Windy from his shoulder by the simple expedient of leaning forward. Windy landed on his feet, unruffled, and said, "Hey, Sam, sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"'S okay, Manywinds. I was pretty upset anyway."

Windy fell silent, fidgeting and clearly ill at ease. He looked from Sam, to Bee, and back. Bee suddenly found he didn't know what to say, and before he could stop himself, he simply chirped like he had before his voice had been repaired. Sam smiled shakily, and Bee extended his hand out and picked him up. "Windy, I need a few minutes with Sam. I'll comm you later, if ... if I feel up to anything. I don't know."

Windy rested a hand on Bee's knee. "Okay. I understand."

He looked disappointed, Bee thought. Big blue optics stared up at him, then Manywinds hastily averted his gaze. His shoulders slumped. "I'll see you later."

Bee carried Sam back into Ratchet's office, and engaged the privacy shield on the room before setting Sam down on Ratchet's desk. Sam sat down, wrapped his arms around his knees, and just looked at Bee without a word.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Not your fault." Sam covered his face with both hands. "My issues are _not _your fault. Anyway, I was already pretty upset. And nauseous."

"Are you sick?"

"Nah." Sam hunched like he'd been struck. "Used to do that all the time when I was upset about something. Missed school sometimes when I was a kid, I'd be so worried about what they'd say to me, or do to me, I'd end up barfing before class. Just emotions."

"What were you so upset about?" Bee tilted his head sideways, regarding Sam with both curiosity and concern. "I don't understand."

"The party, mostly. All those famous people and stuff."

Sam was lying. Bee could tell just by the way that Sam averted his eyes. It was, he thought, one of those 'white lies' that humans found polite, though it was sometimes hard for Bee to wrap his head around the fact that an untruth could be considered good manners.

Sam straightened up a bit, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the desk. "Bee, you really care about Manywinds a lot, don't you?"

Bee nodded. "Windy says he is very sorry about the dance. He assumed you would be fine with him, given how long you've been working with us. You know we're not male. He didn't think how his earlier behavior would then reflect on you when he asked for you to dance with him. He was a bit overcharged by the excitement, I think, and he also only has a few weeks of experience working with humans. It was unfortunate, but I'm not going to blame him overmuch for upsetting you."

"Thanks for trying to rescue me."

"Hm. I don't think I made things much better, but I thought if I yelled at Windy _before _I stepped in, he might react in a way that would draw more attention to you than there already was." Bee slowly lowered a hand to rest next to Sam, with more care than he normally would have taken. He'd made Sam flinch several times, and Sam knew that very cautious movement was because he didn't want to startle Sam.

Sam put his own hand down on top of Bee's. "Is he going to get in trouble for that dance with the actor, uh, what's his name -- Alastair?"

"Prime's already scolded him. That was minor. And I suspect that Windy will probably do things like that again. He's got a wicked sense of humor and a real competitive streak, and Alastair threw him a challenge he couldn't pass up. Manywinds finds human mating behavior fascinating, and he found a lot of amusement in acting out a caricature of it." Bee turned around and hitched himself up to sit on the desk next to Sam. Sam's head barely came up to Bee's elbow. "Sam, I know you're upset about other things. Are you going to be okay? If you need some time to get away, I suspect that Optimus would authorize us to go for a drive tonight. We could invite Mikaela, if you like."

"And be chased by fifty SUVs and a helicopter or two? I'll pass." Sam leaned over sideways, resting against Bee's side. "Anyway, you had plans with Windy, I think."

Bee cradled a hand around Sam, cool metal fingers gentle and tender. "It can wait."

"Bee, you love Windy, right?"

"Something like that," Bee said, though that wasn't quite true. He liked Windy, and hoped he was someone he _could _love. "But Windy will understand if we wait."

"Bee, no." Sam straightened up, pushing Bee's fingers away with a firm shove of both hands. His voice shook a bit, but he said, "I'm fine, I'm not mad at either of you, and you can stop worrying. It wasn't your fault, and we'll still be friends tomorrow. Okay?"

"I'd disagree on the 'not my fault bit'," Bee said, with an amused chuff of a laugh, feeling worlds better now that he'd talked to Sam. "I tell you what -- Windy will probably own my aft for the next couple of days, but why don't we plan on driving back to the base together? We can take the scenic route."

"Only if you bring Windy too."

"And Mikaela."

"It's a deal." Sam ran a hand over his face. "God, my father's going to give me hell about that dance with you. And barfing. I don't think I've ever been more embarrassed in my life."

"Walk away, if he does," Bee advised. "He can't hassle you if you are out of earshot."

"You know, Optimus told me the same thing," Sam said, with a laugh that sounded like he actually might be feeling it.

"Well, I learned that tactic from him. And as far as humiliation goes, that had _nothing _to do with the time I neglected to empty my waste lubrication chamber for far too long, and it sprang a leak in the middle of a meeting of Prime's top officers. That would be akin to peeing your pants in front of the President." Bee chuckled dryly. "I was a bit young, dumb, and probably about as nervous to be speaking to them as you were today. I did _not _know them as friends yet. I was just a junior officer who'd gotten some good intel, and I was scared to death. Stupidly, I'd shut off the sensors to the reservoir earlier that day when the alarms lit, with the intent of emptying it later, and then forgot, and it hit critical and purged out my vents."

Sam snickered, and with a few tens of thousands of years of distance from that event, Bee could chuckle now too. He added, "So there I was standing in front of Optimus, Prowl, Ratchet, Magnus, Elita, Jazz, and Ironhide with waste oil running down my legs, and trying to keep a straight face and pretend nothing was wrong while answering questions about a report I'd turned in. Then Ratchet looked up from his datapad, scowled at me, and pointed out that was not the recommended way to oil my knee joints." Bee covered his optics with his hand. "I seriously contemplated becoming a Decepticon that day, just so I'd never have to look them in the optics again."

Sam snorted a laugh that was definitely genuine, and patted Bee on the arm in commiseration. Bee was incredibly relieved to hear that noise. Sam then shoved on Bee's elbow and said, "Go see Windy, Bee. He's probably waiting for you."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, I will." Sam nodded firmly. "I think I'll sit here a bit longer then, I dunno, maybe go back to the party, maybe go up to the deck. I'll be fine. Go on."

Bee brushed a single finger along Sam's cheek, more intimate than he normally would have been with Sam, but Sam didn't seem to mind the gentle touch. Sam repeated, "Go. And good luck."

Bee nodded, and withdrew. _:Windy,: _he said, after the door whooshed shut behind him. _:Sam's okay. Do you still want to ...:_

:Do you even have to ask_, Bumblebee?: _Windy's laughter across the comm was musical.

Bee smiled. Maybe, just maybe, things would work out. He did like Windy. There was just something special about the little mech. It occurred to him that if he'd met Windy before he'd met his humans, he wouldn't have any hesitation at all about his relationship with Windy. And since he couldn't _have _his humans, he had no real reason to think twice about this. Windy was perfect for him, and he believed -- hoped, anyway -- that they would be happy together.

* * *

Mikaela cursed softly, "Teletraan, are you _sure _you can't tell me where Sam is?"

She stood in the middle of one of the conference rooms, having checked some Autobot-sized cabinets along one wall to see if Sam had hidden in them. The cabinets were empty. The ship was vast; he could be anywhere, and without Teletraan's assistance she had little hope of finding him. Her cell phone didn't seem to work inside the ship, and when she'd stepped out onto the observation deck, Sam's had rolled over to voice mail.

After a moment, the ship's spark responded, "He is fine, Mikaela. Bee found him and they parted on good terms. I informed him that you were still looking for him as well, and he has again expressed his desire to be alone for a bit, and advised that I should tell you not to worry about him."

"Why doesn't he want to talk to me?"

"I believe he simply wants a little time alone."

Mikaela made a face, and asked again, "Did he say _why _he wanted time alone?"

"I'm not going to disturb him simply to satisfy your curiosity," Teletraan said, a strong note of disapproval in his voice.

"But ..."

"He made it quite clear that he wishes time alone."

"Damn him," Mikaela muttered under her breath, unaccountably angry. She was his girlfriend. He wasn't supposed to avoid her. Something was _wrong _and he didn't trust her enough to talk to her. Finally, frustrated, she snapped, "Well, screw him. There's still a party going on."

* * *

Kat was looking more than a little tired. After her short dance with Sam, she'd retired to the sidelines where she could people watch. Doc, in turn, had been keeping a careful optic on her even as he did his social duty and circulated amongst the guests. When he scanned her and found her heart rate notably elevated, he pinged Optimus.

_:Go ahead, Doc.:_

:I believe that Katherine could use a break from the excitement. Do you mind if I escort her down to the med bay for a bit?:

:That might be wise.:

Doc regarded the girl for a moment longer. She was clapping her hands together in time to the music, though her motions were a bit ragged. She looked exhausted, and tense, like she hurt. Her mother, standing behind her, was watching her daughter with obvious concern in her eyes.

_:Optimus ...:_

:Figure out a way to make it legal, and you have my full permission. You do not even need to ask.:

:Thanks, boss.: Doc sighed aloud, then headed across the room towards them.

* * *

Katherine protested the suggestion that she nap, but her mother insisted that she try. "Ratchet can't take us home until late," Emily had said, caressing her daughter's bald head. "You don't want to push yourself too hard."

Doc was not at all surprised that Kat was asleep within minutes of lying down on a human-sized cot. Her mother tucked a blanket up around her ears, then retreated silently and followed Doc through the doorway into the surgery. Neither of them was tall enough to even see up onto the medical berths, and Doc sat down on a box in one corner. "I took the liberty of scanning her more thoroughly a minute ago," he said, quietly, "I hope you don't mind."

Emily bit her lip, then shook her head. "No. You're a physician. Anything you can learn from her, anything that could help others ... I'm sure you're a long way away from being able to cure her, but you guys promised you'd help ... no, I don't mind."

Doc ran a hand over his face. "She has metastatic tumors in her brain."

"I know. I haven't told her yet." Kat lifted one shoulder up in half a shrug. "They always said that was a possibility. They're not operable."

"I don't believe they're affecting her cerebral function to any significant degree, but they will, and soon." Doc rubbed his nasal ridge between two fingers. "It's times like this when I think I should have been a trooper. It would be a much simpler job."

"You know that she learned to read before she learned to walk?" Emily shook her head. "And she was doing algebra in first grade. I'm smart. Most of my family's smart. But Kat ... Kat's got smarts beyond anything I've ever seen.."

Emily had tears in her eyes, Doc realized. He didn't quite know what to say, but she filled the silence after a second with, "Thank you. _Thank _you for this gift for her. You know when she was about five or six, she started obsessing about aliens. She used to scan the skies with a telescope when she was little. She was eight or nine when she built a radio receiver, and started looking for signals from the stars. She used to say that she expected any aliens that reached Earth to be robots, because of the difficulty living creatures would have traveling between the stars and then you guys showed up and she was proven right. And better yet, you're _alive_. I'm geeked out by it myself, and my daughter ... I'm so glad my daughter got to meet you before she dies. It means more to both of us than you'll ever know."

Doc politely waited for her to finish, hearing the emotion in her voice. Then he said quietly, "I can cure her."

"... what?"

"I'll need some samples of the cells, but yes, I can cure it. I would use targeted nanytes that deliver a toxin to a specific cell type, and that's simple technology. The Ark's replicators could craft the dose in a few hours once I identify a unique receptor, and that would only take a day or two." He sighed, then added, "The technology is simple. We are having issues with the FDA, however, as we will only allow them to review the finished product and not the equipment and software used to create it."

She was silent for a moment, then perhaps demonstrating _where _her daughter got the brains, Emily said quietly, "You could engineer nanytes that target other tissue. Lungs, for instance. And they could be made self-replicating, yes? It'd be a hell of a contagion."

Doc nodded, and chose not to be offended by the question. "It's sobering, how much of our science can be used for war. We would never do such a thing, even to our worst enemies, and never have. Not even during the grimmest of wars with the Quintessons did we ever launch a biological weapon against them, and we _could _have. There are things that we simply will not do."

"I can't guarantee humans wouldn't, if they had access to your replicators." She pursed her lips together.

"We are aware of your people's violent tendencies. They are much like ours. When I said 'we' I meant Autobots," Doc replied, in a grim tone that matched hers. Then he added, after a moment of forcefully archiving nightmarish battles he wished he'd never seen, he added, "It was red blood cells, or the equivalent thereof."

"Huh?"

"The 'cons targeted blood cells. Sorry. I didn't mean to shock you." Her face had grown pale, as she processed what he'd said. "It happened a long time ago, and we see no reason for Fangface to target this world. He's not Megatron, and he has never been wantonly cruel. Strategically speaking, he has no need to piss off humans anyway. We expect he'll try to make an alliance with another Earth government, likely the Chinese or the Russians."

"I probably shouldn't mention what you just said about blood cells to anyone else," she said wryly, and sat down on another box next to him. "Can you really cure her?"

"I can, if we can figure out a way to get around the legal requirements. Maybe a waiver to the FDA's rules, I don't know." Doc reached a hand down and spun one of the tires attached to his knee. "We have to do it legally, Emily. I could cure her tomorrow, but the backlash for doing so would mean a delay of treatment for other patients, or worse."

She watched his tire spin for a moment, then said, "You're subject to US laws, then?"

"Yes. Some things are covered by diplomatic immunity, but that's not one. Anyway, the political scenario is as important as the legal one, too. I will tell you that I'm trying to figure out a way to get this done, but ..." Suddenly, he tilted his head to the side and a slow smile turned his lipplates upwards. He was used to thinking in terms of Autobot law, which applied to all Autobots, regardless of where they were located. Human law had ties to geographic locations. "We're subject to American law only when we're in America, Emily. We _can _cure her, if she leaves America's jurisdiction."

She stared at him. Then she glanced skywards in sudden realization. "The ship leaves Earth in three days."

"You have no reason to trust us," Doc said, a little uncomfortably. "You'd be the only humans on the ship. Once we depart Earth, however, we're free of the FDA's rules. As long as I do not take any money from you, and I _won't_, I think we'd completely legally be in the clear."

The woman stood up. He wondered if she'd trust him. He wondered if she'd freak. She might accuse him of trying to kidnap her daughter, or of using her as a test case, similar to Judy Witwicky's accusations. He stood too, prepared to plead his case, for even if he couldn't save them all yet he wanted to save _this _child ... and then was shocked when Emily hugged him, arms going around his neck. He stiffened, nearly shoving her away, as seldom-used battle routines tried to interpret this as an attack. _Humans express gratitude by getting into each other's space and touching each other, _he reminded himself, and cautiously returned the embrace. It wasn't unpleasant, just an alien way of expression gratitude or infection.

"Thank you," Kat's mother whispered. "Thank you. I have no other hope, no other chance, left for her. _Thank _you."

* * *


	54. Chapter 54

* * *

Author's Notes: Adult content warning. NSFW chapter.

* * *

Windy's door was the third one on the right after stepping off the ramp to the second level. Bee stood before it for a moment, his emotions in chaos. For a moment, he recalled Ratchet's cheerful offer of a medical excuse. Doc had been correct that he couldn't use a lie to get out of this.

_I don't want out, anyway. I want this. _He repeated that firmly to himself, then pinged Windy.

_:Come in!: _Windy's cheerful response was somehow not very reassuring to his nerves. _:I've added your designation to my door lock. Don't bother pinging in the future, just come in, m'lover mine.:_

:Oh. Uh, thanks.:  
  
Both of Bee stepped through the doorway into Windy's cabin, where he was bemused to discover that his intended had been quite busy. The berth, formerly treated as a second floor by the flier, had been cleared off. He wasn't sure where most of Windy's collection of artifacts had gone, though 'somewhere in storage' was likely, and it appeared that Windy had cleaned the lower half of his room, too.

The lights were low, and Windy was seated on the edge of the berth, kicking his legs back and forth and looking a little nervous. The huge size of the platform reminded Bee of Windy's small size. He lifted his organic half up next to Manywinds, then sat down down on his other side.

Windy glanced up at him, "Sam's okay?"

"He'll be fine," Bee said, hoping he was right. The memory of Sam's smiles and laughter had eased his concerns. Sam was resilient, Bee thought, and he had Mikaela. He reached a large hand out towards Windy, and rested it across Windy's thin shoulders. "I'm ready for this."

"Scared?" Windy asked, softly, as Bee rubbed his thumb across Windy's backplates.

Bee said, "Scared, curious, excited ..."

Windy chuckled softly. "I've never 'faced with a virgin before. I can't believe you're as old as you are, and you've never had a partner."

Bumblebee smiled faintly, and fiddled with the armor plate on one forearm, clicking it open. "I don't have a subspace pocket in this form," he said, from his smaller half, drawing Windy's attention downward, "so I've got an integrated data cable. Ratchet said it might come in handy in the field."

"Handy all around," Windy said, watching as Bee pulled the cable out of a compartment. It was short -- just a couple of feet -- but Bee assumed it would be sufficient for what they needed to do. He tried to hand the end to Windy, but Windy closed his hand around Bee's and said, "Wait."

"What?" Bee couldn't keep his nerves from his voice. "I'm ready."

"Wham, bam, thank you ma'am as the humans say ... _not _happening." Windy pushed himself backwards, so he slid to sit behind Bee's smaller half. "You've got a gift here, in this little protoform, that I don't think you have the experience to appreciate yet."

"You're going to give me a demonstration, aren't you?" Bee laughed, low, but a little warily.

Windy rested his slender fingers on Bee's shoulders, making Bee tense up. What was Windy going to do? He was nervous, and yet also curious, and he felt his tension ease when Windy was still and calm behind him. Windy began to knead Bee's shoulders, "Relax, lover. You might be new to this, but I'm sure not. You're going to enjoy every minute."

Bee leaned into Windy's hands. It felt shockingly good as the gentle touch stimulated nerves and sensors. He groaned, and said, "I'm glad one of us knows what we're doing."

Windy's warm hands slid lower, working the muscles of his upper back. Strong thumbs and agile fingers found pressure points and tense knots, skillfully finding all the sore spots that Bee had accumulated over the last few days. Apparently, Windy could feel him flinch slightly, too, because he asked, "Are you hurting?"

"A little," he confessed. "The form's new. The muscles need to build strength. I've been active all day and I think there might be some lactic acid build up ..."

"Shh." To his surprise, Windy's engine kicked on, though Windy showed no signs of planning a transformation. Additionally, it sounded as if he was running a little rough. Transformer motors normally ran smooth as glass.

"Did you strain something flying this morning?" Bee said, in concern, feeling the pulsation of an engine that wasn't firing quite right through Windy's fingers.

"Nope." Windy ran hand down Bee's back again, and the rapid tremors were transmitted down Windy's struts in a way that was definitely deliberate.

"Ohhh," Bee realized what Windy was doing when his sensors advised him, with enthusiasm, just how good that sensation felt. "Mmph. Pit. I didn't know that would, ah, umm, oh.."

Windy's chuckle was deeply amused. "C'mon, I haven't even gotten started. You can't be losing your words yet. You sound like your little human friend."

_Sam._

Ruthlessly, he shoved the reminder of Sam -- and by extension, Mikaela -- aside.

Bumblebee leaned forward, baring the length of his neck, as Windy started to massage his way higher. It felt so good, and he wanted to feel Windy's hands at the base of his skull ... Windy obliged for a moment, then tugged on Bee's shoulders, urging him to lie back. Windy then murmured, kneeling beside Bee, "I have the mods to enjoy touch back. t'Grethi insisted. We did this all the time. It was ... it was something I never wanted to give up."

"Oh." Bee blinked at him, "How do I ... what do I touch?"

"Later." Windy gave him a teasing look. "This is all about you."

Grinning, Bee ignored that. He reached out with his other half, and ran a hand down Windy's back again. Windy yelped in surprise, jumped, and toppled on top of Bee, who laughed. "Gotcha."

Windy's eyes were fairly glowing with mischief and delight. "Forgot there's two of ... mmmphhh!"

Bee had made an educated guess on where engineers would put enhanced touch-sensitive sensors, and ran fingers down the inside of one of Windy's legs, over unarmored struts that were warm and almost organic in feel. He had some kind of coating there, non-metallic, and when Bee stroked it Windy groaned with obvious pleasure. Windy, eyes fixed on Bee's shorter half with laser-like intensity, tried absently to swat his hand away a couple of times and then swore and gave up. "Pit, Bee, you're amazing."

Windy tugged impatiently at Bee's pants, and he stripped them off. What Sam jokingly termed the "dangly bits" were definitely not dangling now. Sensations he had no words for yet were coursing through his body. He lifted his head up to regard that reaction, an _erection_, quizzically, then reached curious fingers out to touch himself. And discovered just _how _sensitive those parts were, much to his mixed shock and pleasure when the brush of his own fingers sent a thrum of intense pleasure through his entire body.

Windy grabbed his wrist, pinned his hand down, and took over, fingers nimble, warm, and pulsing with the continuing vibration of his engine. When Windy let go of Bee's hand a moment later he lifted it to Windy's shoulder and lay with his head thrown back, optics off-lined in his other form, and he lost himself to a wild, thrilling, explosion of sensory input. His processor was starting to throw him error messages as it struggled to keep up with new forms of data. He frantically and rather sloppily wrote code to keep himself online.

"_Primus!_" He groaned.

His head's-up display abruptly showed him Windy's full designation and a request for access to interface. He had been _completely _unaware of Windy plugging the interface cable into his own port. Without thought, without hesitation, he granted the request. He wanted this. He wanted a _lifetime _of this.

And then he felt Windy's laughter in his own head. _:You should see yourself, Bee.:_

:I'd rather watch you_!: _He lit his optics momentarily, then fed some lines of sensory input back at Windy, remembering Windy had said he loved to know what his partner was feeling. Windy promptly collapsed back onto his chest with a grunt and redoubled his efforts at stroking Bee to a climax.

_:Oh, Primus, they did a good job ...: _Windy's voice, Windy's feelings, were exactly as he had anticipated. Gleeful laughter and a sharp wit behind it, an astonishing level of self-confidence -- not arrogance, but simply a deep level of respect for his own spark -- and enough curiosity and intelligence for three mechs. Windy was stable, sane, and exactly what Bee had always thought he wanted in a partner. And at the moment, Windy was just _laughing _... laughing with glee. Because Bee had chosen him. Because Bee was giving him what he wanted.

With a grunt, and a shout, he climaxed, and then his processors flared with far too many errors and the flood of new data overwhelmed his processors. It was a hard crash, instant, and unexpected. He didn't even have time to realize what had happened.

* * *

_:Are you able to respond yet?: _A voice that wasn't his asked in his processor.

Bee couldn't move and couldn't complete booting his processor. He tried to activate battle routines, and found them blocked with a requirement that he identify the source of the threat before he struck. Then he discovered his motor routines were frozen, which caused him to reflexively hit the combat modules again with a terrified attempt to override the locks. A painful error nearly sent him offline.

_:SAM! Mikaela!: _He wailed in his head as he frantically tried to finish bringing himself online. There were things wrong with his processor that sent him into an immediate panic. Fragmented lines of code, a corrupted sector, and several thousand errors that insisted he'd been experiencing atypical sensory input before his processor had shut down to prevent an catastrophic crash. He couldn't seem to get his optical sensors online, or _any _sensor, the operational code was scrambled. He couldn't feel his body. He couldn't hear. He couldn't see. Couldn't feel. There was a threat, there was someone jacked into his head, and yet his boot sector was insisting he identify the person threatening him before he could activate any other routines. It was a locked requirement, and to his terror, he couldn't override it. And his sensors were offline!

_:Bee! It's me! You've got some fragged code, hold on ... easy, relax ...:_

Who was 'me?!'

The person in his head started rewriting some sensory routines. They were mucking around with his processor core and he couldn't stop them. His firewalls were down and he couldn't figure out who was in his head.

_:SAM!: _he wailed in rank terror. Where were his humans? Somebody was hacking him and he couldn't even move. His motor reflexes were locked. Sam! Mikaela! Sam! Mikaela! Where were they? Why didn't they come? A frantic memory of being held safely between them raced through his thoughts. Then he recalled Sam, rescuing him under the dam and Mikaela, loading him onto a tow truck. They were his heroes. Where? Where were they?

_:Geeze, relax, Bee. It's just me.:  
_  
Who was me? He was hacked! Somebody was in his head!

_:Easy, relax. You've got a conflict. I've got to fix it. It's easy. I could do it with a datapad, but I don't have one handy, and anyway, we're partners. So settle down. You do realize__ I had to generalize in Autobot psychiatric medicine before I specialized in alien psych then specialized further into alien evolutionary development and sentience and stuff, right? So quit panicking. I actually do know what I'm doing.:_

:Get out of my head!:

:Geeze, and a few minutes ago you were all 'get into my head' and 'get into my pants' as well! Sheesh, that's gratitude for you.:

:Who the frag are you? Get out!:

:Well, that explains the attitude. I think you corrupted a memory file or two. Hold on a sec while I descramble 'em ...: 

Manywinds. He had been interfacing with Manywinds. The intruder uploaded the fixed file to his memory core, plus an archived copy of the damaged file for his review. Memories of what he'd been doing immediately before his crash flooded back.

_:Windy?: _He hazarded an only slightly relieved guess.

_:Who did you think I was, Unicron?: _Windy poked at a few more things in his code, then said, _:You okay now?:_

He managed to online his optics. Windy's very concerned faceplate was inches from his smaller half's face. Windy sat back, and said amiably, _:I think we need some practice. Can you run a diagnostic and figure out what went wrong?:_

:Heh.: He propped himself up on his elbows. _:Give me a second ... yeah, got it. Pit and blast, that was not how I intended to react to my first interface. I think I found what caused the instability.: _He wrote some code to prevent the problem in the future, though he'd definitely need to talk to Ratchet -- or possibly Elita -- in the near future to get a critique of his work. At least ninety-five percent of his sensors were still offline, and it was going to take forever to find all the glitches that his crash had introduced. His core programming was intact, but he'd definitely slagged his peripherals but good. He had primary optics in both forms, his tactile network in the organic protoform, and not much else. He tried to get his auditory sensors online and then had to dial the sensitivity back 97% after a screech of painful feedback made him wince.  
_  
:Don't apologize, I'm halfway flattered. I managed to knock you offline. Of such things, romance novels are made.: _Windy was smirking. And teasing. _:You were pretty fragged, too, for a bit there. You were screaming for the humans, of all people. What would they do?:_

His firewalls were down. Unbidden, unwelcome, he remembered Sam and Mikaela holding him protectively after the procedure to split his spark, as he tried to slip into a nightmare laden recharge. Windy reacted with silence, at first, then said with a surprising amount of wariness, _:Do you really consider them that close?:_

He couldn't help it. His feelings for them spilled out for Windy to see. He thought of love he had for the two of them, which had sparked within moments of the first time he'd seen them, and which had only grown over two long years. His reaction was startlingly strong. _:Yeah,: _he ground out, _:I do.:_

:Bee,: Windy was openly shocked, _:Do they know?:_

:Somewhat.: He met Windy's wide blue optics. Windy was radiating a feeling akin to fear, only with overtones of anger. He reached out, tentatively, trying to truly access Windy's processor for the first time. He'd taken a passive role until now, letting Windy into his thoughts but not reaching back. However, concern pushed him to find the connection and to hear Windy's more private thoughts.

Windy slammed a firewall up, blocking him. He winced. _:Windy ...:_

:How do you feel about me_?: _Windy commed him. The question didn't even come over the interface cable.  
_  
:I like you.: _Bee tucked his knees to his chest. They weren't touching, now, except for the line of cable from his wrist to Windy's chest. He fancied that it was dead and still, with no electrons coursing through it after he finished speaking. Windy's silence was complete for a long, long moment.  
_  
:There is very little love for me __in that statement.: _Windy's response was rather hurt, and he showed no signs of lowering his firewalls again.

_:I barely know you.: _Bee responded with the truth. _:I like you, though. I think you're great.:_  
_  
:You _love _them!: _It was an accusation, flung with real anger at him through the interface link. Windy could transmit even if he wasn't letting Bee in his head. _:You never told me you loved them! You should have told me, Bee! You should have told me how you felt. Why me? Why _me_?:_

:I cannot have _them, Windy,: _Bee replied, trying for calm and utterly failing. Grief suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted ... he wanted them _so _badly. He wanted Sam and Mikaela to return his love, and the pain and loneliness and misery was suddenly overwhelming. It welled up and he keened aloud as he buried his face in his knees. _:I can't have them. I can't _ever _have them. Wishing so desperately for them made me realize what I have been missing. In you, I hope to find something of what I wish I could have with them.:_

Windy dropped his firewalls, and Bee lifted his head, thinking it an invitation. He tentatively connected with Windy's processor, and was shocked to the very center of his spark by the cold fury that boiled out. _:Y__ou are a jerk.:_

:Me?: Nobody had ever described him as a 'jerk' in his life.

Windy was so angry that Bee halfway expected him to start glitching, but his words were delivered with cold, measured precision. _:I fell in _love _with you. Maybe we've only known each other for a few short weeks, Bee, but I loved you. I _want _you, in the same way you want Sam and Mikaela. The way that you presented yourself to me misled me. I believed you wanted me back with the same intensity.:_

He stared in shock, confused by Windy's rage. _:Why are you so angry at me?:_

:You deceived me, you fragger. You never told me about them_.:_

:Love is not finite!: he objected, but it was a weak protest. In the face of Windy's reaction, he was beginning to feel the tiniest thread of guilt. Maybe he had been a little but self-centered.  
_  
:You deceived me,: _Windy said, _:I thought you wanted me for who I am, Bee. Instead I find that I am what, the consolation prize? You cannot have them, so you try to find what you _want _from them in me. That's not honest, and it's not what I expected.:_

:Give me time ...: Bee replied, raggedly.__

:You should have told me. You lied to me by omission.: Cold optics bore into his eyes. _:Give you time? I never want to set optics on you again. You have lied by omission both to me, and, if I am guessing correctly, to your humans as well.:_

:I'm sorry,: he apologized, honestly. He reached a hand out, intending to pull Windy close, to hug him. _:I was an idiot. I'm sorry.:_

Windy brushed Bee's hand away. _:No.:_

:I'm sorry, Windy. Let's start this over. I do _like you ...: _Bee bowed his head, unable to meet that angry blue gaze any more. _:You know the truth now. I cannot have them. I can't. But I need someone, Windy. I don't want to be this alone anymore.:_

:Yeah, well, it's not _going to be me.: _Windy yanked the cable out of his dataport and snarled aloud, "You absolute fragger. I am _not _interested in being the consolation prize. I want to be the center of someone's universe, and make them the center of mine. Those two humans? _They _are the heart of your world, and I felt what you feel for them. There's no damn room for me left. I'm not your partner, I'm a _distraction_. I won't be used like that. Particularly by a pit-slagging Unicron spawned _Prime _who should know better."

"Windy?"

Windy rolled to his feet and pulled himself up to his full height of six feet and a few scant fractions of an inch. He pointed at the door. "Get out of my quarters."

"But ..."

"If your humans _ever _changed their minds? You'd be gone from my life in a minute. I want commitment. I want dedication. To you, I'm the second best option. I want someone who views me as the most wonderful thing in the world. I've had that, Bee. I was partnered with a man for seven thousand years and to t'Grethi, I was his all and his everything, and that's what I gave back. I will not accept less from any partner. I am worth that much loyalty, and that much love. You cannot give that to me, and you led me to believe you would. Get _out_."

Bee stood up too, and stared at Windy. Windy's optics narrowed and he repeated. "You _lied _to me."

"I need someone ..." Bee repeated, softly. "If you gave me time, if you let me mourn what I cannot have ..."

"You _lied_. You deceived me. If you'd told me how you felt about them, if you'd explained what you were really looking for in me, and why, I would have said _no_ to this. You're not in the right frame of mind to be looking for a partner, Bee. Relationships need to be built on trust, Bee, and you were not truthful to me from the very beginning about what you wanted. In you, I thought there was this wonderful mech -- an officer, a Prime, a hero -- who had lived tens of thousands of years without ever desiring anyone enough to make a commitment. Then you met me and swept me off my feet and wanted to make a lifetime's commitment to me. That is what I thought I had in you."

Windy's optics hardened, and to Bee's shock he heard capacitors start to hum in the little flier's thin body. "You are a _jerk_. Maybe I am a fool, Bee, an idealistic and silly little fool. But I know what my worth is, and that what you are offering me in relationship is absolutely pathetic. If I give you time, if I let you mourn as you say, and those humans change their minds? You would leave me. I am worth more than that."

"I wouldn't. I give you my word."

"And then ... if you didn't, what? You'd stay with me, but you would yearn for them. No, Bee. I'm not that desperate. I'm not desperate at _all_. Please leave my quarters. I do not want you. I reject this partnership, on the grounds that you are _not _who you represented yourself to be."

Bee rocked back on his heels. The little flier stood with his fists balled, weapons capacitors humming, optics narrowed, and quivering from head to toe in outrage. _Oh. God. He's right. He deserved so much more than I offered him. Windy is wonderful. Windy could have been that lover I wanted, if only I'd taken more time,__ I could have come to love him the way I love Sam and Mikaela, and I didn't even realize it. I didn't see him for him. I saw him as a distraction._

"I'm sorry," Bee reached a hand out, intending to touch Windy one last time and to communicate his regret.

Manywinds stepped quickly back, grabbed Bee's clothes up off the ground, and threw them at him. He caught them. "Do I have to ask Teletraan to have you removed?"

Too late, he _really _saw Windy, for who he was. The anger was justified. Oh, Primus, the anger was justified. Windy deserved so much better than what he had offered.

"I ... I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

"Yeah, well, you did." Windy sounded bitter, now.

Bee couldn't take the expression of accusation and hurt in Windy's blue optics a minute longer. Hastily, he dressed, getting buttons misaligned and not caring. Windy turned his back to Bee, refusing to look at him any more. Bee scooped his organic half up in one metal hand and ran for the door as soon as he had pants and a shirt on. Part of him wanted to go to Sam and Mikaela for comfort, part wanted to bolt outside and drive until he ran out of energon. He settled for stumbling blindly through the ship until he got as far from anyone as he possibly could, and collapsing in a heap at the farthest corner of the observation deck, behind the sheltering bulk of the communication array.

_I was so stupid, _he thought, _stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid. _

He'd never hurt so badly in his life.


	55. Chapter 55

The band was packing up, and all but a few dozen guests had left. There were a surprising number of people remaining, however, despite the fact that it was well past Cinderella's curfew and edging towards dawn.

"So it's really true that you were one of the first people to meet them?" Andrew Gallego said, and then sipped at a glass of wine.

He was, Mikaela thought, one of the most beautiful men she'd ever met. Sam was cute, Trent was hot, Andrew Gallego -- host of some sort of paranormal reality TV show -- was Hollywood perfect. He had big brown eyes and just the right amount of muscles, high cheekbones, and the faintest hint of an exotic accent. Cuban, maybe. She wasn't sure. But he was definitely the definition of gorgeous.

"Uh? Oh, yeah. Sam and I have been with them pretty much since the beginning."

He lowered his voice down a couple of notes. "Maybe you'd like to come over and tell me more about them? I'd be interested in doing a special on them ..."

She wasn't stupid. He _was _interested in the special, and the 'bots, and she had no doubt that 'paranormal' could be stretched to include 'extraterrestrial', and even legitimately so, if they got into a discussion of Autobot metaphysics rather than Autobot science. The Autobots had been justifiably wary of discussing their religious beliefs and superstitions with the media, but she suspected that the time to bring that up to the public would come soon.

Andrew's eyes had lowered as well as his voice, and he'd flicked a glance at her chest as he said it. _Men. They're all the same. _She suggested, with a sweet and teasing smile, "Oh, you don't want to talk to me about that. You ought to talk to Wheeljack. I bet he'd be willing to tag along on a paranormal investigation with you, and bring some of his cool gadgets with him."

Andrew blinked at her.

Hearing his name, Wheeljack looked up from a curious inspection of one of the band's amps, and padded over. He looked tired, Mikaela thought, but he perked visibly up when he recognized who Mikaela was speaking to. "Oh, hey, I know you."

"You do?"

"Yeah, cool show. I loved that thing you did searching for dinosaurs in the Amazon. Grimlock made us all watch it."

Andrew took a nervous step back. Wheeljack was not the biggest Autobot, but he still towered three times their height. Mikaela was used to talking to Autobot knees, but to strangers, the height difference was always unnerving at close range. Wheeljack, clearly sensing the actor's unease, sat down and said, "Optimus has cleared me to appear on any TV shows that will give us fair and respectful treatment."

"You were awesome as emcee," Mikaela said, smiling at 'Jack.

'Jack returned her smile with a grin of his own. "Optimus knows our talents. It's been a long, long time since I've worked a crowd like that, but it was my job, once, you know."

"You were an performer?" She tried to visualize that and failed. "I thought you were an engineer."

Wheeljack ducked his head in amusement. "I was both. A long -- _long -- _time ago, I produced a series of educational programs for sparklings. They were popular. Um, there's a human show, 'Mr. Wizard's World', that was somewhat similar. With some elements of Mythbusters. I focused on engineering and physics, and gave lots of demonstrations on how math applied to the real world. Optimus asked me to come up with some demonstrations of our holomatter technology, given the number of people in the entertainment industry -- such as yourself -- in the audience."

Andrew blinked at the Autobot, who blinked innocently right back. "So how does that work?" Andrew said, curiously. "I mean, you guys can just upload a textbook and have the knowledge. Why would you need educational programs?"

The engineer chuckled. "Oh, yes, sparklings have a technical learning curve better than human because we have both greater processing power and better memories than humans. Of course we do. However, facts and figures are dry and boring and if you make a sparkling upload, say, string theory, the sparkling's just going to archive it as soon as you turn your back and try never to think of that dull and boring module again. They don't have the context or the experience to see how science relates to the world. The trick to educating sparklings isn't just to give them the information, it's to get them _interested_ by showing them exciting things they can do with the information they're getting. Mr. Gallego, I could teach _you _how to calculate the ballistic trajectory of a rocket, based on thrust, atmospheric density, weight, wind, and a host of other variabls. It would be dry, dull, and boring, but I could teach you the math, eventually, with lots of memorization."

"I guess I see your point," Andrew nodded thoughtfully.

Wheeljack's grin lifted his face plate up so that his optics were nearly obscured by his cheek bars. "But if you take the same rocket, and show the kids how to use ballistics to calculate the right trajectory to smack the rocket into a couple of tons of nitroglycerin and blow up an old building?" He held a hand out and playfully projected a holomatter fireball in it. "That gets 'em _interested _in the science. It's fun. And once they see science as fun, then they start exploring things on their own, and new little scientists are created. The universe can _always _use another scientist."

Mikaela laughed at 'Jack's enthusiasm, "So that_'s _why they tease you about blowing everything up?"

'Jack grinned and ducked his head. "I made a point to end every show with a really big explosion. Everyone likes big explosions. Of course, then I joined the Autobots at the start of the war, and I think I've managed to blow my lab up every few hundred years too. Most of that came from reverse-engineering captured Decepticon technology. That tends to be booby trapped."

Andrew regarded Wheeljack speculatively. "You don't have some clips of those shows, do you?"

"I do, though they'd hardly be comprehensible to a human. They're not translated, and the sparklings were supposed to upload a math lesson before watching each session." Wheeljack lifted an eyebrow. "I could provide some translations on both, though I'm not even sure how to write a math module for humans."

Andrew held a hand up defensively. "No math. However, let's talk ... I've been discussing doing a children's show anyway, with a producer friend of mine. How do you feel about, err, human sparklings?"

"Kids?" Wheeljack's grin was slow to spread across his face, and a beautiful thing to behold. "I haven't met many human children, but Bee says they're a lot like Nebulan kids, and if that's true, I'm your 'bot."

Andrew turned to Mikaela and said, "Do you two have any spare time in your schedule tomorrow? I could call my producer tomorrow ..." he glanced at his watch, a Rolex, "... err, _today_, I guess, and we could meet for dinner."

Wheeljack's eyes went distant for a moment, as he undoubtedly checked with Optimus. Andrew, not familiar with Autobot body language, gave him a confused look at his sudden silence, then turned puppy-dog eyes on Mikaela. "You'll come too, right? You won't make me talk to the scary alien robot all by myself?"

He was gorgeous, and he was smart, and he liked the mechs -- or, at least, was awed and intrigued by them, which was probably a good start to getting him to see them as people. Mikaela bit her lip for a second. He was also very attracted to her. She knew she was beautiful, but it was amazing to see someone famous and powerful react with attraction to her. She wondered how far she could carry it. She wondered what he was like in bed. She was willing to bet he'd dump her afterwards, but the bragging rights alone ... _way _better than bagging the captain of the football team.

_Sam_, she thought, _would be heartbroken if I did that._

Still, she hesitated so long that Andrew searched her face. 'Jack was still talking over the comm, and only halfway paying attention to them for the moment. He smiled tentatively and said, "I promise, I don't bite."

She pouted. "But that takes all the fun out of it."

He laughed, throwing his head back.

_Sam's probably going to dump me anyway, _Mikaela thought, _It was too good to last, and I think we're on the outs now. It might be time to move on.  
_

The thought of breaking up with Sam hurt so bad that her throat seemed to close up. _He said he doesn't want to lose Bee, and he said it _that _way. Damnit, he's probably gay as a pride parade, and he's been faking with me all along. It would sure explain why he doesn't pressure me for sex like every other boyfriend I've ever had has. _

Wheeljack smiled, and said cheerfully, "You ought to invite her boyfriend, too, Mr. Gallego."

"Oh, damn, you've got a boyfriend?" He sounded openly disappointed.

She forced a smile to her lips that she didn't really feel. She wouldn't put it past 'Jack to have deliberately mentioned Sam, either. "High school sweetheart. I met the 'bots because of him."

"Ah," Andrew said, "Hm. Uh, I guess both of you could come."

"I'll call you in the morning, if you give me your number," she pulled her cell phone out to enter it, "and we can set something up."

After they'd exchanged contact information (and 'Jack visibly surprised Andrew by casually providing _his _cell phone number) she met Andrew's gaze again. He was a very pretty man. _Sam's gay. I know it. Never would have guessed it before, but the way he said 'lose Bee' it was pretty obvious he's got feelings for him too. _He was going to break up with her someday. If not now, over Bee, it would happen someday. She was sure of it. And it was going to hurt so damn bad when he did reject her. It always hurt when people left her, but Sam was going to be ten times worse than any other betrayal in her life.

If she considered the fact that Sam was closeted , a lot of things about him suddenly made sense. The fact that he put her feelings before his. His willingness to patiently wait, and never pressure her for sex. His affection for Bee, which -- if that unmistakable tone of voice was any indication -- ran a lot deeper than she'd ever guessed. His kindness, unlike any man she'd ever known before. Even how personally he took his father's teasing all made sense.

She bit her lip for a moment, then said, "It's late, guys. Andrew, it was nice meeting you. I think I'm going to go find my bed, though."

"Oh. Uh. Okay." Andrew blinked at her, sounding surprised by her abrupt words. "I'll call you tomorrow, 'kay? After I get a chance to talk to my contacts."

"Sure." She flashed him a bright smile, and let her tongue touch her lips and her hips sway when she turned away. He _was _cute, and she told herself that there was nothing wrong with a little flirting ...

_I'm going to find Sam, _she thought, finally, with a hint of unease. She needed to talk to him about Bee, and about his own feelings towards her. _He probably doesn't love me. He's probably just trying to prove something to himself, and the rest of the world, by dating me. Typical story. Guy just wants the pretty girl 'cause she looks good on his arm ..._

She'd let herself believe, for a bit, that Sam might be different. Sam was different all right. He was, she suspected, just a different sort of screwed up than any of the other guys she'd dated.

* * *

"Sam," Teletraan's voice broke the silence in Ratchet's office.

"Who wants me _now_?" Sam growled. "Just tell them I want to be alone."

A monitor flickered to life on one wall. Bee's Camaro sat in moonlight on the observation deck. A small figure was slumped against the railing, fingers laced through the grill, very still. Bee's blond hair was a paler shadow in the darkness.

"Oh, shit." Sam straightened up from his brooding slouch. "What happened?"

"I am not certain. Windy had asked for privacy in his room, which I gladly granted. Bumblebee departed his room after a few hours, however, and he certainly does not appear to be very happy. Windy refused to explain what went wrong when I asked, and I thought it would be better if you approached Bee."

Sam slid off the desk, dropping six feet to the ground. "I'm betting it didn't work out between them for some reason. Where's he at?"

"He's behind the communications arrays." Teletraan hesitated, then added, "I will be powering down for my scheduled recharge in a few minutes. If you need anything, Ironhide and Sideswipe have monitor duty tonight."

"Thanks, buddy." Sam practically ran out the office. He hurried through halls that were darkened and empty due to the late hour, up three flights of ramps, and out through the blast doors. The observation deck was empty, and most of the 'bots were probably already in recharge. It was very late -- or maybe early -- and the air was a bit cool outside. He hurried across the deck to the machinery that Bee had elected to hide behind.

If Bee was aware of his approach, the Autobot gave no sign. The Camaro was still, only a few lights on his dash indicating he wasn't recharging. The form curled up against the railing was so motionless that Sam thought he might not be breathing at first. He slowed, almost scared to approach. What if something was mechanically wrong with Bee? Had he passed out? Maybe the Cybertronian Blue Screen of Death?

"Bee?" he said, uncertainly.

"Go away, Sam."

Nope, he was awake.

"What happened?"

"I'm an idiot, that's what happened." Bumblebee didn't look at him, and added in a bitter tone that Sam had never expected to come from his cheerful, generally happy friend, "Manywinds is wonderful, I was stupid, and ruined it for both of us. I really hurt him."

"Physically?"

"No, Primus, no." Bee still wouldn't look at Sam. "Go away, Sam."

He honestly didn't know what to say. This was completely uncharted territory for him. His best friend, a giant alien robot, was probably in love with him. Equally probably, something had gone terribly wrong between Bumblebee and Manywinds. Worse, he was starting to admit to himself that he was attracted to Bee, even if the thought practically gave him hives when he tried to examine it too closely.

"You know, Mikaela told me how you feel," Sam said, finally, figuring it was as good an opening as any.

Bee finally sat up. Until that point, Sam had not realized that Bee's humanoid form was so realistic that he could cry. His face was streaked with tears, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Mikaela should have kept her mouth shut. She didn't need to tell you. She just hurt both of us by doing it."

"Geeze, Bee."

"If you're going to tell me to frag off, would you get it over with?" Bee growled at him, not looking at Sam.

"Um, ah, no. Geeze. When I bought a crappy-ass Camaro two years ago, I was hoping it'd help me find love. This is not what I had in mind." He reached out with his fist and bumped Bumblebee in the shoulder, giving him a gentle shove.

Through his tears, Bee laughed weakly at Sam's teasing. "Thank you."

"Thank me?"

"For being my friend." Bee tucked a knee to his chest. "Pit, Sam, I really screwed up. I can't believe what I did to Windy. I didn't see it at the time. I was so wrapped up in what I wanted. I was trying to be so self-sacrificing and generous to you two, but I was being a selfish, cruel idiot to Manywinds at the same time."

"What happened?" Sam mirrored Bee's posture unconsciously. They sat a few feet apart, facing each other.

"I broke his heart. He thought I loved him. He really loved me. I ..." Bee gave Sam a shy look, then glanced down at his hands. "I guess it's no secret anymore that I love you and Mikela. I told myself it was time for me to find a partner with my own kind, because I know I can't partner with you two, but what I was really looking for was a substitute for you. It wasn't fair to Windy, and when he realized the truth, I think I broke his heart. I'd give anything to undo the last few weeks."

"You and me and me both. Do Transformers have time travel?" Sam blinked brightly, and as innocently sounding as he could manage. "Maybe we could go back in time and warn our past selves about the stupid. I'm thinking right before I went to college would be a good time."

"Maybe if we got Wheeljack to transform into his alt mode and drive fast enough ..." Bee replied, with a dark laugh.

Sam snickered. Bee's sense of humor -- their shared sense of humor -- was enough to put him in a better mood within a few moments. Bee, however, sighed again and added, "I'm surprised you don't think it'd be better if you didn't go back two years and warn your past self about Satan's Camaro."

"And never meet you?" Sam was shocked by the suggestion that Bee might think that. "Bumblebee, uh, um, that's not really -- no. I'm glad we met."

Bee was silent for far too long, and Sam didn't think he was chatting with another Autobot. "Sometimes I think it would have been better for you and Mikaela both."

Sam snapped, "Yeah, you like to decide what's right for us."

Bee blinked at him, then turned his head sharply away, and didn't say anything. Sam had assumed that Bee would say something to the effect of, 'What's that supposed to mean?' so he could come back with an angry, 'You should have told me how you feel.' Bee, however, just sat silently, arms around his knees, staring off into space.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"What would you have me say?" Bee stretched his legs out, braced his hands behind him, and regarded Sam with a level, flat look. "There's not a thing I can say that you'd want to hear, Sam. You aren't attracted to me. You _are _involved with Mikaela, who is as much my friend as you are. Yes, I decided to keep my feelings from you, and I still maintain that was the best choice of action. I should not have gotten involved with Windy, because I _love _you, and it was unfair, even cruel, to Manywinds. I am not proud of myself this day. But my feelings for you do not change the fact that you do not, and never will, see me that way."

He swallowed hard. His mouth felt dry, and the nausea was returning. Bee shook his head. "I can detect the chemical responses associated with your moods, Sam. You're pretty stressed at the moment, over this discussion. A relationship with me is not something you want."

"So what am I supposed to do?" Sam said, resting his chin on his knees. "Go on pretending we're best friends, even though I know this is tearing you up?"

Bee looked sharply away. "It won't matter in a month."

"Huh?" Of all the possible reactions Bee could have given him, he had not been expecting that. Bee had given every sign, and had even explicitly stated, that he wanted to stay on Earth. He'd talked about buying a home, even, and Sam had assumed they would be best friends for the rest of his life. He couldn't imagine a world without Bee in it. Bee, clearly, felt the same way about him.

"Optimus is sending me offworld. I'll be leaving in a month." Bee ran a hand over his face, and blew out a sharp sigh.

"What? No!" He sat up straight. "I thought -- you're leaving? For how long?" He was stunned. His heart seemed to want to stop beating, it hurt so bad.

Bee shrugged. Sam did not mistake that nonchalant gesture for a lack of emotions. "Years, maybe. I don't know."

"Where?"

"It's classified. I can't tell you. I'm sorry, Sam." Bee's eyes softened. "But it's important."

"You just got your mods to stay here. I thought you wanted to settle on Earth. You can't leave!" He leaned forward, rolling up onto his knees. "Bee, you _can't_ go."

Bumblebee let his head hang forward. "It's orders, Sam."

"That's insane!"

"The reasons are classified, Sam, but Optimus would not send me offworld without very, very good reasons." Bee blew out a sharp sigh. "I need to tell Mikaela, and she won't take it well. I promised her I would stay, and now I will break that promise to her. She has lost far too much in her life. Now I add to it. And -- and I love her, as much as I love you. Primus, sometimes I wish I'd never met you two, just because I've hurt you both so much."

"A month, huh?" Sam closed his eyes. A month. He'd assumed he could take his time coming to terms with his own issues. Bee was patient. Bee was his best friend, and Bee loved him enough to give him all the time he needed. He had not thought their time was so limited. "Bee, you ... you say I smell stressed. Well, I am, but you don't understand."

That earned him a suspicious look.

"Hell, I came out to Optimus earlier." He covered his face with the palm of his hand. "You should be a _lot _easier to talk to than him. Anyway. Yeah. I like guys, okay? Girls too, but I make a point of not advertising the guy-liking because, uh, well. Umm."

"Your father picks on you."

"And Trent. And the other jocks. And my grandfather, when he was alive. My dad's buddies. Pretty much everyone. All of them. I'm short, and skinny, and I'm a dork, and ..."

"Sam," Bee interrupted softly, "I think I get it."

"Yeah." Sam hunched his shoulders. "I probably should have said something to you a long time ago. I know I can tell you anything. But I don't like to think about it even to myself. You said I smelled stressed? Uh, yeah, that'd be an understatement. But, uh, it's not because I'm not attracted to you. Being attracted to you makes it _worse_, not better."

"A phobia," Bee said, quietly.

"Yeah, pretty much." Sam stood up, and then offered Bee a hand up. He didn't let go of the hand when Bee stood, and Bee glanced down at their clasped fingers. When he looked back up at Sam, Sam realized just how close they were standing together. He asked, "Do we really only have one month?"

"Yeah." Bee blinked, and looked away.

Several weeks ago, Bee had refused to meet Sam's eyes in the garage at his home, when Sam had announced he was going away to college and leaving Bee behind. He'd looked away, with almost the same expression on his face. Sam pulled free of Bee's grasp on one hand, reached up and cuppped Bee's face between his palms, and coaxed him to look back. It felt the same, and yet very different, from that moment in the garage. So very different, really. Bee bit back a sob that was a good bit more realistic, and likely far more heartfelt, than the faux tears from the garage. Sam made him look him in the eyes. He saw the gold flecks he'd noticed earlier, and long, dark blond eyelashes.

"We only have a month," Sam said softly, "Um, uh, ..."

"I've b-been rejected once today," Bee said, voice quavering, "I c-can't ... I c-can't take a second rejection. It'd hurt worse from you than it ever could from Windy, and Windy hurts so bad. If you're playing with me Sam, stop now. _Please_."

Sam brushed away the tears with his thumbs, without letting go of Bee's face. "Mikaela loves you too. Maybe ... maybe we could make this work. For a little while."

Bee nodded very slightly, closing his eyes. Sam kept stroking his cheeks even after the moisture was gone. Sam found strength he didn't know he had, and admitted to himself that Bee's form was gorgeous. Those high cheekbones framed beautiful eyes, and he sorta wanted to kiss Bee's mouth, which was currently half open, breath whispering out as Bee slowly exhaled. "I'm so alone, Sam. I don't know how long I'll be gone. I need ... I don't need sex, and you can't interface with me, but I think I need ... I don't know what I need, but I need it. From you. From both of you. For a little while."

"Shh." Sam wasn't entirely sure what he wanted either, except that he wanted Bee.

Tears were trickling down Bee's cheeks again. He turned his face towards the sky, towards the few stars visible through the glare of the city's lights. "I wish ... I wish I could give you two forever. I was fooling myself when I promised Mikaela I would never leave her. She needed to hear it, and I wanted it to be true, but it's not. I have to go Sam. I don't know when I'll be back. It could only be months. It could be never. I can't promise I'll return, because I don't want to break my word to either of you again."

"Shh." Sam moved his hand to trace a finger across Bee's lips. They were full, and soft, and touching them was not as hard as he had expected. It was easier to stroke them with his fingers than it would be to kiss them, because the thought of leaning forward and bridging that gap filled him with real terror.

Bee's eyes snapped open, and he regarded Sam a curious, quizzical expression. "What are you doing, Sam?"

He took a deep breath, and said, "I was admiring how beautiful you are."

The world seemed to spin around him. There. He'd done it. He'd admitted his attraction. Now he was terrified of how Bee would react, and he waited with his breath held for a reaction.

Bee said shakily, "You're physically a-attracted to me?"

"It scares me to _death_," Sam pressed his forehead to Bee's. "Damnit, I'm so scared by it. But yeah. You're hot."

Bee did not react in quite the way that Sam was expecting. He wasn't human, would never be human, and his response left Sam puzzled for a moment. "What about _me_? This is just a protoform. Appearance is nothing. What about _me_?"

"Bumblebee," Sam said, managing a low laugh when he realized Bee was asking if Sam liked his personality, "you're one of my two best friends. That's never going to change."

Bee's hands slowly came up to rest on Sam's hips. Sam's heart seemed to skip a beat. Part of him wanted to tear himself away, and the other part was rather enjoying the firm, warm pressure. Bee said slowly, a speech marked by hesitation and awkward pauses, "I have ... studied human behavior ... quite a bit ... in regards to romance. Relationships based on physical attraction are alien to my people. I have noted that human partnerships do not last when the only thing people have in common is physical desire. However, lasting relationships must also have an element of attraction as well as emotional compatability."

His hands pulled Sam closer, so that their chests were barely brushing. "It's different for us. We fall in love with personality, primarily. What little instinct we have for physical attraction has to do with movement and body language, which is mostly an extension of personality. And that has nothing to do with _desire_. We fall in love with people we want to interface with, to share our minds, our sparks, our thoughts, our memories."

"Would you do that with me? If you could?" Sam asked. He let his hands slide behind Bee's head and neck, one hand above and the other below Bee's long pony tail. "Interface?"

Bee shivered, and said in a strangled tone of voice, "Oh, _yes, _Sam."

"I'd actually be less scared of that, than this," Sam said, softly.

"Scared of what?"

"This." Sam closed the last few inches, pressing his lips to Bee's. Bee went stiff, rigid, resistant for a moment. His jaw was locked, and the hands on Sam's hips tightened to the point where they verged on leaving bruises. Sam backed off, fearing he'd misread something.

Intense blue eyes searched Sam's face. "Do you really mean this? I can't ... I can't take another rejection tonight."

"Yeah." God he was so scared. He was shaking.

"You're terrified." Bee was wary, though he made no move to get away.

"No shit." The emotions Sam was feeling were so strong his knees felt wobbly.

Bee tilted his head to one side, regarding Sam curiously. "Yet you want me enough to fight through your fear. I honestly don't know what to say, Sam."

_Try not saying anything_, Sam thought, with frustration. Bee's tendency to analyze everything was integral to who Bee _was_, but Sam had never been more frustrated by it. He pulled Bee back for another kiss. He wasn't sure if Bee could even appreciate a kiss, but he also didn't know how to express _exactly _what he was feeling any other way. It was the simplest, most direct, most unmistakable way he could think of to get the point across.

This time, Bee somewhat clumsily returned the kiss. He was gentle, tentative, a bit shy. Sam wondered what Bee got out of it. Did it feel good to him? Was it just about the comfort, or could he feel more? He didn't know, and he honestly wasn't sure how to ask, but Bee's arms lifted higher, pulling Sam closer. They were both hesitant and unsure, and Sam had never felt more awkward in his life.

_Holy shit, what am I doing? _Sam thought, wildly, even as some primitive part of his brain told him exactly how good it felt to kiss Bee, and feel him slowly relaxing in his arms. _Oh, God, I can't believe he's leaving ..._

And despite the awkwardness, despite the uncertainty, this felt right, somehow. He hoped Bee felt the same way. The fact that Bee was not pulling away was, perhaps, a good sign. He had no idea where this would lead. Bee slowly gained confidence, though Sam was definitely leading the way.

A small sound behind Bee made them pull apart. Bee whirled, yanking free of Sam's grasp. "Mikaela!" he gasped.

"'Kaela ..." Sam echoed.

She stared at them, one hand over her mouth, eyes enormous. Then her anger flared, and she balled her fist and snapped, "Damn both of you."

"Oh crap!" Sam started to hurry towards her. Bee just stood there, eyes huge, body utterly motionless. Sam shouted, "Mikaela, it's not what you think!"

"_Alice _was not what I thought." Mikaela backed away. She screamed, "This! This is _exactly _what I think!"

"Wait!" Sam broke into a run when she spun about and stomped away from both of them. "Wait, Mikaela! Let me explain!"

She stopped, and said in a hushed, hissed, furious whisper, "Explain? You were making out with Bee! What's there to explain?"

"He's leaving, Mikaela!" Sam blurted out. "He's leaving, okay? It's because he's leaving!"

"Leaving?" She spun back to face them. Her rage was directed at Bee as much as Sam, and Sam followed her hot glare to look at the Autobot. Bee hadn't taken a step, and seemed rooted to the deck. She hissed at Bee, "You are leaving. Leaving Earth?"

"Mikaela ..." Bee finally moved. When Sam looked back, he'd taken two steps forward, then stopped and bowed his head. He said softly, "We need to talk."

"You _promised_!" She backed up. "You promised, and I believed you! I believed lots of things you said! You said you wouldn't have a relationship with me because it would hurt Sam, but you turn around and kiss Sam. How did you think I'd feel about that? How long has this been going on? Were both of you cheating on me behind my back?"

"Don't run!" Bee said, as she took two more quick steps away from them. "Mikaela, please, just listen to us for a minute. Sam _loves _you. That hasn't changed."

"Listen to Bee!" Sam shouted desperately. "Please, Mikaela, give us both a chance to explain."

"I am _so _not talking about this." She spun about on one heel and headed at a rapid pace towards the blast doors. She shot a one-finger salute over her shoulder in their general direction as they left.

Sam started to follow, and Bee caught his arm. Bee said, in a strangled-sounding whisper, "Let her cool off first."

He clapped his free hand over his face. "I'm an idiot."

"That does seem to be going around tonight," Bee noted, growling now. Bee was probably pissed at him, Sam realized.

"Didn't you hear her coming?" he shot the accusation back.

"My sensors are mostly offline," Bee retorted, and the Camaro transformed to tower over both Bee's humanoid half and Sam.

"Your sensors are what?" He hadn't even realized Bee was having physical difficulties, though that would explain why Bee hadn't acknowledged him until he was only feet away, and why he hadn't heard Mikaela coming.

"Mostly offline. My hearing a little less acute than human at the moment. It's a software issue, and I was too emotionally distraught to safely repair it. I thought it could wait until later, when I'd be less likely to overwrite something critical." Bee ran a hand over both his faces simultaneously. His irritation was fading, though he was ticked enough to add, "There are many better ways we could have told Mikaela about my departure, Sam."

"Oh, rub it in." Sam shook his head. Then, because Bee was looking a bit beaten again, he put his arm around Bee's shoulders. He just couldn't bear to see that look of awful grief on Bee's face, or the miserably unhappy slump of two sets of shoulders. "Do we need to find Ratchet about your sensors?"

"I sent him a burst of the errors as soon as Windy got done reaming me out," Bee said, with a tired-sounding sigh. He didn't pull away. "He told me to fix them myself. It's, umm, self-inflicted damage. I started getting errors when I was with Windy, and didn't stop when I should have. I was sorta having fun. At first. I crashed myself. Ratchet told me I was a big boy and could fix my own blasted glitches, quote-unquote."

"Ah." Sam squeezed Bee in a one-armed hug for a moment. "Shit, we've really got a mess, haven't we?"

Bee brushed his fingers against Sam's chin, making Sam look sideways at him. Bee said softly, "Yeah, we do. But at least the two of us are still friends."

"Heh. More than friends. Maybe. I guess. Umm. We really need to talk to 'Kaela. Sure we shouldn't chase her down right now?" Sam fidgeted, staring in the direction that Mikaela had fled. He didn't know what she was going to do, but had a sneaking suspicion she was probably angrier at him, and also Bee, than she'd ever been before. Had she really asked Bee about a relationship with him? Had she contemplated cheating on him with Bee?

_Bee said no to her. Then she finds us together, me teaching Bee about tongue wrestling. Oh, crapola. _

"No, we let her go." Bee pulled away from Sam. "If we try to talk to now, she'll eviscerate both of us. I am absolutely certain any conversation we have with her should wait until we've all had some recharge, and she's had time to cool off. She undoubtedly feels very betrayed. I was stupid, I should have spoken to her before allowing anything ... anything to happen. With either of us."

"Damn it." Sam sighed. "You think we have any prayer of making this work out?"

Troubled blue eyes met his worried gaze. Bee shrugged. "We'll tell her the truth, I guess. The rest is up to her."

"Dunno if she'll believe us."

"You surprised me," Bee said, his smile a bit crooked and not reaching his eyes. "Maybe Mikaela will too. Umm. Whatever happens ... I'd rather it be the three of us, Sam, not just me and you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I get that." It was a strange, dizzying concept. He wished Mikaela hadn't run. He wished she'd let them explain.

Bee turned back to him, and rested a hand on Sam's shoulder, and then suddenly collapsed against him. Sam hugged him. They both needed it. At least there was one person in the universe he could utterly trust. He was still scared to death, and still didn't want to think too much about the details, but holding Bee in his arms like this felt so very right. "Umm. Whatever happens," Sam confirmed, "for as long as we have, at least we can be ... whatever it is we are."

"Yeah." Bee's metal hand touched Sam's shoulder. His smaller form leaned into Sam's arms. "For as long as we have. Whatever comes to pass."


	56. Chapter 56

Mikaela angrily threw clothes into her suitcase. She'd never been more furious, more hurt, in her life.

_Trust Sam_, Bee had said. And he'd told her that he would not ever step between Sam and her, when he'd turned down her tentative offer of interest. Not a day later she'd found them making out on the deck, when Bee was supposed to be having the Cybertronian equivalent of a honeymoon with Manywinds.

Gah.

The two people in the world she'd thought she could trust. It hurt. Ever-loving Mother of God, it _hurt_.

Suitcase hastily packed, she lunged to her feet and headed out the door. "Teletraan," she said, "will you tell Optimus I fucking _quit_?"

"Mikaela, perhaps you should wait until you're calmer." The responding voice was not Teletraan's, it belonged to Ironhide, and he sounded irritated at her. It took her a second to recall that Teletraan was offline nine hours out of every thirty-six, with one of the others covering security while he was recharging. "And perhaps you should review the entire surveillance video I have recorded of what happened between Bee and Sam while you're at it."

"Fuck no. I'm so out of here. They can have each other, for all I care."

"Mikaela, leaving is dangerous," Ironhide objected.

"Are you going to stop me from going?"

"No. You are our employee and our friend, but you are not a sworn Autobot soldier. I can't order you to stay." Ironhide growled at her over the intercom, "However, I strongly advise against going. There are numerous protesters and reporters beyond the security cordon. If you leave now, we will not be able to protect you. Additionally, you may also wish to concider how it will look if you depart unexpectedly, with obvious signs of distress on your face."

Obvious signs of distress ...?

She set her bag down ran her fingers over her cheeks and they came away black. Her mascara was running. Crap. She didn't particularly want to be _seen _in such a state, either. She bit her lip for a second, then said, "Can I have another room, at least?"

"Yes." Ironhide paused, then added, "I've keyed an empty private room five doors down to allow you entrance."

She snagged her bag back up and stalked out the door and down the hall. Ironhide's voice followed her as she walked the fifty yards or so to the indicated giant door -- Autobots rooms were _huge_. "Mikaela," he said, "it might not be my place to say anything, but I think you're being a bit hard on the two of them."

"He _cheated _on me. And Bee promised he would never leave if the war ended!"

"The war's not over," Ironhide said, dryly. "I don't see anyone's signed any peace treaties with Fang, and I personally wouldn't believe 'em if we did."

"Oh, bullshit." She stomped into the room. "You guys are all acting like peace is just around the corner. Yet he's leaving. He's not honoring the spirit of that promise."

Ironhide's voice followed her inside, emitting from a new speaker high on the wall. "Mikaela, both of them love you. Don't be so stupid as to throw that away."

"Leave me alone," she snapped.

A dark mutter emitted from the speaker that might have been 'Yes ma'am' but wasn't particularly intelligible. Ironhide didn't say anything more, however, and she flung her suitcase into a corner of the giant room. The cabin was the size of her entire house, and the only furnishings were a dusty chair big enough for Optimus, a berth that could have functioned as a second story if there was a ladder up to it (there wasn't) and a desk that was at least seven feet in the air. The cabin she'd been sharing with Bee and Sam had, at least, a couple mattresses in it, and blankets. She supposed she'd just have to suck it up and sleep on the floor in a corner.

Someone knocked on the door. High up. Obviously a bot. "Mikaela?" Bee's voice though the door was thin and distorted, but audible.

"Go to hell. I don't ever want to see you again."

The door slid open. He had one of the mattresses in his hand, and a wadded up handful of blankets. "We'll talk later," he said, glancing around the room, then setting everything down beside the desk. "I didn't want you sleeping on the floor. 'Hide said you were in here."

"Get. Out."

He flinched, and shuttered his optics, and said, "Mikaela, Manywinds pretty much used that exact same tone of voice on me today, and the exact same words. I've screwed up all around, with everyone. I'm sorry. But what you saw on the deck above wasn't precisely what you think it was. We didn't mean to hide anything from you, and finding you and having a long talk with you would have been the first order of business."

"Yeah, well, if Windy rejected you, he probably had good reasons. Pretty much, you're an ass, Bee."

Bee visibly flinched. Anger flared in his eyes, the first time that she could recall that he'd ever lost his temper with her, and there had been a few times when he should have. "Mikaela," he said, leaning forward and glaring down at her, "you have no idea what you're talking about."

"Maybe I do."

"Maybe you don't." He turned abruptly about on his heel. She heard a click-whir-humm deep within him, not capacitors charging but something else. It happened three times. Then Bee added in a much calmer tone of voice, "When Sam came to me, just a few minutes ago, I was in the darkest moment of my life. I've done a lot of things I regret in my life, 'Kaela. Hurting Windy is the worst. He could have been so much more to me than how I treated him. Instead, I hurt him very badly, because I was simply using him as a distraction for my feelings for _both _you and Sam, and he realized it. You wanted to know last night if a relationship with me was possible?"

She started to snarl something rude at him, but he cut her off with a hiss of static.

"I _never _intentionally hurt you, Mikaela. You simply have your optics shoved so far up your exhaust you can't see the truth." His growled insult didn't especially make sense, but it readily translated to an equivalent human one. It left her open-mouthed in shock. Bee was _ticked_. "And, I promised, specifically, I would not leave you unless the war forced me away. I am fully and completely aware of the unspoken promise with those words -- that I would _not _leave you if I could avoid it. What I am being called away for has to do with a threat to both Earth and my own people. It is not about Cybertron's civil war, so I am, in fact, breaking the specific language of my promise to you. But it a critically important mission."

She tried to speak, to argue, but he was much louder than she was, and he simply kept speaking.

"I have a month before I'm scheduled to leave. It's up to you if you want to make the best of that time, or not. Sam's made his choice. For that, I am eternally and utterly grateful. It's a gift I never expected. I believe we've both misread him, When you're calmer, we'll talk. _Both _of us. I am not going to argue with you, and I am not prepared to speak to you when you are in this angry of a mood. You will say things you regret, and Sam and I will react with unnecessary anger and hurt."

She wanted to see his eyes, to judge his expression, but he stepped through the doorway without looking back.

On the wall, a monitor clicked on. Ironhide said helpfully, "You really should see what led up to that kiss, Mikaela."

"I don't want to know." She turned her back on the monitor, and started to make the bed. She could hear them talking behind her, though. Even when she crawled under the covers and yanked the blanket over her head, she could hear them talking.  
_  
"Mikaela should have kept her mouth shut. She didn't need to tell you. She just hurt both of us by doing it." _Bee's irritation with her made her flinch.

"Will you turn that thing _off_?" She growled, but got no answer. The video continued to play.

_"If you're going to tell me to frag off, would you get it over with?" _Bee sounded upset, to the point where she nearly turned her head to look at the video. Sheer stubbornness kept her looking away.  
_  
"Um, ah, no. Geeze. When I bought a crappy-ass Camaro two years ago, I was hoping it'd help me find love. This is not what I had in mind."_

Mikaela realized she was crying again. Bee's voice held raw and naked pain, but Sam had reacted with humor where she had would have petted him and cooed at him, unsure of what else to do. Sam could make anyone laugh. She'd never understood how he could find humor even in the worst situations.

_"Pit, Sam, I really screwed up. I can't believe what I did to Windy. I didn't see it at the time. I was so wrapped up in what I wanted. I was trying to be so self-sacrificing and generous to you two, but I was being a selfish, cruel idiot to Manywinds at the same time."_

Bee's pain made her cry harder.  
_  
"I guess it's no secret anymore that I love you and Mikela."_

She shoved her knuckles in her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud. Bee's voice held so much conviction, so much truth.  
_  
"I'm surprised you don't think it'd be better if you didn't go back two years and warn your past self about Satan's Camaro."_

How could he think that Sam thought that? She couldn't imagine her world without the 'bots in it, even with all the crap that had happened. She was pretty sure that Sam felt the same way. When Bumblebee left, there was going to be a Bumblebee sized hole in her universe, and _damn _that hurt so bad. He had promised he would stay if the war ended. He'd talked about settling on Earth. She had dared to let herself trust him. And now he was going away. People _always _left her.  
_  
"I need to tell Mikaela, and she won't take it well. I promised her I would stay, and now I will break that promise to her. She has lost far too much in her life. Now I add to it. And -- and I love her, as much as I love you. Primus, sometimes I wish I'd never met you two, just because I've hurt you both so much." _

Bee's words -- proof that he understood just how damn much this hurt -- shook her worse. She couldn't bite back the tears now.  
_  
"Hell, I came out to Optimus earlier," _Sam said.

He what? Oh, she'd love to have been a fly on the wall watching that conversation.  
_  
"You should be a __lot easier to talk to than him. Anyway. Yeah. I like guys, okay? Girls too, but I make a point of not advertising the guy-liking because, uh, well. Umm."  
_  
She wasn't surprised, she'd figured his orientation out this morning -- though she wondered if he was really bi. He had always been so reserved about pushing for sex. She'd never known a guy that damned polite, even hesitant, about wanting her in bed. All the other guys she'd dated had, pretty much, been shameless horndogs.

_"I probably should have said something to you a long time ago. I know I can tell you anything. But I don't like to think about it even to myself. You said I smelled stressed? Uh, yeah, that'd be an understatement. But, uh, it's not because I'm not attracted to you. Being attracted to you makes it worse, not better."  
_  
Mikaela realized she'd stopped crying. Their words were so honest. She had been afraid they had been hiding behind her back, having some sort of secret affair for weeks or months. Heavens knew they'd had enough opportunity for it. Sam probably spent as much time with Bee as he did with her. She'd never really thought about that before, beyond being glad the two of them were such close friends.  
_  
"I've b-been rejected once today. I c-can't ... I c-can't take a second rejection. It'd hurt worse from you than it ever could from Windy, and Windy hurts so bad. If you're playing with me Sam, stop now. __Please."_

Bee sounded so very desperate. And it was obvious now that this was new, and not something that had been going on for a long time.  
_  
"I'm so alone, Sam. I don't know how long I'll be gone. I need ... I don't need sex, and you can't interface with me, but I think I need ... I don't know what I need, but I need it. From you. From both of you. For a little while."_

She pushed her head out from the covers and looked up at the screen.  
_  
"I wish ... I wish I could give you two forever. I was fooling myself when I promised Mikaela I would never leave her. She needed to hear it, and I wanted it to be true, but it's not. I have to go Sam. I don't know when I'll be back. It could only be months. It could be never. I can't promise I'll return, because I don't want to break my word to either of you again."_

Sam was tracing a finger over Bee's lips, hesitantly, looking wide-eyed and scared. She watched, stunned into silence, and not really listening to what they were saying any more. The body language between them was astounding. She could see the hesitant fear from the two of them, with both so very afraid of being rejected. Sam was visibly shaking, and Bee's voice was raw with emotion.

She watched, awed, as Sam summoned the courage to kiss Bee gently. Bee resisted for a moment, they talked for a bit -- and she agreed with Bee's sentiments in regards to Sam fighting through his own fears -- then slowly Bee accepted Sam's tentative advance. As kisses went, it wasn't an earth-shattering, passionate clench. It was tender, and they were both so scared, and the two of them had very clearly never lost sight of her, or the love the _both _had for her, based on their words. And, she admitted to herself finally, now that the immediate reaction of betrayed rage had been replaced by guilty unease, the two of them kissing was pretty damn hot.

And then she'd disrupted that private moment, had shouted curses at them, had flipped them off, and stalked off. She watched as the Sam wanted to go chase her down immediately, and Bee counseled him to wait until she cooled off. Wise words. She'd been angry enough to rip their heads off. If they'd chased after her, if they'd confronted her, she knew she would have reacted with ever-escalating levels of fury until she did something like truly leave the ship. If she'd run, she would not be seeing this now.

She sighed heavily. "Ironhide, thanks."

"Nnn-hnnh. You humans are pretty damn stupid sometimes. Three mechs who loved each other the way you three do would have been official about it years ago. Go talk to them. Or I'll use your hide to polish my cannons, girl."

She laughed through her tears. Ironhide was gruff, cranky, impatient with the foibles of others, and he _cared_. They all did.

Oh, God.

They cared about her. Being with the 'bots made her feel safe, and loved, and protected. She'd almost walked out on that, in a moment's blind fury. She had almost left that behind. She had contemplated abandoning her friends entirely this very morning, in exchange for a fling with some dumb actor-director-producer-rich-guy who was only interested in sex with the hot chick. She had seriously thought of walking away from all of them, because she was afraid of ... what? Losing them?

It almost felt as if something had shifted inside of her.

_Trust Sam, _had been Bee's mantra.

She'd never, really, known what that meant. Trust. One thing that _trust _meant was assuming the best about someone, not defensively expecting the worst. She always, always, was looking for betrayal, and was never surprised when she found it. Betrayal was anticipated and understood. She closed her eyes and stood in the middle of the room, shivering in the cool air-conditioned cabin. Sticky, smeared makeup was all over her face, and she was suddenly so unearthly tired. They hadn't betrayed her. They had not meant to hurt her. They loved each other, yes, but they loved her, too.

Sam had said Bee was leaving in a month. She didn't have time, then, to dither or worry about the fine points. It was do or die. Either she accepted what they were offering, or she walked away ... and broke both her own heart and theirs. Bee had said, 'I can't take a second rejection today,' and then she'd given him precisely that. Maybe she could undo what she'd done. Maybe.

She bit her lip, for a second, then grabbed her suitcase and resolutely marched back to the room. She was never one to shirk from a battle, and she'd just realized she was facing one.

Mikaela would not have been surprised to find both of them in another make-out session. However, Sam was seated on the edge of a mattress when the door swished open, and Bee was in a chair. Both looked up. Both winced. Sam said in a near frantic panic, "Mikaela, uh, um, did you forget something? Bee didn't want you sleeping on the floor, and I didn't see anything else you'd left behind, but, uh, um ..."

"Sam," she said softly, then took a deep breath and uttered the hardest words she'd ever said to anyone, "I love you. Bee, I love you."

That got her a stare from Sam, and a relieved sigh from Bee. She echoed the sigh. As ticked as Bee had been a few moments ago, she had been uncertain of her reception. Bee was slow to anger and quick to forgive, however, and it looked like he was willing to let his own temper go.

"Um, do you want to sleep with us tonight, and oh shit, that came out totally wrong, considering." Sam clapped a hand over his face.

"I don't know," she said sweetly, knowing she was treading on thin ice, but wanting to know how he would react, "is sleeping together part of the deal?"

Sam turned as red as a tomato and glanced frantically at Bee. Oh, yeah, there were still some major issues there. Teasing Sam might turn out to be a tremendous amount of fun, actually. She watched as he stared at Bee for a trifle too long, glanced down at Bee's crotch, turned even redder, and then averted his eyes. Bee, for his part, just favored her with a crooked and shaky smile. "Not tonight, which I think might be a relief for Sam."

"Bee, can you even ...?" Sam started to ask the obvious, coughed, then added, "You said you don't need it."

"Need sex? No. And I won't think of doing anything you don't wan't." Bee sat down on his own fender. "But it's fun."

"How would you know?" Sam asked, then turned, if possible, even redder. Mikaela found she was deeply entertained by this. Sam was so embarassed he looked like he was about to spontaneously combust from the blushing, and Bee was clearly shaken, though the vibe she was getting off of him was a strange mixture of guilt and relief. Bee's expression looked despondent, mixed with the occasional flash of a smile. Bee was probably constitutionally incapable of brooding for long, she thought, no matter how bad things were. That sturdy good cheer was probably as much of a defense mechanism as Ratchet's snark or Sideswipe's arrogance.

The question, however, earned Sam a sharp look from Bumblebee. His smile vanished and Bee explained, "I crashed from the sensory input with Windy. My systems interpreted it as an error state, and I'd written code insisting it wasn't, and there was a conflict that corrupted the Autobot equivalent of systems drivers. I am _so _not a programmer. Ratchet says fixing all the damage and writing better code to prevent it in the future is good practice for me, and is refusing to help. He's pissed about the crash because it was self-inflicted. He'll check my work when I'm done, but until then, I'm on my own."

"Windy can do that too? ... oh, I so do not want to know how that works." Sam did a face palm.

"I believe the term is 'hand job', Sam," Bee said, sounding a bit sour. "It was very pleasurable experience, right up until I crashed."

Sam said, from behind the hand that was still spread across his face, "I am not sure that knowing you're able to, you know, makes me feel any better."

"Oh, damn, and here I had fantasies of a hot threesome with two gorgeous guys. Guess I'll leave," Mikaela affected a pout.

That drew their attention back to her. Bee sighed, and stood up, and walked up to her. She wasn't sure what he wanted, right until he folded her into a hug. "'Kaela," he said, voice low and husky, "I'm glad you came back. Don't even joke about leaving, please."

"Yeah, not funny," Sam said. He was still seated on the edge of the mattress.

Bee kissed her forehead. Then, when she looked up, he pressed a kiss to her mouth. She tried to deepen it, even as she wondered what Sam's reaction would be. Bee pulled away too quickly, shot Sam a wary, cautious look, and gave her a very gentle push in the direction of the mattress. "Later," he promised.

"Hey," Sam held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "You can kiss her. She's not killing me for catching us together. Turnabout's fair play."

"Later," Bee repeated, even as Mikaela was briefly distracted by the implications of Sam's words. She had expected him to be jealous. "If I don't shut down for recharge and let my repair routines work on those drivers, I'll be useless tomorrow, and then it won't just be Ratchet who has my bolts, it'll be Optimus, too. I've got a three-hour shift of monitor duty between nine AM and noon, before Teletraan wakes up, then guard duty from one to four PM, and I believe both of you have work to do too, with an earlier shift than mine."

"Meh, tour guide," Sam complained. He stood up, kicked his jeans off, shrugged out of his shirt, then flopped backwards onto the mattress. "I guess all three of us will have the afternoon free."

Mikaela knew that Bee had planned to spend every free minute over the weekend with Manywinds. The reminder of what had gone so terribly wrong between them made Bee frown briefly. He didn't say anything, so Mikaela suggested, "We could go to the beach or the zoo or something. -- No, wait, I promised Andrew Gallego that Wheeljack and I would talk to him. Networking crap, he's talking about some kind of TV special on the 'bots."

"Why you?" Bee said.

"Because I'm pretty," Mikaela said, with a grimace. "He was hitting on me shamelessly."

She didn't mention that she'd been flirting back. Instead, she pulled off and tossed her heels in the general direction of the suitcase, stripped out of the glittery white dress as quickly as she could, and toppled into the mattress next to Sam. Neither of them commented further on her words. If they were as tired as she was, starting a new topic of discussion was probably too much work to contemplate. However, despite her profound weariness, she didn't think she'd be able to sleep. She closed her eyes and second later a third body depressed the mattress.

"I hope you two don't mind. I really don't want to go back and get the other bed ..." Bee groaned.

It was a queen sized mattress, which was big enough for three skinny people. She'd somehow ended up in the middle. Her last conscious thought, before sleep abruptly and inexorably claimed her, was that this wasnot how she'd expected the day to end.

* * *


	57. Chapter 57

Optimus stood in the window of the Admiral's Cabin, regarding the morning light over the city with honest appreciation. The Ark was tall enough that the second level cabins were a good six human stories in the air and that meant he had a very good view of the city. Cities of this size always reminded him of home, and if he'd been asked, he would candidly have admitted to being homesick this morning. Cybertron was a shattered ruin and millions of years of time and civilization had left the planet without the natural resources -- the energy -- needed to rebuild. The planet had been in decline even before the war broke out, able to support fewer mechs each generation, and the devastation that tens of millenia of war had caused was the final straw. The only reason to return to Cybertron would be to retrieve the few hundred Autobots, and an undetermined but tiny number of neutrals scratching out subsistance-level survival among the shattered cities.

He could hear the distant mutter of a crowd (well below the level of human hearing) chanting anti-Autobot sentiments, and absent monitoring of human radio frequencies over his comm circuits confirmed that the Nobots were still busily protesting their presence. Below, however, small groups of humans were passing through a human metal detector, past the watchful gaze (and scans) of Inferno and Grimlock, and then lining up in long queues beneath the ship. They'd been arriving for hours. Inferno estimated there were several thousand people already massed for the tours, and they were going to shut the gates soon.

The N.E.S.T. soldiers would be leading the tours, something Optimus had been firm on, and their commanders had agreed to readily, and the soldiers had been enthusiastic about. He hoped that the image of America's and Britain's special forces working so closely with the Autobots would be reassuring to the public. He had planned to have Mikaela and Sam manning

He'd caught an hour of recharge, enough to process the past day's emotional input and degauss his sensors, though not to defrag his cores, and had woken to the sound of both crowds when his chronometer informed him it was time to rise. He had meetings this morning to attend; one with a number of health industry executives, another with several elected officials, and a third with the producer of a talk show. They were trying to talk him into an interview. He was wary, for there were still questions he didn't know how to answer, and others that he didn't _want _to answer. At some point, he would need to sit down and talk _with _the media rather than talking _at _them, but the politician in him was deeply suspicious of the motives of reporters. A polite and factual interview with an alien robot would make for good ratings. If they could trip him into saying something that would damn him in the eyes of Earth's people, the ratings would be exponentially better.

_Why do you have no other allies willing to take you in? _Was one question he hoped nobody would think to ask. Nebulos was gone, utterly, and apparently the surviving Nebulans carried a profound and deep grudge. He frankly didn't blame them, and he wondered how the Nebulans would react when they learned that the one who shouldered the most blame for the retreat of the Autobots still lived, and still led them. There would be no sanctuary for the last of his people on the Nebulan colony, at least, not any time soon, no matter how appealing a world with other mechs was on an emotional level. Of Cybertron's other allies, roughly half had broken off all contact with both sides, and most of the remainder either had allied with the Decepticons or had too many troubles of their own for him to consider asking for their help. There were a few inhabited worlds where they might have been allowed to settle, but culturally, he knew they'd never fit in.

Callos had actually _offered _them a home ... if the mechs were willing to be classed as second-class citizens and essentially be treated as slave labor.

"It's a beautiful morning," Elita said, behind him.

Optimus put his hand on her shoulder she stepped up next to him and tugged until she leaned against his hip. He didn't publicly show affection towards her very often, beyond almost unconsciously sharing space with her, but this morning he needed her, and they were in private. With the excitement of the speech wearing off, he felt a dark and gloomy mood trying to creep in. Guilt and second thoughts were eroding the emotional high of the night before at a rapid pace.

His fingers brushed something on her back that hadn't been there before. He glanced down and saw she'd transcanned a new vehicle. She had door wings this morning. They had the energon to spare as the Ark's tanks were full, and every mech on the ship had topped off their own reserves. She probably would not be the only mech to chose a different alt mode. She said, quietly, obviously speaking of the humans, "They're so angry, so scared."

He sighed. Apparently, he wasn't the only one in a funk.

"But not all of them. There's hope, Optimus."

"Five hundred thousand people marched against us in New York yesterday. They were only expecting a hundred thousand." Optimus ran a hand absently over her back, between her new door wings, sensitive fingers feeling the familiar thrum of her internals under reconfigured armor. She hadn't had door wings in a long time. He'd always liked them on her.

"It will turn out well in the end. You did a good job on the speech. You always do."

"Hm. Why the new alt mode?" He changed the subject and scanned her, puzzled together her new armor configuration, and then realized she'd transcanned a Pontiac Solstice in the last few minutes. Her transformation nanytes were still active as they made some finishing touches to the changes in her armor. With her slight build she'd been forced to hang the doors off her back. "Oh, I see."

"There was one in the parking lot." Elita sighed. "He had good taste, and I gave the people lined up for the tours a good show changing forms. Jazz would have approved."

"Yes, he would."

"He'd have loved last night. I miss," she didn't say 'Jazz' but rather his Cybertronian designation this time, "and I was thinking about him last night, and how much he would have enjoyed the dancing and the celebration. He always loved a good party. This seemed fitting since it was his last alt mode."

Optimus nodded. "It's a good vehicle, too. It suits you too."

It was a small, sleek, fast car. Elita was small, sleek, with a swift mind and agile body.

She nodded, but added, "I'll need to change back to something with more seats for the humans eventually."

He blew a soft sigh out his vents. "Elita, how are you doing? I've been so busy I haven't had a chance to take any time with you."

His partner glanced up at him, then trailed a finger along a seam in his armor. "I haven't survived this long in the war by being delicate, physically or emotionally, lover mine. And I have been as busy as you."

He nodded acknowledgement of her words. No, Elita was not a fragile flower. She was a more than competant warrior in her own right, and there had been times when he'd retained his sanity only by relying on her mental toughness. Still, beyond just Jazz, she'd very recently lost several good friends on the transport ship. They had not had time to properly mourn the mechs who hadn't survived Soundwave's attack, and Elita had been Magnus's second in command for thirty thousand years. She'd known all of them, had commanded all of them, for that time. You didn't work that long with a group of mechs without making very close bonds with them. Magnus had a proper funeral rites planned for when the Ark got back from Nieryl Six with the rest of his team; it was fitting that they wait for all their comrades to assemble.

Elita echoed his earlier sigh. "I wish Jazz could have survived to see Megatron dead, and a chance for peace on the horizon. -- Optimus, I never really knew Fangface when he was fighting on our side. Do you think he has the ability to pull off long-term command of the Decepticons?"

"I don't know. He's smart, but when I knew him he was also easily distracted and does not think very far ahead. He can be impulsive to a fault."

"He may have changed."

"Or found a good advisor or two to counter his weaknesses." He brushed a finger over her dataport, in an invitation he had not yet had a chance to extend before now. They had not had an opportunity to interface since she had arrived on Earth. First she had been injured, and privacy had been at a premium, and then they'd been so very busy. This was not a good time now, but he suspected if they didn't forcefully steal some time from their schedules, they'd never get a moment to themselves before she departed Earth.

"Do we even have time now?" She echoed his thoughts.

"I can be late to a meeting just once," he grumbled. His punctuality was famous. The only time he'd been late to a meeting with human officials so far, he'd been caught four-hour traffic jam.

Decision made, he lowered himself gracefully to the ground, pulled her into his lap, sliding one arm under her wings. Their armor clinked and rattled together, and one of the pistons on her calf caught on his thigh armor and he pulled her leg loose with a casual tug. It felt so good to hold her that close, not just in his personal bubble of space, but pressed against his armor. With a small smile, and a low voice, he told her, "I like the doorwings on you. They're very expressive."

"Which is why I don't normally wear them," she replied with a smile right back at the compliment. "I'm not Bee, to show my emotions for all to see and not caring a wit. And I'm never been so controlled as Prowl, to be able to keep them perfectly still under the greatest of stresses. It's hard enough to keep a straight face when I'd like to slag some nitwit and can't."

"Or Jazz," Optimus pointed out with a laugh, "who was so good at feigning moods for the benefit -- or detriment -- of others. I believe he sometimes wore wings simply to enhance his ability to, as the humans say, fake the enemy out."

"There's a reason he was so good at special ops for so very long."

"Yes," Optimus ran a hand down her arm.

She chuckled. "I miss him, Optimus. He was such a good friend, even if he deliberately annoyed me half the time."

"Yes." He pulled a cable out of the subspace pocket at his hip, and plugged both of them in.

It had been a long time. He shuttered his optics as the familiar feel of her mind, her soul, her very essence, swirled around him. He had been setting aside significant memories for her for tens of thousands of years, and he felt her find the compressed packet and upload it across the connection, even as he identified and downloaded a similar collection of files from her memory core. Humans sent postcards or letters when they were apart from their lovers. Mechs, separated by light years, saved memory files for their partners. The files had grown enormous, and while the data was transmitting between them he focused on her current mood.

It was optimistic. She had been quietly full of grief for so very long, and now she had _hope_. He responded with a flare of love for her, and joy that she could see a happier future, and gratitude that she was here, in his arms, for however long they had.

The sensation of her sliding through his memories, responding to his fears with acknowledgement and countering optimism, and to his many flaws with utter acceptance, was nearly indescribable. He thought she was utterly amazing, had believed this since the first time they'd connected, and if anyone as truly special as Elita could accept him completely as he was ... perhaps his faults and his mistakes were not as bad as he sometimes thought. It was always how he reacted to her complete acceptance of the entirety of his being. Alone, he would quietly doubt himself, question his motivations, obsess over his past failures. He could brood himself into a near suicidal state, though few beyond his closest inner circle understood just how much darkness there could be in his spark.

He'd failed in so many ways: failed to save Megatron from himself, failed to stop Megatron, failed to stop the war, failed to save Nebulos, failed, failed. And failed more. Sometimes -- _often -- _he quietly wondered if it wouldn't be better if he stepped aside and let others take over. Sometimes he wondered if it wasn't his fault. If he'd been a better commander, he might have won the war early on. If he'd been a little less stubborn, he might have ceded to Megatron when it became obvious that a swift victory would not happen. If he'd bowed his head and surrendered before Nebulos had been destroyed, Nebulos might still be a living, vibrant world. The Nebulans might have, eventually, defeated Megatron themselves. So many ways the war could have gone different, and at every possible fork in history's road, he had chosen a path that had let to yet more death, tragedy, and destruction.

A path that led them here.

Two thousand Autobots. Ten thousand Decepticons. No Allspark. Begging for a home with an alien race that didn't know them, and whose people were justifiably afraid of giant robots from outer space. Never in his very long life had he been so desperate; not for a very long time had he felt so much hope.

He let her see those dark shadows, and felt her accept, and accept, and accept some more. Felt her counter his guilt with a single bright, shining image: A night image of Earth, from orbit, a jewel-like scattering of city lights across a continent. _:You saved this one. This world would be gone, if not for you. Perhaps this is a turning point, Optimus.:_

:Yes.:

:We cannot change the past, my love. We can only work for a better future. You know that better than any of us.:

:Yes.:

:The Order of the Primes believe you have a destiny, you and the Witwicky boy.: A hand stroked his chest armor over his spark, and he felt her shift in his arms. _:Trust them. I do not believe any could have done better than you. You've kept enough of us alive that we can start over, and perhaps it was destiny that brought us to this world in the end. Earth needs us, and we need Earth.:_

:Yes.: It was her reminder that the Primes believed in him that eased his sudden flare of guilt a bit. Because he knew she was listening to him, he'd let himself really feel, for a moment, emotions generally best kept suppressed. As he had known she would, she had responded with faith, and a reminder that their wisest ancestors still believed in him, and still supported him. He did trust the Order of Primes, and he would never turn away from their guidance. They wanted him to lead. And so he would do so.

He lost himself in the love that she was sending, and her faith -- her faith in him, her faith in the hand of Primus, her faith in the ancestors that believed in him, her faith in good triumphing over evil. She believed in him. She loved him.

Back and forth, they sent feelings of love, acceptance, understanding, belief. Pleasure rose and swirled through his processors, and hers, a feedback loop that led to a dizzying, crashing, healing climax. He held her close as the waves subsided, then stroked her helm and said softly, "It has been far, far, far too long."

She didn't say a word in response, just leaned against him for many minutes. He knew, though. He knew how much she'd loved and missed him, and would love and miss him again when he sent her away with the Ark, on important missions. She was needed elsewhere, and they both knew that. However much he wanted her at his side there were far more important reasons for them to part.

Quietly, she unhooked the data cable, and stood up, then pressed her forehead to his. "You humble me, Optimus. Every time."

Then she was gone, off to what he knew was her own round of seemingly endless meetings. He sat for a good bit longer before rising himself. The politicians would wait, just this once, while he enjoyed the tranquility and warmth that had spread through all of his circuits in the wake of Elita's love.

* * *

Fangface stood up on the berth on all four feet and stretched luxuriously, then winced as his hip twinged with sharp pain that reminded him it still wasn't healed. It wouldn't be, if Ratchet was right, for a very long time, as long as he continued to use it. He contemplated holing up for a week or two in his quarters and making Death wait on him hand and foot. Amused by the image, he shot the suggestion across a tightly encrypted comm to his partner, who was currently somewhere deep in the bowls of the ship, hunting contraband.

_:I already wait on you hand and foot,: _Deathwheels retorted, _:And I'd have to strap you to the berth to get you to hold still for more than ten klicks at a time.:_

:I am not hyperactive.: Fang protested. Death regularly teased him about his energy levels. _:And you'd like to see me tied down, I'm sure.: _  
_  
:Yes, you _are_ hyper,: _Death insisted. _:It's part of your charm, I assure you.:_

:Meh.:

:Probably need a stasis pod, actually,: Death mused, _:But that wouldn't let the nanytes work. Maybe I could just disconnect your motor circuits from your processor core.:_

:Mmmm, sexy. Then you could have your way with me.: Fang teased. _:I bet you'd like that.:_  
_  
:Fragger, someday, somebody's going to actually believe you when they decrypt our conversations,: _Death said, with some amusement. Both of them knew for a fact that everything they said over the radio would be decrypted by multiple mechs, including Bloodshine. Rather than fight the inevitable rumors of their involvement, they had chosen to make a running joke of it for the benefit of the audio sensors of the crew. _:And speaking of conversations that don't need to be shared with the rest of the crew, you got a second, boss? I found something interesting.:  
_  
_:Is this a conversation for the lab, my quarters, or the conference room?:_

:Conference room. It's closest.: 

Unsurprisingly, Death beat him to the conference room. Fang padded through the room, hopped up onto a chair, then onto the table, and sprawled out on it in relief. He lay stretched fully out, the very picture of feline poise. Death, who was already seated at the table with his elbows propped on it, said with a smirk, "I bet you can't hold that pose for more than two klicks."

"Frag you," Fang retorted, sitting up. He slipped his claws under his armor and tugged on the tension wires that attached to his femoral strut, taking some of the pressure off the joint. "What did you find?"

Death tossed a datapad in his direction. "You tell me."

Intrigued, Fangface let go of his hip and picked the datapad up.

"I've been going through old requisitions and supply shipment data. What I'm really looking for is who's dishonest in what ways, because certain patterns could hint at trouble for us."

Fang glanced up, and then nodded absently.

Deathwheels elaborated anyway, "You know, missing weapons shipments, that sort of thing."

"Yeah, I get it." Fang frowned at the data displayed on the 'pad. "We've known about the Fallen's base for months. What am I looking at here?"

Deathwheels rose, walked around to Fang's side of the table, and leaned over his shoulder. He ran a finger over the information on the datapad, then tapped a specific set of glyphs. "Look at the amount of energon shipped to that old base on Mars."

"Tcha!" Fangface said in surprise. "What was he fueling, a clusterjack of space bridges?"

Death snorted in reaction to Fang's profanity, and shot him a baleful look. Death had been trying to get Fang to speak less like an army grunt and more like a leader. It was, as Death would readily admit, a work in progress.

"Since you called me in to the conference room, you must have an idea what's there."

Death rubbed his nose with two fingers. "I almost hope I'm wrong. They were sending enough energon to that base, for millenia after millenia, to cause shortages in the rest of the army at times."

"Spill, Death. What is it?"

"I'd rather show you. Where's the seekers?"

"On patrol ..." He said, after quickly checking schedules.

"They can both jump that far." Death ran a hand over his face. "I think we need to check this out immediately, Fang."

"Can't you just pull the records up and find out what it was?" Fangface asked.

"I think I might know, actually." Death hunched his shoulders, looking unaccountably ill at ease. "But until I'm sure, I'd rather hold my peace."

Fang detected a brief burst across the comms as Death summoned the two seekers. He absently decrypted it, and found a very standard summons and a polite response from TC and a slightly grumpier one from Skywarp. Sometimes, he wondered why anyone bothered with standard levels of encryption in the decepticon army.

"Hnnh. Another solar harvester, perhaps?" Fang speculated. "If so, I'll just have it dismantled and we'll find an uninhabited system somewhere. We could sure use the energon."

"I doubt it's another harvestor. The vaccuum point energy generator required to make it work was a pinnacle of Cybertronian technology. Incredibly resource intensive, and there would be no reason to have two in one system." The vaguely patronizing tone in Death's voice made Fang grit his teeth against an urge to snarl something rude back. Death then added, "But you would have figured it out if you'd actually thought your words through. Fang, you need to learn to think before you speak. You're smart, but when you blurt stupid things out, you weaken your position as a leader."

"Oh, frag you." He didn't bother to hide his irritation any more.

A gentle hand caught his chin, and pulled his head up so he looked Death in the optics. Anyone else would have lost their fingers for taking such a liberty, but somehow, he just simply couldn't lash out Deathwheels. "Fang," Death said softly, "I'm sorry for stating the obvious."

He pulled his head free with a hiss of irritation, but Death simply transferred a hand to his shoulder. "Fangface, you have not gotten where you are by being slow, stupid, or incompetent. I simply see ways you can be a _better _leader. Do you wish me to be your cheerleader, or your closest advisor? Because it it's the latter, I _will _say things to you that you will not like to hear."

"I want to be the best leader that Cybertron's people have had in living memory," Fang snapped. "So yeah, tell me. I do value your opinion."

Death pushed on Fang's shoulder, "Lay down for a second."

"You want to interface? Here?" Fangface said, in shock. The seekers were on their way. It'd sure have to be a quicky, and it it seemed rather reckless.

Death made a snorting sound that might almost have been a laugh. "You're so young, sometimes. I _was _going to adjust your hip a bit. We can save the 'facing for when we have the time and guaranteed privacy to do it right. And hopefully next time we won't be ready to kill each other."

"Oh. In that case, I am at your mercy." Feeling a little foolish, and hiding it with a lazy smile, he slid back down and sprawled out on his side, then let Deathwheels lift the armor plate off.

Death carried a set of repair tools on him at all times, as did Fang. Fang sagged in utter relief as the Death let up some of the tension on the wires, bled some pressure off the hydraulics, and loosened a few gears. The pain relief was immediate. His body's auto-repair systems were trying to restrict motion in the damaged joint by making it tighten up. This directly served to limit range, and the added discomfort would discourage him from using it. However, he just didn't have the luxury to curl up in a berth for a few weeks. Manually adjusting his works would reduce the pain for a few hours, before repair functions he had frustratingly little control over would kick back in.

He wished he dared take the damage sensors offline completely. However, that would mean he wouldn't feel it if the weld started to crack under stress -- say, another fight. If the socket cracked through, he could do a slagging large amount of destruction to the entire femoral structure in a short period of time. If the head of his femoral strut punched through the socket, it'd warp every piston and gear from his hip to his knee, and probably take out some of the motor relays bolted to the inside of his pelvic girdle, as well. He had no parts to repair himself if that happened.

Deathwheel's hand resting on Fang's side reminded him, suddenly, of Ratchet. He really did need to find an excuse to spend several hours with the 'bots. Ratchet could work miracles, and it would be so nice to not _hurt _any more.

Before Death was done, Thundercracker pinged them from the other side of the door. The two seekers must have been close, to arrive so quickly. "Frag," Death muttered, "they'll think we're 'facing for real if I don't let them in."

"Well," Fang flinched as Death tugged on a cable that was stressed, and therefore sore, from days of constant tension, "Skywarp knows he fragged my hip anyway."

"Hnnh." Death opened the door without looking back. His face settled smoothly into a slack, dull, unemotional mask, and his movements as he worked on Fang's hip grew slower and somehow a trace clumsy.

Fang lifted his head off the table and said brightly, "Don't you guys love a good minion?"

TC peered around Death's bulk. "You fractured his femoral socket, 'Warp. That's going to take forever to heal."

Skywarp grunted.

Thundercracker glanced back at Skywarp, who stood in the doorway for a moment before entering. "I never did thank you for repairing 'Warp, Lord Fangface," he said, suddenly.

Death clicked Fang's armor back into place, and Fang rolled onto his chest. Fang said, "Tcha. Don't mention it. He did yield."

"Seriously. You can't even tell you had your claws on his spark chamber when my idiot partner finally gave up." Thundercracker shot 'Warp another significant look.

Fang hopped off the table, and experimentally put his weight down on the leg. It still hurt, but he could walk somewhat normally. He asked Skywarp, "How's the welds on your wing holding?"

"Fine," that got him a grunt.

"Good. I don't hold grudges." Fangface transformed and stood up, which put him at elbow level to the two of them. Skywarp wasn't particularly bright, and he suspected that the sole reason 'Warp had tried to take him out was because he'd assumed that because he was three times Fang's mass and half again as tall, he would be the better fighter. He'd used his weight to good effect in that fight -- Fang's broken hip socket was clear testiment to that -- but Fang had taken down much larger mechs than a simple seeker. He nodded his chin at the door, and said, "C'mon, we have a bit of a mission to go on. Either of you ever go up to the Fallen's base?"

"Nah. Screamer was the only one." Thundercracker said calmly, but his eyes lit with sudden interest.

_Yeah, I know why Starscream partnered with you, TC, _Fang thought, _you have some real intelligence. What I can't figure out is where 'Warp fit in. He's dumb and aggressive, with a nasty sense of humor. Maybe Starscream _liked _the nasty sense of humor, but I don't know what you see in him._

"Well," Fang said, "we're going to find out what's there."

"Long jump," Thundercracker frowned. Given the size of the two seekers' quantum engines, it would be a long, hard, difficult, energy-intensive leap. They would be drained and useless for days. Weak. Vulnerable. He was asking a lot of them. It was orders, but he knew they only followed him because they had no better option. He wondered if this would push the two into open rebellion and, if so, what they would do. He and Death were more than a match for the two seekers, and they didn't have any significant allies on the Nemesis. There were three other seekers on the ship, but they were not friends of these two. If they rebelled, they'd be alone.

_Thundercracker could probably defect to the 'bots and be granted asylum, and eventual inclusion in their ranks. Skywarp would never fit in among the 'bots, however, _Fang mused, _and TC wouldn't leave 'Warp behind. _

"If you need to make two leaps to get there, go ahead," Fangface padded down the hall towards the Nemesis's rear exit.

"No, I can do it. I was thinking of the energon usage, sir." TC's reluctance was audible in his voice, though it turned out that he didn't have the ball bearings to openly protest.

"This might be worth it," Fang stepped out into the late afternoon sun. He hoped Death was right. If they jumped all the way to Mars and found nothing but a dusty pile of crumbling old buildings, Fangface would look pretty foolish in the eyes of the two seekers. He was letting them assume the mission was _his _idea, as per the usual routine he and Deathwheels had worked out, which meant he'd have to take the loss of face if Death was wrong.

Death had never failed him yet. And he didn't really mind looking foolish before his troops, he decided, if it spared Deathwheels the embarrassment. Death was important, and he didn't want anyone to think Death was weak. That would make Death, as his second in command, a target.

* * *

"I'll be good ..." Sam whimpered, "Daddy .... Daddy ... where are ...?"

Bee jolted upright, hearing Sam's voice. His words were nearly unintelligible, but loud enough that Mikaela was also murmuring in reaction. Bee reached across her and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam. Sam. Wake up." The room was dark, and he slowly brightened his other half's headlines, gradually increasing the light in the room.

Sam jerked, started to sit up, then slumped back. He muttered something even less intelligible, but which contained one syllable and most likely four letters.

"Nightmare?" Bee rolled over onto his chest, which brought his hip and shoulder into contact with Mikaela's arm and leg, and squinted across her chest, with sleep-fuzzy eyes, at Sam. He blinked several times, trying to clear organic optics that had a few design flaws in relation to their behavior during his recharge cycle. If he kept his eyelids shut too long, they accumulated crud. His chronometer indicated he'd had three hours and forty-five minutes of recharge time, and he needed to get up in fifteen minutes anyway.

"Gnnh. Old one." Sam sat up.

"What happened?" Bee glanced at Mikaela, who had irritably yanked the covers over her face. He didn't take her reaction personally, as he wasn't entirely sure she was processing on all cylinders yet. Mikaela was slow to wake, and dangerously cranky, in the morning. For Mikaela's benefit he added, "We need to get up in a minute anyway."

"I don't really remember," Sam ran a hand over his face. "I just dreamed my father was angry at me, and I couldn't find him. I dreamed he didn't want me. I was looking and looking for him but I couldn't find him because I'd made him mad."

Bumblebee sighed, and ran a systems check. The limited amount of recharge had allowed him to restore most of his damaged sensory array code, but he desperately needed to do a complete defrag, which would require several unbroken hours to accomplish. He was also hungry, and had a full bladder.

Sam added, "I _hate _that dream. I've had it since I was really little, whenever I felt I'd let him down."

Mikaela, muffled by the blanket, grumbled, "You haven't let your father down, Sam."

"He'll be disappointed and angry," Sam wrapped his arms around his legs. "He'll be mad at me."

"Do you care what he thinks?" She sat up too, emerging from under the covers, and ran an irritated hand through her hair. Then she ran her fingers over her face, stared at the makeup that she'd rubbed off onto her fingertips, and grumbled, "Gah, I probably look like a freak."

"Sam cares what his father thinks, even if his father is in the wrong," Bee said. "Sam can't not care. I'm sure he'd love to have his father's approval -- _and _us."

"Yeah," Sam said, sounding miserable. "I can't have both. I know that. I've chosen you two. Both of you. _Damn _I can't believe it."

"Neither can I. I totally had you pegged for straight as a ruler for the longest time." Mikaela crawled off to the edge of the mattress, and stumbled in the general direction of her purse. She dug out a mirror and groaned, "I have mascara all _over _my face. I look like a zombie!"

Bee and Sam exchanged a look, then, together, they chorused, "Braaaaaaaiiiiins."

Her look of disgust was deadly. "It is _way_ too early in the morning for that."

At that moment, Bee got a ping from Ratchet, and responded carefully, _:Yes sir?:_

:Are you and the humans awake yet?:

:Yes sir.:

:Please come see me in the med bay.:

:Yes sir. Mikaela would probably appreciate a little time to clean up before _she sees you.: _Bee sent Ratchet an image of Mikaela's face by way of explanation.

_:Understood.:_

He rose, even as Sam asked, "Who wants you to talk to you at seven AM?"

Apparently, Sam could read Autobot body language well enough to recognize a conversation over the comms even when Bee was in his human form. Bee shook his head slightly, bemused. Sometimes he thought Sam read Autobots better than he could understand human moods. "Ratchet, and he wants to see all three of us."

"You think he knows about what went on yesterday?" Sam hunched his shoulders, looking like he expected someone to hit him.

"Count on it," Bee replied, with some resignation.

* * *

_Optimus, _Ratchet thought, _I really wish Smokescreen were here. I am just not cut out for psych work. _Optimus had asked him to talk to Bee and his humans, and to get a sense of their mental state. However, despite Ratchet's objections, Optimus had been firm, insisting he was the best mech for the job. _I'm a medic. I'm not a shrink, slaggit._

Bee, Sam, and Mikaela sat in a row on the edge of a berth that was lowered as close to the ground as it would go. It was still at least three feet in the air. Bee's other half stood behind the berth, looking at Ratchet with an expression that was for all the world like something a truculent sparkling would assume. Mikaela looked defiant, as if daring him to say a single word of criticism. Sam was nervous, edgy. Bee's humanoid half was seated between them, and it didn't escape Ratchet's notice that both humans had chosen to sit in physical contact with him, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder.

Oh, yeah, they were closing ranks. He wasn't surprised in the slightest that all three of them looked like they expected to face a firing squad.

He waited long enough that Mikaela's glare turned hotter, Sam became a bit paler, and Bee started to look downright mulish. It took a lot to provoke Bumblebee into stubborn anger, but he was verging on seeing that sort of reaction. That latter response was something that Ratchet found very privately amusing. Bumblebee might finally be growing some backbone.

"Manywinds hasn't said a word about what happened," Ratchet noted, drumming his fingers on his thigh armor. "Though I can guess. I'm willing to bet that he didn't appreciate being used as an excuse for Bee to avoid facing the truth."

Bee flinched. Sam gritted his teeth. Mikaela started to open her mouth to say something furious at him, and Bee put a hand on her knee. Her mouth snapped shut, though if looks could kill he'd have lost spark containment solely from the power of her angry stare. He noted that interaction with privately held approval; not only did Mikaela love Bee, she respected him.

Ratchet tapped his fingers against his legs for a moment longer. "What's the status of your processor, Bee?"

"Most of the damaged code has been corrected," Bee replied, voice cool. "Sir. The remaining repairs are non-essential and will complete during my next recharge cycle."

"Report please."

Bee burst him data from a recent systems check, showing that the scout had told him the truth. Bee wasn't one to lie, or exaggerate, about his status. Ratchet nodded. "Excellent. I'm certain you won't make that mistake again."

"Correct, sir."

Ratchet turned his attention to Sam. "Is your stomach ailment better?"

"Yeah," Sam said, folding his arms. He didn't look like he wanted to talk about it. Ratchet had already analyzed the vomit and verified there were no harmful pathogens. The boy had simply been stressed to the point of minor digestive systems failure.

"And Mikaela, you have decided to remain with us?"

"Depends on how much you piss me off, sir." Her voice was sweet, but the emotions behind it were turbulent. Bee might have a tendency to be downright meek at times, but Mikaela went in the other direction when she was upset. Teletraan's video of her behavior the night before -- including threatening to leave, then reversing course and stubbornly deciding to stay and fight for what she wanted -- had been very typical of what Ratchet expected from her.

Ratchet bent over, planted a hand on the berth on either side of the three of them (Sam jumped; he ignored that), and said, "How much recharge did the three of you get?"

"Three point seven five hours. Sir." Bee's answer was precise.

"Insufficient for proper functioning. Naturally." Ratchet loomed over them, ignoring the mechanoid half of Bee in favor of glaring down at his shorter half. A little intimidation never hurt Ratchet's reputation any. "Windy's a good mech. You hurt him quite badly."

"Yes sir." Bee didn't seem inclined to argue that point. Ratchet wasn't surprised by this, either. Bee would take full responsibility -- indeed, too much responsibility -- for the mess.

"He didn't know," Sam murmured.

"He didn't know what?" Ratchet prompted.

"He didn't know how I felt." Sam closed his eyes. He was visibly shaking. Ratchet had no clue why Sam was so scared of admitting his feelings for Bee to anyone, even Bumblebee or himself. That could be an issue for their relationship. Sam's tendency to run until backed into a corner was very manifestly obvious in the way he'd handled his attraction to Bee. "Bee didn't know how much I l-love him."

"Nnhnn. Windy also probably had his head in the clouds, and a rather inaccurate perception of Bee in his processer." Ratchet kept his voice controlled. "You two have known Bee for over two years now. You've got a pretty good idea of what he is, and he isn't. Moreover, you _don't _have all the cultural baggage Windy brought with him. Primes are perceived as sort've a cross between a messiah and a prince in our society. You both knew Bee before he was a Prime, and you don't really have the context to understand just how revered Primes are. Oh, and if anyone tries to revere _my _aft, I'm going to weld their faceplate to their own tail end, but that's neither here nor there. Windy? Went into temporal stasis unsure if he would ever wake. Four million years later, he wakes up and his rescuer is a young Prime."

Ratchet rose, folded his arms, and addressed the taller half of Bee, staring down into his optics. To his credit, Bee gamely met that gaze, though he certainly looked like he wanted to flinch away. "Windy was young, had lost his first partner not that long before, and was looking for someone new. If I don't miss my guess, Windy is very attracted to noble causes, military officers, and heroism. In you, Bee, he found all of that in spades. You saved him and the crew, and you were noble and kind and gave him personal attention. And then you began to show a personal interest in him, and it was incredibly flattering to him. He likely had a very distorted view of who you were. Plus, he came from a time when the _partners _of Primes were nearly as respected. For a mech as young as he is, with his history, to win the love of a Prime? It had to be incredibly flattering. It says something about his character that he rejected you outright rather than accepting any scrap of affection you'd give him."

"I should have waited longer," Bee said, softly. "And if he'd given me time ... he might have gotten what he wanted. I like Windy, Ratchet. He is special. But he has a rather black and white view of love, he's quick to judge for both good and bad, and he does not have a amount of patience. It wasn't a good combination with my own flaws, or a good set of character traits for a Prime's partner in general, and I didn't see it in advance. I didn't know him well enough."

Ratchet snorted. "Oh, Windy's not blameless in this either. Windy's had a partner before, and according to his med records, a few flings that didn't work out both before and after t'Grethi. He's far more experienced than you are, Bee, and _he _should have taken more time to get to know you. Takes two to interface."

"Err," Mikaela said, "why would his other partners be recorded?"

Ratchet glanced at her. "Oh. Standard protocol. Has been for ages. Helps track viruses to their source if one crops up. There's a few bugs that are hard to detect at first."

She blinked, and shook her head at his somewhat absent explanation, though he wasn't quite sure what her complete reaction to that concept was. Humans tended to be a lot more secretive about their relationships, particularly short-term ones, than Autobots did. It was standard operating procedure for medics to ask a mech to report the designations of anyone they'd interfaced with between checkups. Mechs generally responded honestly. The information was confidential, to a degree, though it was not considered particularly embarrassing. Mechs also tended to have _fewer _partners than humans did, despite their long lives, and any partnership that survived the first few dozen 'facings generally lasted until one or both of the mechs died.

Ratchet ran a hand over his face and stared down at the three small human, or humanoid, forms at his feet. He still had no idea what their mental states really were. They were upset, yes, but he didn't know how badly. He wondered, honestly, if the two humans even really understood what Bee needed from them. "Do you two humans know why Cybertronians have partners?"

"Love?" Mikaela said, with one of those sweet smiles that probably didn't mean unrestrained joy.

"Hnnh. I could lecture at you for hours, you know, about it, but Bee? Have you even considered actually _telling _them what you need?"

"Sir?" Bee stared at him for a second, both halves, then two sets of shoulders seemed to slump. "I'll talk to them, sir."

"Good. And I want all three of you to know that Bee can engage in a fairly good facsimile of sex. It'll be fun for him." Ratchet watched, amused, as both of the humans turned bright red. It really was a fascinating autonomic reflex. Bee, unembarrassed, would simply accept that statement as fact, but the humans blushed, both of them, and Sam more than Mikaela. "That is, when he doesn't manage to offline himself in the process. However, Bee, do _not _forget that your humans have some core differences we simply cannot mimic. The act of sex causes a release of endorphins and hormones that have a fairly powerful affect on their moods, and will serve to accentuate emotional attachment. It's not simply a pleasurable activity to them, though I am led to believe it's very fun."

Silence, reigned from all three of them.

Ratchet ran a hand over his faceplate. "You three are not making my job easy here. Look, Optimus wants to know your emotional states and how likely you are to be able to remain professional around the tourists. So. How are you three doing?"

Bee gave him a very honest answer, "I'm not doing well, Ratchet. I'm not happy with myself, I'm pissed off over a few things, and my temper is pretty frayed. Also, I could use about nine hours of unbroken recharge tonight. An early bedtime is called for."

"_Thank _you for being honest." Bee, at least, rarely gave him trouble over this type of thing. He turned his attention to Sam. "You?"

Perhaps prompted by Bee's blunt and truthful words, Sam said hesitantly, "I'm scared to death."

"Over?"

"Just stuff." Sam visibly flinched when Bee put an arm around his shoulders. "Umm. Bee said Teletraan took a video of us. I'm worried my father might see it."

"Teletraan saves the videos of every security camera on the ship. Permanently. I'll have that one put under a security lock, however, as there's no need to risk angering your father before you're ready to talk to him." Ratchet tapped one finger against his upper arm. "However, I still don't understand why you're so ..."

"Freaked out?" Sam interrupted. "I just am, okay? I don't want to talk about it."

_:I'll talk to him, Ratchet,: _Bee said, unexpectedly, over the comm channel. _:I never even suspected he was at all interested in me until last night. As scared as he is, it was a huge step for him to even admit it to me, and he only did it because he knows I'm leaving. I'll do what I can, before I go. And trust me, I'm _not _going to push him into anything he doesn't want. You know me, Ratchet. Feel free to assume I'll let him lead the way in this.:_

There was a faint hint of the Bumblebee that Ratchet knew very well in those words; the mech who was comfortable inside his armor, and happy with who he was. Ratchet nodded acknowledgement and and asked carefully, _:Would you agree Sam's a bit unstable at the moment? I don't think it would take much to push him over into some kind of breakdown.:_

:I'm worried about him, and Mikaela, too. I'll be okay if the boss needs me to do any public relations work, though I'm not sure how I'd handle combat. However, I wouldn't trust either of them with anything that requires diplomacy or a cool head. No tours. No PR.: Bee tightened his grip on Sam's shoulders. _:Not for a few days, at least.: _

"Mikaela?" Ratchet prompted.

"I'm fine."

"Don't _lie _to me, girl," he growled at her. Then he vented an exasperated hiss. "You're all dismissed from work."

"You're _firing _me?" Mikaela gasped in obviously genuine fear, an odd reaction from someone who'd been threatening to walk away from all of them only hours before.

"No," Bee said, resting his hand between her shoulder blades. "He's giving us some leave to get our heads on straight. -- Thank you, Ratchet. I appreciate it."

"I'll tell Optimus you can return back to work tomorrow, after a good night's sleep, assuming nobody purges their stomach contents or knocks themself offline again or threatens to leave us again," Ratchet said, straightening up. He regarded them thoughtfully, then added to Mikaela, "There's a basic difference between Autobot culture here and human culture. After a hundred thousand years of war, after each of us has seen nearly all of our friends and family die, and we tend to hold on to the friends we do have with ferocity. Don't worry about, err, losing your job _or _your friends here. And believe me when we say we take threats by you to quit and leave us very seriously. We would never stop you from going, girl, but slaggit all, you're my apprentice and if you're _that _upset, and it's because of one of us ..."

He shot Bee a dark look, and Bee hunched.

"... well. Trust me when I say you're welcome here regardless of how things work out with Bee, and that I personally consider you a friend and would be upset if you left."

Sam said softly, "Ratchet, do you disapprove? Of us?"

"Hnnh. Worried yes, disapprove no." He crouched down to be as close to eye level to the humans as possible. "Unlike your people, there's nothing taboo in our culture about the sort of relationship you three seem to be developing. However, Bumblebee is a Prime. That means he is, by definition, a leader among us. We have a saying, 'Primes need partners', that basically means Primes need people who anchor them to the real world, who provide a connection and a reminder of what it means to be an ordinary mech. In times past, that role of Prime's partner was almost always filled by someone like Elita. I remember seeing half a dozen Primes' partners in a room once, and I swear they could have finished each other's sentences -- they were all empathetic, intuitive, and good at analysis, with a tendency to listen more than they spoke. Most were stubborn as hell, too, and don't think Elita isn't. I've seen her take Optimus on head to head and win in an argument which ..."

Bee snorted softly in amusement.

"... isn't easy."

"You'd know," Bee said, with a small smile.

Ratchet snorted. "Anyway. What I'm trying to say is that I've never seen nor heard of a Prime having a partner-like relationship with aliens. It's not a taboo, exactly, but it feels very strange, because you know so little about our world, our species, and you would ordinarily be expected to be Bee's advisers."

Sam said quietly, "But you're on Earth now."

Ratchet blinked at Sam, rendered temporarily speechless. It was almost as if his world had suddenly shifted around him. The kid was right. They were trying to settle on Earth, and Bee seemed to be building a relationship with two humans. Sam had been touched by the Allspark, and Mikaela had the sheer unadulterated _guts _to head unarmed into combat situations with 'cons. Willingly. More than once. When most of her species would have been reduced to gibbering and incoherent fear.

"There's some other concerns we'll have," Ratchet added, suddenly feeling rather grumpy about the whole situation. "Which we'll discuss later."

Mikaela regarded Ratchet speculatively, while Bee looked a bit chastened and Sam just appeared simply unhappy. Ratchet returned her thoughtful look with lifted eye ridges, and she didn't disappoint his expectations by saying teasingly, "So, if Primes need partners, who are you going to pick?"

He snorted. "There's not a single mech here on Earth who'd put up with my sorry aft as a berthmate."

She giggled.

"There's always Ironhide," Bee teased.

"Oh, Primus, no." Ratchet said, with real and honest feeling. "I love that fragger like a brother, but I have absolutely no desire to know what goes on in _his _processor. I'd probably have to commit him for insanity."

"Or Wheeljack," Mikaela teased him. "He likes you."

Ratchet snorted. "He doesn't want to know what goes on in _my _head."

"Sideswipe?" Sam suggested.

"_Far _too arrogant."

"Grimlock?" Mikaela teased. "You wouldn't have to worry about what's going on in his head. I'm not sure he bothers with actual thought."

"Now you're being ridiculous." He straightened up, pretending offense.

"Nah, if I was being ridiculous, I'd suggest Fangface." Mikaela was definitely on a roll. Her suggestion made Sam snicker and Bee warble a noise that was the Cybertronian equivalent of a cat-call.

"Oh, that's not funny. I'd sooner partner with a human laptop. I am _so _not interested in Fangface it's not even funny. He's the enemy!" Ratchet planted one hand on his hip and pointed at the door with the other. Firmly he said, "Sam. Mikaela. Out. Both of you. Bee, one of you stick around for a second."

Unsurprisingly, Bee elected to have his mech half remain behind, and both humans and the humanoid half of Bee headed for the door with alacrity. After they were gone, Bee seemed to sag in his armor. He ran a hand over his face and said, "I've really made a mess of things, Ratchet."

"You could say that." Ratchet leaned back against one of the walls and regarded the young scout with one optic lifted. "I'm more impressed than ever by Windy. He hasn't said much to anyone but me about what happened, you know. I was worried he'd be screaming his hurt and betrayal to the entire army. He's being quiet about it."

"He told you." Bee flinched. "Oh, Primus."

"He came by early this morning. I don't believe he recharged, and I put him on a day's leave too. He's pretty ticked off at you, Bee, but he wanted to make sure I knew just how badly you'd fragged yourself, so I knew what to look for when I checked your systems. He gave me a blow by blow report of what you did, why it happened, and what he thought you should do to fix it. He's got a talent for code we didn't know about, by the way. I'd say he's at least as good as First Aid. For as small as his processor core is, he's a sharp cookie."

Bee sighed. "He doesn't want to be a medic."

"No, but it's nice to know we can draft the little imp to work in the med bay if we need someone to write code and it's a crisis."

Bee covered his optics with his hand, and rolled his head backwards for a second. "Primus. How's he doing?"

"Pissed. Hurt. He feels betrayed." Ratchet watched as Bee seemed to fold in on himself somehow, shrinking down in response to Ratchet's tart words. Ratchet sighed, and added, "But you knew all that. He started yelling at you during the interface session, according to the log he gave me, so yeah, you know."

Bee's optics were actually shut off.

"I'm glad Sam went to you last night, Bee." Ratchet shook his head. "Partly because it saved me from doing it -- Teletraan and I were monitoring what happened up on the deck, for what it's worth -- but _Primus_, kid. You've still got a mess."

"I'll be gone in a month." Bee's eyes lit again. He sounded devastated as he said it. "I will take what they can offer me, between now and then. I love them, Ratchet. You know that. And I think at this point it would hurt them worse to push them away than it will to acknowledge that."

"Pfft. You'll be gone in a month, but I know you well enough to also expect that you'll be back. What then? Will you plan on trying to pick up where you left off?" Ratchet fixed Bee with a keen gaze.

"I could be gone several months, I could be gone decades. Even a year would be a long time in their lives." Bee shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "My feelings won't change, but theirs might. I know that. I'd have to, as the humans say, play it by ear."

"So you are thinking of them as potential partners."

"Wishing." Bee glanced past Ratchet now, staring out the med bay windows. They were too high in the air to see the street from this angle, but they could see some distant buildings. The buildings gleamed in the morning sun, glass and concrete amber with the dawn light. "I'll take whatever they can and will offer me, and try to be satisfied with that. Windy taught me something, and that is that I may want _more _than they can give I cannot honestly look for a Cybertronian partner when I feel so strongly about the two of them."

Ratchet shook his head. "You should talk to Doc."

"_No_." Bee sounded resolute on that point. "I will _not _ask them to modify themselves."

"Hnnh. There's a practical concern, too, Bee. As Scalpel reminded us, organic minds are ridiculously easy to hack. If an enemy with sufficient technology were to get ahold of them, they could rip all sorts of classified information out of their heads, and do some spectacular neural damage in the process." Ratchet folded his arms, tapping his fingers on his arm again. "Sam was lucky that Optimus rescued him when he did, or he'd have died."

"I am aware of that. It is also why I cannot fully confide in them, as I normally would with a true partner. I have not even told them where I am going, or why." Bee met Ratchet's eyes. "Which would not necessarily stop an enemy from looking for information where none exists, granted, but I am aware of the ease with which human neural tissue can be compromised."

Ratchet suggested cautiously, "Nanyte neural reinforcement and a Nebulan wetware interface processor would give them a heck of a better firewall. I'm sure the ship's replicators could create ...."

"_No_," Bee said, very firmly. "I have considerable confidence in Doc's work, but there would still be risk. Maybe someday, after the technology is no longer experimental ..."

"You make a lot of decisions for them," Ratchet pointed out. "Do you respect their judgment so little that you won't even ask them what they think?"

Bee's optics clicked off again, and he groaned, "Mikaela's already brought the subject up. Okay, I'll talk to her about it again."

"And Sam?"

"Would probably freak and run if he even thought too hard about it." Bee's voice held tired, yet wry, with a little amusement. "He really does need to learn to stand his ground better."

Ratchet snorted. "Yes. He's young, and he's scared, and I swear he operates in survival mode half the time. For all that, I see why you love him."

Bumblebee snorted right back, exactly mimicking the sound Ratchet had made. "How could you I not? The one thing that will inspire him to the greatest heights of courage is the fate of others. If he's fighting on someone's behalf, for a cause he believes in or for the life of a friend, he'll do _anything_, up to and including facing off with Megatron himself. On the other hand, if it's his personal safety, or personal life, yeah, he drives me nuts sometimes the way he avoids confrontation and fears criticism, but I get it. I've been there myself."

Ratchet laughed outright at that, and shook his head. Yeah, Bee had his own tendencies to avoiding confrontation and dodge trouble. "You two are a lot alike."

"Somewhat, anyway," Bee said, face plate bunching up into a smile, "he's less of a follower than I am. I am almost always content to follow a good leader. He ... argues. When he gains more confidence, and that will simply happen with time and experience and our encouragement, I suspect we'll see him leading by choice."

Ratchet grunted. "Yes, probably. You know, some combat training would help with his confidence -- Mikaela's, too. And it's something we really should look into. We might get some of the N.E.S.T. troops to work with them. I'd like to see them taught hand to hand, to learn to handle a weapon and some basic tactics and protocols. Mikaela should be trained on our weapon systems as well, as she'll need to be familiar with them as a medic. And we might as well train Sam the same way. I could probably rig up a backpack with a motherboard and power supply, and brace for their wrists, and arm them with laser rifles. Sam might be able to handle the recoil on a small pulse cannon in a year or two, if he fills out a little more, and it had a brace for his shoulder."

"I would agree with that idea," Bee said, but he held his hands up defensively. "Just don't ask me to train them. I'd be too cautious of both their physical welfare and their feelings."

Ratchet grinned and said teasingly, "And both of them are damned good at manipulating you."

"They _are not_!" He denied, indignantly, and perhaps a little more sharply than Ratchet would ordinarily have expected. As Bee had said, his temper was a bit shorter than usual. He was frayed, off kilter, and out of balance. He also needed a good defrag, and Ratchet was willing to bet that he still had a few systems bugs nagging at him. He figured repairing his own code would be a good learning experience, and wasn't about to help, since Windy had already patched all the critical errors. Ratchet heard the click and hiss of valves as Bee ran a systems check. Sounding a little embarrassed, Bee added, after Ratchet gave him a moment to get his equilibrium back, "Sorry."

Ratchet smirked. He couldn't help it. Any other 'bot in the same situation would have exploded at him. Bee, instead, was apologizing. He said, "Truth hurts, eh, kid? Actually I was thinking that your short half should do some combat training with the human soldiers. As far as training them on our weapons systems, Wheeljack would probably be the best choice. He'd be helping me with the design, anyway."

"Yeah, probably," Bee ran a hand over his faceplate.

"Hnnh. Okay, we're done here, Bee. Go take the two of them for a drive or something."

"Mikaela wants to know if she's allowed to go with Wheeljack to some producer's house this evening. It's PR related." Bee tilted his head sideways. "Something about a potential TV show for Wheeljack."

"Can she handle it?" Ratchet asked.

"Probably, but I wouldn't ask Sam to go." Bee hissed static. "I never expected to say this, but I think Sam's more of a mess than 'Kaela at the moment."

Ratchet nodded. "'Jack will take care of her. She'll probably be fine. I'll see if Magnus and Roddy will go with them for backup."

"And that would give me a chance to get Sam alone and have a chat with him, without interruption, and with both of us hopefully in a calmer mood." Bee nodded thoughtfully. "I'll take him for a drive or something."


	58. Chapter 58

Space bridges were strange things, disorienting and awe-inspiring. Fang had never ridden a space bridge this far outside of the comfortingly protective confines of a large ship. Clutched to Thundercracker's chest, he had only a small bubble of space between a swirling, chaotic maelstrom of strange energies and stranger particles. Radiation battered his sensors, whiting out optics and shorting a few EM detectors. His comm screamed with an assault of radio waves. The ride felt bumpy due to gravitational waves that tugged and jolted them in ten directions at once, and it alternated between freezing cold and blistering hot.

And then, with a tremendous flare of EM that made his auditory sensors screech with false noise, they popped out. For a moment, he wasn't sure where they were, and then when his optics came back online in a limited band he saw to their left was pure blackness and to their right was a glorious blanket of stars. Then he registered that they were falling towards the blackness, canted over to one side, and the thinnest wisp of atmosphere was rushing around his armor. Somewhere directly above his head a tiny crescent moon gleamed. It was pit-slagging _cold _and his internal heater immediately kicked on to the highest setting, and then promptly dialed back. The atmosphere here was so thin that distributing heat could be a challenge. He would be limited to radiant heat dispersal only, and that could be a problem if he had to do any hard work. _Or fight, _he thought, nervously.

His infrared sensors took a longer moment to come back online. When he could finally see, he realized the ground was rushing up rapidly towards them. They were, fortunately, on the night side of the planet, and the small moon and the stars high above didn't shed much light. The ground below was cold, though he knew it would get blistering hot very quickly. Had the base been in sunlight, this would have been a much quicker trip if no shelter been directly at hand. He hadn't thought to check, though he was willing to bet Death had known the time of day they would arrive.

The base was below them, a collection of angular lines that had been eroded and softened by vast age. Parts of the facility were slightly warmer than the ambient, however, and when his EM sensors came back online he detected a level of electromagnetic energy that indicated some machinery might be functional.

Both seekers pinged damage reports at him. They were unharmed by the jump, but their power supplies were badly drained. 'Warp estimated he could safely jump back to earth again in forty-five minutes. Thundercracker, who had a surprisingly smaller power plant, would take at least two hours to recover.

Death, more heavily armored and whose sensors had therefore weathered the jump in better shape than Fang's, reported, _:No life signs in the immediate vicinity of the base. I can't penetrate more than a few feet into the ground, however. It's heavily mineralized.:  
_  
_:Looks quiet to me,: _'Warp agreed.

A hundred feet above the ground, both seekers fired their thrusters to cushion the landing. Mindful of heat distribution issues, they'd kept them off until the last possible minute. The result was a very hard landing. Inertial stress ripped at Fang's leg, tugging at his injured hip, and he bit back a yowl of pain. The thin air didn't transmit noise much better than it dispersed heat, but his three companions certainly heard the muffled and oddly low-pitched yelp of agony that did escape his vocalizer before he forcefully shut it off.

In reaction, Thundercracker _dropped _him in surprise. He landed awkwardly, jamming the leg hard and in almost exactly the same direction that had caused the damage in the first place. He grabbed for any handhold for balance, desperately trying not to fall, latched onto to TC's arm, and TC reacted by yanking free and stepping backwards several alarmed steps.

Then Death was there, offering Fang his forearm to cling to. Fangface could only stand on one leg for a moment, gingerly letting only his toes touch the dry, dusty ground and wanting desperately to actually lean against Death. It hurt. _Primus _it hurt. Finally, though, the screaming errors began to fade. He ran a systems check of his hip, found nothing actually worse than it had been before, and then turned irritated optics to TC. _:Idiot. I was not attacking you.:_

:Sorry,: TC said, looking abashed. _:Work with Megatron long enough, you get a bit ... careful.:_

:Megatron would have amputated his wings for that mistake,: Death pointed out. _:He shouldn't have dropped you.:_

:He was just startled,: Fangface blinked at Deathwheels. Why would he be mad at Thundercracker? TC had simply reacted on reflex. He was annoyed, yes, because he could have used something -- like TC's arm -- to hang on to for a moment. He hated looking weak, but he'd have seemed a lot more vulnerable if he'd landed on his aft in the Martian dust. And as far as dropping him in the first place, that had simply been an accident.

_:He knows you're injured. He _dropped _you.: _Death replied, stubbornly. He was also broadcasting without encryption. Fangface honestly wasn't sure if Death was playing a part here, or if he was really that ticked and overprotective.

_:I'm fine. No worse for wear.: _Well, if Death was going to be an aft, he'd play the part and assume the roll of the genial, hard-to-anger leader. Regardless if Death was just pretending or not, it did set up a nice round of what the humans termed good-cop bad-cop. It also wouldn't hurt the seekers to be afraid of Death, even as the learned to trust Fang. If they concluded Fang held Death's leash and that Death might be very dangerous if Fang ever set him loose, that was all the better.  
_  
:I am sorry, Lord Fangface,: _Thundercracker, apparently having concluded he wasn't about to be fragged on the spot, dropped to one knee before Fang. _:I didn't mean to cause you more pain, truly. Deathwheels is right. I shouldn't have dropped you, and I should have supported you when I realized you were in pain.:_

Fang regarded the seeker speculatively for a moment. He suspected the apology was mostly acting. Thundercracker was just trying to curry favor, and ensure he stayed in Fangface's good graces. After so many millenia under Megatron, TC's assumptions about the potential malice of his commanding officers probably functioned at close to a hardcoded level. Well, two could play at the "acting" game for now, and he could work at earning Thundercracker's actual trust and affection over time. He didn't know if TC would ever truly like him, but he wanted to try. He reached up -- TC was still taller than him, even kneeling -- and put a hand on TC's chest, over his spark casing. _:I want to promise you something, Thundercracker, and that is that I will never treat you badly without true cause. I know you have no reason to love me. I killed your partner ...:_

Pained red optics met his. Yeah. TC missed Starscream. The three of them had been a trine for a long, long time. Fang knew he would not be able to remain so calm, so obedient, if anyone had killed Death and then demanded his own service.

_:... and I know that the three of you -- 'Warp and you and Starscream -- have come to expect maltreatment from your commanding officers. I will never hurt you without cause, TC, and you didn't give me cause today.:_

TC blinked at him, then looked down at Fang's clawed hand. His face was so very sad, all at once. Fang reached up, then, and ran a single claw along the seeker's jaw. He'd meant to be domineering, to assert himself over TC by getting in his personal space. He had been acting a role, one of the kind but dominant leader. Impulsively, he gave comfort, instead, surprising even himself. _:I am sorry about Starscream.:_

:He'd have bowed to you,: TC said, suddenly, looking up. _:Killing him wasn't necessary, Fang. Screamer was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them.:_

:That'd be me,: Warp said, _:I'm the stupid one.:_

Thundercracker laughed, suddenly, a sound full of sudden grief as much as amusement. In the thin carbon dioxide atmosphere the noise was both muffled and deepened. It was easier to talk over the comms, and TC said wryly, _:Yeah, that'd be you, 'Warp.:_

Fangface regarded the seeker with regret. He was a good mech, he realized, and he wondered for the umpteenth time how he'd come to fight on the side of the 'cons. Perhaps he'd simply followed his trinemates in joining the Decepticons. He could not have remained neutral, not as a jump-capable seeker, and joining the Autobots would have meant fighting against his own partners. That would have been unfathomable. Fangface could not imagine raising a weapon, or even a finger, against Death, who'd so swiftly captured his very spark. Likely, it was the same for Thundercracker. Though _why _Thundercracker had partnered with the two of them was almost as much a mystery to Fang as why Starscream and Megatron had never managed to kill each other. And he didn't think that the answer in this case was mutual masochism, which he and Death joked about being the driving force between Starscream and Megatron's relationship.

_:TC,: _he said, finally, _:Get up. I'm not mad, but if it makes you feel better, I also forgive you.:_

That earned him a sudden flash of a grateful smile.

They walked in silence after that, approaching the base cautiously. Their near soundless footsteps stirred up clouds of dust which quickly settled back to the ground. The dirt was dry and they crossed the occasional set of tire tracks or line of footprints. Some tracks were obviously recent, and others had been eroded by the wind or radical temperature shifts. With the atmosphere as scant as it was erosion would be slow, and Fang mused that some of the marks in the dirt could predate human civilization. Trash, too, was likely ancient: they passed odd bits of discarded metal, chunks of concrete, a corroded fuel tank, and then a much more recent pile of soda cans that had burst in the day's heat or the night's freezing cold. The water inside subliminated into the the atmosphere. Fang stopped to stare at the cans, and the powdery residue of their contents, then toed one curiously. He couldn't even hear the sound it must have made; it slid noiselessly across the dry dirt.

_:Mountain Dew Machine?: _Death suggested, after he, too, stared at the odd detritus. _:It was a sparkling. They might have brought it here for one of the officers to imprint.:_

Fang shuddered at the realization that the poor thing might have been mentored by the Fallen or Megatron himself. The image of the Autobots ruthlessly killing it while human cameras rolled, without ever realizing how very young it was, would stay with him for a long time. However, TC said aloud, "Soundwave made it into a symbiote. I thought you knew."

It was Deathwheel's turn to react, though he did so very subtly. Fang saw the slight tension in his frame, the way his fists clenched, and wished they were alone so he could give him a comforting word or two. _You'll be somebody's symbiote over my dead body, Deathwheels, _he thought, ferociously.

They proceeded on to the base, which seemed both deserted and undefended. Not even a drone stirred to rise from the darkness and challenge their approach. Everything was quiet, still, and silent.

As they drew closer to the largest building, which also had the most significant heat signature, it became clear that the base hadn't seen a lot of maintenance over the past few millenia. However, a very hefty blast door blocked their entrance. Death regarded the door for a moment and said dubiously, "I could try to blast it."

Playing his role as the brains of the outfit, Fang warned, "We don't know what's on the other side. Can you hack the controls?"

Thundercracker assumed the latter question was aimed at him, and said thoughtfully, "Maybe, but not before the sun rises, and this is on the east side of the building. Maybe there's another door that will be in shadow ..."

_:Should we let the seekers know about you?: _Fang asked Deathwheels.

_:They'll figure me out soon enough. TC's smart enough to talk to people who knew me before you rebuilt me. Telling them now might prevent them from gossiping. My real strengths are not supposed to be a complete secret, anyway, just understated.:_

"I was talking to Deathwheels, TC. He's a fragging genius when it comes to hacking," Fangface said, pitching his voice loud and low so it would be heard by all of them. "And I'm going to give you a very specific order here, that I expect both of you to obey both the spirit and the letter of, or I'll blast you both to the Pit. Deathwheels is far more than a dumb minion. He's got a very strongly analytically minded spark and I rebuilt him with the biggest processor core I could find."

TC blinked.

Deathwheels ... grinned. The expression transformed his face from dull and slack to sparkling with amusement. "In other words, I'm the brains of the outfit."

"I never guessed," Thundercracker said, sounding genuinely surprised, as he regarded the startling change in Deathwheel's expression. Dryly, Thundercracker added, "Lord Fang's smart enough on his own for three mechs."

"You flatter me," Fangface said, and nibbled at a claw for a moment, thinking. "The order is simple: Don't blow Death's cover. If you doubt his brains, however, feel free to try to beat him at Quattra. I never have."

"That," Death said with a snort of vented air that Fang could see as a puff of steam more than he could hear, "is because you don't think more than two steps ahead, Fang. You've got the intuition to slaughter me in a game, you just get impatient."

Fang eyed the steam, then decided it was probably a minor pinhole leak they could fix later. In the very low atmospheric pressure, leaks were far more likely. He waved a hand airily at Death. "So you say. Anyway, TC, I'm the charismatic evil overlord. Death is the brainy tactician every evil overlord needs _and _the dumb, deadly minion. You two ..." he eyed the seekers, "you two get to be my loyal commanders, noble and beautiful, leading vast armies to victory."

They were still playing roles, but he hoped that including the two seekers in on the secret would inspire them to loyalty. It would make them feel important, certainly. Megatron had never treated them like they were valued.

Death grunted, and crouched to examine the lock on the door.

Skywarp said, sounding confused, "Where are we going to get the vast armies to lead to victory from?"

Fang choked back a laugh. "I dunno, Death. Maybe Skywarp should take your role."

Without turning around, Deathwheels said, "He can be my understudy."

"I'm not smart enough to be a tactician. I'd rather just shoot things," Skywarp replied, sounding puzzled.

Thundercracker burst out laughing at that. "You can just shoot things. Nobody will ever object to that."

"Long as it's not my slagging aft he frags up, that's perfectly okay with me," Fang chuckled. He didn't get it. He just didn't see what Thundercracker saw in his partner. However, the two had been openly together (along with the late Starscream) for longer than Fangface had been alive. Obviously, there was a connection there, and it was moments like that which left him oddly envious.

At that moment, Deathwheels got the lock open. Thundercracker's optic ridges rose in startled appreciation of Death's skill at hacking the door. "How did you do that so quick?"

"Megatron only used about six different passkeys that I've found so far." Deathwheels threw his shoulder against the thick, heavy steel door and pushed it open. A puff of as they entered an airlock. The equipment he'd detected was likely life support, providing climate control and increased atmospheric pressure. It was warmer inside the building than Fangface had expected, and after the airlock cycled through he realized that the atmosphere was about half that of Earth's at sea level. It was also very dark, and with very little temperature gradient. His infrared sensors showed a rather low-contrast view of the interior.

"Skywarp, keep watch at the door." Fang was wary of unexpected surprises. He would not be at all shocked to find that a few war drones had been left to deal with intruders. His voice carried better now, though the primarily carbon dioxide atmosphere made a bass out of his (on Earth) baritone voice.

Deathwheels flicked on his headlights, revealing row after row after row, tower after tower, of berths filled the room. They were stacked ten deep, and stretched out of sight with hundreds after hundreds of rows. Each berth contained a still, silent form. Then Thundercracker found a switch on the wall and manually flipped on the lights. The building seemed to be simply a vast warehouse of motionless protoforms.

"Dead?" Fang breathed, approaching the closest body.

"Dunno. Not much energy in here." Deathwheels alertly watched the room for signs of movement.

The mech at waist height on the closest stack of berths was the same size as Fang. He scanned it, expecting that it would just be a protoform shell. Instead, he picked up the faintest flicker of a spark. He did a double take, rechecked his findings, then looked at the one above it. It, too, had a ghost of a spark. Above it was an empty shell, but then the fourth one was alive. Five through seven were dead, but the rest were also alive. Each berth had barely four feet of clearance; the mechs were jammed in with only inches to spare.

Thundercracker caught a thin, flexible metal tube between his fingers. It ran from a pipe mounted against one support beam for the tower of berths to the mech's fuel port. "Energon feed," he guessed. "Why didn't they just put them in temporal stasis?"

"This building's old," Death said, "but it's built after the start of the war by a good bit. I'd guess it was once a transport barge that they set down here and remodeled for storage. We would not have had the ability to make a temporal stasis field generator this big. Even during the golden age, it would have been a challenge. Keeping them all offline and on an energon drip was probably the only way they could effect long term storage."

Thundercracker gave Death a fishy look. "How do _you _know that?"

"Found the construction records." Death started poking at the body of the fourth mech up, looking for an interface port. He produced a datapad and jacked in. "They've been sending a rather large amount of energon here for tens of millenia."

"Why would Megatron have so many soldiers offline?" Thundercracker crouched to examine the form of the third protoform, the dead one. "This is a warrior shell. We could have _used _these mechs. Why are they all offline? Are they Autobots?"

Fang had moved three rows away, then let out a low whistle. "There's at least ..." he counted rows, "hundreds of seekers here, TC. Maybe thousands."

TC hurried to his side. These mechs, much larger, were jammed tightly into the standard-sized berths. Behind them, Death jacked into a second live mech with the datapad. Fang started counting live versus dead. About half of them were still alive, though, when he looked closer, even the live ones needed massive amounts of maintenance. Urgently.

"There's no energon in these drips," TC reported, having pulled one out of a dead mech's port.

"Crap, they're out of fuel." Fangface ran a hand over his face. This was _victory _here. Potentially, depending on how many were actually alive, there were even enough mechs here to fight back against the Nebulans, should that threat manifest. There were multiple buildings with heat signatures. This was just the largest. And this one had hundreds of thousands of mechs in it. But he had to get fuel to them, and quickly, or he'd lose the survivors. "Why the hell did Megatron offline everyone? It makes no sense. If they were Autobots, he'd have slagged 'em all, TC. If they were just in storage against a greater need someday, we passed that 'greater need' eons ago. Hell, he should have woken up a few dozen of these for that little battle in Mission City."

Deathwheels padded over without a word and hooked the datapad into one of the seekers. He frowned intensely, poking at the pad. "Fang, I know you know about Optimus cutting funding to the military during the nineteenth Quintession War."

Fang snorted. "Yeah. It's why I'm a one-off design. Prototype. They cancelled the project."

"These mechs were sparked at that time. Optimus knew how many mechs Megatron was creating and cut funding to try to make Megatron be more careful with the soldiers he had. That meant a lot of programs were canceled, including a sparkling training program."

Fangface blinked.

"Megatron was _crazy_. He'd spark fully capable military protoforms." Thundercracker confirmed that with a headshake. "You've met the Coneheads. They're from that project."

The Coneheads were dumb, aggressive, and ignorant. Fang sighed. "I know. They were fighting within weeks of being sparked. That's not right. Oh, Primus. These are all sparklings?"

Death nodded slowly. "Probably. The ones I've looked at have operational code uploaded, but they were offlined immediately after that. Most likely they were in storage somewhere else, and Megatron brought them to this remote world to keep them out of Optimus's hands. He would not have had the mechs available to mentor them -- there's very few mechs in this army I'd trust to do it, and Megatron had a pretty abusive mentor, from what I understand. He would have known damn well that your average 'con would _not _have produced usable soldiers. He could only use so many shock troops. I'm betting some of the crazier troops we've dealt with over the years might have been from here, or installations similar to this."

"Why didn't he just let them die?" Thundercracker wondered.

"Why waste a potentially good weapon? Plus, he was using them for parts, I'm willing to bet. Even in stasis lock, you could swap a good part out for a damaged one, and their autorepair systems would slowly fix the damaged part. Rinse, lather, repeat, as the humans say. I always wondered where he was getting parts, with all our factories destroyed." Deathwheels padded further down the rows. They followed. Thundercracker was staring at one hand, and Fangface recalled that Thundercracker's entire arm had been blasted off and replaced a few hundred years ago. _Cannabilism, _Fang thought. It was one thing to scrap a dead mech. It was entirely enough to take parts from live mechs, held in indefinite stasis and used to make replacement parts. It made him sick to think about it.

Death said, "And ... ah, yes. This is what I was looking for."

Now they were into a section that had fifteen or twenty small Wheelie-sized protoforms lined up per berth. Surprisingly, more of these were alive than of the bigger forms. Perhaps they had lower fuel needs.

Fang forced himself to not react, as early memories of Wheelie flooded his processor. Some of these were _exactly _the same model as Wheelie. He could see Wheelie, vibrant and alive, standing in front of him and arguing with a passion against doing some chore. He could picture Wheelie's disgruntled pout when forced to do the work and then his delighted grin when Fang had praised him for a job well done. And Fang could summon, easily, the sensory memory of the trusting, fragile weight of his sparkling curled up between his paws as Wheelie slipped into recharge ... Fang had _loved _that trust, had cherished Wheelie's affection.

Anger flooded his processers. It would have been easier for Megatron to bring the little ones online, simply because an eighteen inch tall mech could do a lot less damage than a twenty-five foot tall seeker form, so it didn't matter if the imprinting was botched (or not done at all) and you got a crazy-ass little fragger instead of a sane, stable person as a result. He'd certainly commanded his share of fragging insane mechs, some barely able to even _speak_. Their tendency to kill each other as often as they attacked enemies, their unwillingness to help each other, the medics and maintenance 'bots who would refuse to help their own kind, the general _crazy _of so many of his troops, it all made sudden sense. They'd never had mentors. They'd never been imprinted. They'd probably just had operational code downloaded from a datapad by a technician, and then been expected to function as adults.

On a practical level, that would work for a Wheelie sized mech. Not for a seeker, or a warrior.

It made him _furious_. How many small, expendable little mechs had Megatron thrown away?

"Lord Fang?" TC said. "Are you okay?"

He slammed a fist against a pylon supporting the roof. "I'm angry, TC. _Damn _him."

"Who?"

"Megatron. The Fallen. All of them." He rounded on Death. "I need an accurate count of the number of sparklings here. And we'll need to get Energon to them."

"We don't have enoug,." Death pointed out, sounding tired.

Optimus had given them enough Energon to get the Nemesis off planet, to Nieryl Six, and then on to any reasonably close base. If they used the Energon to fuel the sparklings, they probably wouldn't even be able to leave Mars. Realization struck with a sickening punch.

"Huh. We'll have to raid the Autobots," TC said, casually. "Do you want me to draw up some battle plans?"

"No." Fang covered his optics. "Umm. Yes. Death, tell me how long they have?"

"They're dying as we speak. This one's flickering out now ..." Death pointed to a tiny form on the berth. "We need Energon _now_."

It was the nineteenth of September. A long way from the 30th, and the end of the truce, and even if he raided Optimus after that date he'd violate the general trust that Optimus had extended to him. _Primus_, what a dilemma. He was pretty sure Optimus would _help _if he asked, would show up with the Ark and a shipload of Energon, but then Optimus would also take possession of the sparklings. The Autobots had a hell of a lot more mechs he'd trust to raise sparklings than the 'cons did, and would likely end up with a vastly larger army of vastly saner soldiers. It would tilt the balance of power in the direction of the 'bots within a very few years, and ...

His Matrix woke, suddenly displaying the sentience he'd known it possessed. It wasn't just a data storage device. It had never been. With voice of a hundred Primes who had come before him, it told him, _Save the sparklings._

I can't.

Save the sparklings.__

I can't.

Save that _sparkling, then._

He blinked, realizing that Deathwheels had pointed out a small form that was, literally, fading before their eyes. Likely, Death had seen the errors on his data pad as he'd connected to that one's processer. With an oath, Fang crouched, ripped loose the dried-up energon drip from the little one's fuel port, and popped his own port open. He siphoned out energon out using the drip's tubing, feeding a precious few ounces of the fuel into the tiny mech's fuel tank. Then he picked him up, instinctively cradling the child to his chest. He felt a fuel pump, long inactive, stuttering to life. The power plant followed, the faintest of vibrations. He sensed power surge through dying limbs, and power cells start to warm.

This one would live.

Though it was offline, and probably didn't even have operational code uploaded, he held it close and stroked a finger along one slender limb. He wanted to see this little sparkling alive, optics lit, curled trustingly into his arms. He wanted to see him laugh, and explore, and learn. He wanted to hear a child's voice in his quarters again. He wanted someone to tag along at his heels, always asking questions, always seeking his affection. He wanted the responsibility again. He'd _loved _the feeling of being completely responsible for, and important to, Wheelie.

This child would live.

"You can't take him back to the Nemesis with you," Death said, quietly. "It will be the same sort of issues you had with Wheelie. Megatron may be gone, but half the ship would kill a sparkling if it so much as looked at them wrong. They wouldn't care that it was a sparkling. An adult mech that size knows to duck, and dodge, and hide. A little one? It would run right up to someone like Dirge -- or pardon me, Thundercracker, but right up to Skywarp -- and want to play."

He tightened his grip on the tiny, tiny child in his arms. He wanted to argue. He'd given his own energon so this child would live. He couldn't set him back down on the cold, empty, desolate berth, surrounded by both the living and the dead. The child was innocent. He had never opened his optics to see the world. He didn't know the difference between Autobot and Decepticon. He'd never been _aware _yet.

He would live, but Fang wanted to see him _alive_.

"Let me see your datapad." He held a hand out to Death, who silently passed it to him. He checked the child's processor for errors, and found none, though there was a nice audit trail reflecting a recent near-fatal spark chamber failure. He had come critically close to dying, as his power cells had drained close to zero. A spark chamber alone could contain a spark for a fairly long time, but it would eventually fail. His had been so very, very close.

_Someday I will tell you that you were meant to live, that after tens of thousands of years in this desolate place I arrived to save you when you were moments from death, little one, _Fang thought. He tightened his grip, resolving never to set this one down until he was safe.

"What are you going to do, my lord?" Death's words were formal.

"Got any suggestions, Death? I'm fresh out." Fang was too rattled to censor his words. As soon as they left his vocalizer, however, he realized how their exchange of words might look to Thundercracker. It both showed just how much he'd come to rely on Death's opinions (and he was even more, so much more, than before, since they'd started interfacing!) and that he wasn't always the cool, competent leader he wanted everyone to see him as.

"We can't let them die," Thundercracker said softly. If he was surprised by Fang's statement he didn't show it. Perhaps he, too, was shaken. He was staring down at a tiny predacon model, a protoform the size of a hawk, and which probably transformed into a form very similar to an Earth raptor. Soundwave's symbiote Laserbeak had been a similar model. Thundercracker touched a finger to one wing. His hand was bigger than the sparkling's entire body. "Children, Lord Fang. I haven't seen a child in tens of millenia."

"These are the last of our children. There will be no more. The Allspark is gone. We _cannot _let them die." Fangface felt the Matrix stirring in him. One of the responsibilities of the Primes had always been the Allspark, and the children it created. These children of the Allspark, utterly innocent, not yet even imprinted, to the Matrix, to the Order of the Primes, would always be more important than factions. He saw images of children -- not just Wheelie, but the sparklings other Primes had raised or known. His processers were flooded with memories. The Matrix -- the Order of the Primes -- had woken with a roar, they were telling him what he needed to do, and they were not being subtle about it.

"We can't," he repeated, blinking his optics. _Shut up! Shut up! I get it already! I'll figure something out!_

"Then we need to get Energon." Death's statement was flat. He looked very, very unhappy about something.

"We will not attack the Autobots. I promised we wouldn't, and I'm not sure we'd win, in any case." The child in Fang's arms was no larger than his two hands cupped together. It was so fragging easy to visualize him awake, and giggling with childish glee over some small thing, then running to Fang and holding tiny arms up to be hoisted aloft.

_Pick me up! _Wheelie had often demanded, _Pick me up, Fang! _

He'd been _important _to Wheelie. For a few brief years, he'd been the most important person in Wheelie's world. Then Wheelie had been forcefully taken from him, had learned just how cruel and harsh his own people could be. Fang had failed him. He was no longer the most important person in Wheelie's world. It hurt, to think he'd _lost _Wheelie like that. At least his own side couldn't take Wheelie from him if Wheelie was with Optimus.

_Do I even want to risk that much pain again? _He stared at the body in his hands.

_Save _that _sparkling, _the Matrix insisted.

"Optimus isn't going to be able trade for even a fraction of the energon we'll need to keep them alive. The Ark does not have a refinery big enough to do it. The Ark's facilities are designed to make enough fuel for the ship and a sizable crew, but this is a _city's_ worth of mechs here. There could be a million protoforms in this building alone." Deathwheels words brought Fang back to reality. He ran a finger through a thin layer of dust on one of the berths. "The refineries on Nieryl Six have more than ample capacity. To get the energon here, however, would require more than one ship."

"They're probably already slagging the refineries as we speak." Fang felt a growing sense of depression and dread. "You're telling me that the only way to do this is to work with the 'bots, get both their ship and the Nemesis ferrying fuel non-stop back and forth, right?"

"I'm not pleased with the idea of working with the Autobots, but it's the only solution that works mathematically." Deathwheels was silent for a moment, probably doing calculations in his head. "The 'bots took that moon from us a few months ago. I'm still shocked they managed to pull off an ambush fast enough that _we _didn't frag the refineries. Ultra Magnus is a sharp commander, something to keep in mind if we ever have to fight him again ... anyway, I digress. Magnus took out three fuel transport ships in a raid, maybe a year ago. Those were the ships that were ferrying the fuel back and forth to here."

Fang ran a hand over his faceplate. "That explains a lot, actually. Megatron was crazy, but never stupid. They needed a source of energon in a hurry to keep the sparklings alive, right?"

"That'd be my deduction." Deathwheels frowned intensely, folding his arms. "Tactically speaking, this facility had to have been vital. It probably gave us all the repair parts we needed."

Thundercracker shook his head. "Death, that's just plain disturbing. It does make sense, though. I couldn't figure out why the Fallen was so dead set on activating that blasted device. We lost an awful lot of good mechs for no obvious reason. There are other sources of energon in the universe -- just none close to here. He needed a lot, and he needed it quick."

Death nodded at the sparkling in Fang's arms. "And now if we want to save them, we're going to need to work with Prime. Slag it, I hate Optimus. I really do."

"You hold him," Fang thrust the tiny form into Death's hands. "_You _tell me we can just walk away and let them die. He was going to offline in front of us. There's probably thousands in this building _right now _that are dying as we speak. _You _tell me that the war's more important than this."

He wanted to see those tiny optics, gazing up at him with love and trust ...

Deathwheels held the child in cupped hands. He looked down at the little body, which was still and quiet, yet somehow humming with life. Fang couldn't really ready his expression; his faceplates were too still.

"He could be anyone, Death. Anything from a maintenance worker to a medic to a great warrior. He could grow up to be a scientist or a politician or an artist or a poet. He could be _anyone_. These children -- they will grow up to be our future, if we can save them. They will build our cities, our factories, our starships. They will love, they will laugh, they will partner with each other, they will be our peers, our friends, our children, our destiny. We must save them, regardless of whatever sacrifice it may take."

Fangface, fists balled, regarded Death, daring him to argue. Death looked at him, over the tiny child's body. He mentally dared Death to claim different. However, Death didn't get a chance to frag Fangface off even more, because at that moment, Skywarp yelled, "Incoming!" And lunged through the airlock door.

_:We've got company!: _Warp slammed the door shut with his shoulder and threw the bolts by manually spinning a wheel on the wall.  
_  
:What? Autobots?: _Death demanded. He shoved the tiny protoform back into Fang's hands.

An explosion rocked the building, making dust filter down from the rafters far above their heads. Warp transmitted an image of _scores _of mechs that had suddenly, literally, appeared out of nowhere. He'd seen a distinctive emblem on their chests even as he'd ducked for cover, and it was neither Cybertronian faction.

"Oh, _slag_, it's the Nebulans!" Fang cringed, "They must have detected the EM pulse when we popped in."

"Nebu-what?" Thundercracker said, dumbfounded. "The Nebulans are dead!"

"No, they're not, and they're _seriously _fragged off at us!" Fangface flinched as the building shook again.

"Huh." Thundercracker jumped, as the lights went out. "Can't really say as I blame them."

The airlock door was blown off its hinges by a another violent explosion. Heat roared through the doorway, then air howled out through the gap. Fang's vents clamped shut reflexively to prevent his fluids from leaking as the pressure dropped. Mechs rushed through the entrance. Fang froze, torn between protecting the sparklings and taking cover, even as the two seekers and Death bolted for the sheltering bulk of some sort of bank of equipment. Belatedly, a klick of time behind them, he tried to follow. A plasma blast caught him from behind, and the kinetic energy punched through his shield. He was slammed hard into a berth, and he felt something _crack _in his spinal struts that reverberated throughout his body.

_Oh, shit, hurt, bad ..._

Errors raced across his HUD even as he tried to scramble to his feet. One of his hind legs refused to move. The other was the leg with the bad hipp, and the pain threatened to offline him when he tried to force himself to support his entire weight on it. One of the enemy mechs raced towards him and he saw down the barrel of a cannon as it began to glow ...

Deathwheels hit the mech out of nowhere, impossibly fast and impressibly powerful. He knocked the mech sprawling and discharged his pulse cannon into the enemy's spark in one smootjh move, even as plasma blasts hit him. His force shield flared blue and crackled with power as he burst energy to it. He turned to verify Fang's condition, even as another blast rocked him on his feet. Death, at that moment, looked like a Unicron himself as his tremendous cannons glowed with power and enemy fire battered and splashed across his enormous frame without doing any damage.

_:Don't shoot!: _Fang found his Nebulan language module, and screamed across all possible comm channels at them. They couldn't help but hear that. _:Stop firing, we have building full of sparklings!: _

"Skywarp!" Thundercracker screamed, "Warp, no!"

Two of the enemy soldiers were dragging Skywarp out from under a berth where he'd taken cover. 'Warp thrashed, unsuccessfully trying to free himself. In the now-scanty atmosphere, he couldn't make out what they were saying. However, Fang saw one of them level a pulse cannon at Skywarp's chest and fire it. 'Warp's force shield held, but seekers weren't designed to take heavy fire like that for long. He'd lose the force shield after a few more blasts. Fang reacted on pure instinct, protective ferocity surging to override near-cripplingly painful errors. He dropped the sparkling and launched himself off the ground with one injured leg, transformed in mid-air, ricocheted off a random piece of equipment with a thrust of three good legs, and hit the enemy mech in the middle of his back.

_:He's my soldier, you fragger, and I won't let you kill him!: _Fang snarled in Nebulan. He sank his teeth into the mech's shoulder from behind, braced himself with his clawed hands, whipped his one functioning leg up, ignored the cascade of errors the move produced, and dug the talons into the mech's backplate. Fang screamed aloud, a deep howl that was oddly muted, as he ripped the armor plate off. And then he was into the mech's internals, even as the mech flung himself backwards onto the ground in a bid to smash Fang flat.

Fang's spinal struts cracked through, and motor relays from his waist down completely stopped reporting, but he continued to fight. He shoved a hand into hole he'd created in the mech's back, shredding and tearing, until he found the spark chamber and then he squeezed, claws driving deep into the metal. There was a pop, a flare of blue light, and the mech began to thrash mindlessly as capacitors and power cells discharged all at once.

His legs wouldn't work. He could feel energon pooling underneath himself, as well, and the pressure on both his coolant system and fuel system was rapidly dropping. The entire world was spinning with disorienting speed around him; his gyros were damaged. He'd taken catastrophic damage. _Am I going to die? _he wondered. He didn't want to die.

_You must live_, the Matrix informed him. _You must save that sparkling._

_:Warp. You okay?: _Fang asked, through a haze of pain and fading awareness. He spotted the sparkling lying near him, reached for him with a free hand, and pulled him closer. The child appeared to be undamaged.

He didn't even _like _Warp, but Warp was _his_. His soldier, his responsibility. The Decepticon army was _his_. It belonged to him. And frag if anyone was going to kill his people, take them away from him, if he could stop them. But, Primus, it _hurt_. He knew he was hurt worse than he'd ever been hurt before. Worse than the last time Ratchet had patched him up. _Am I going to die?_

You must live, the Matrix told him. _The cost of your death is greater than any political cost you must pay to live. _

_:They're retreating.: _Death reported, of the enemy. _:For now.: _

_:Warp?:_

:Yeah ... yeah, boss. I'm okay. Why'd you do it?: Skywarp sounded confused.  
_  
:'Cuz ...: _Fangface tried to piece his confused thoughts together. He finally said, _:Nobody hurts my people without going through me first.:_

The dead, twitching, mech on top of him was pulled away. His arm was stuck in the soldier's internals. Death had to plant a foot on Fang's shoulder before TC could yank the two of them apart. His arm was stained with enemy energon and coolant, some of it blackened and charred.

"Heh. Well, they sure did a good job going _through _you," Death stared down at him.

He felt himself drifting as his processer tried to shut down. He forced it to reboot, awareness flickering for a moment. This was not a time to fall into stasis lock.

Death crouched. "Fang, stay with me. C'mon, Fang ..."

He wanted to.

"Fang!"

He wanted to stay.

"Fang! Pit! Oh, Pit, TC, he's bad hurt." Death's arms slid under him. He was hoisted into the air.

Somehow, he found the strength to hold on to the sparkling as Death scooped him up. Death held him, and he held the sparkling, simply refusing to let go. _:Save the sparklings, Death. We have to save the sparklings.:_

He couldn't _see_. His sensors were going offline. He clung to the child in his hand, though. He wanted to save them all. He wanted ... pit, he was going to die. He felt his very energy draining away. Pit. _Pit_.

_Fangface, save the sparklings. _The Matrix was insistent.

He didn't know what to do.

_Save the sparklings. They are more important than the war. They are our future._

He wanted to scream at Deathwheels to rescue them. He couldn't activate his vocalizer, not even to whisper.

_They will forever honor your name if you save the sparklings. You will be seen as one of the greatest heroes of the war. Save the sparklings_. The ancient Primes were insistent, prodding him to keep thinking, keep commanding, just a little bit longer.  
_  
:TC,: _he discovered he could talk over the comms, still. _:Skywarp. How much of this building can you take with you, at maximum power?:_

:To Earth?: Thundercracker stammered. _:I don't know.:_

:Figure it out. Do it.: He burst the destination to them, even as TC was protesting he couldn't make a jump yet. He didn't have the power. He needed to wait another fifteen minutes.

"We'll have to hold them off that long," Death said. "You two, start piling as many sparklings on this side of the building as you can."

He wondered if he could rest now. He tried to ask the Matrix, but the response seemed to come from within his own spark. Deathwheels would take over. He trusted Deathwheels to see what needed to be done.

_:Good job, Fang,: _Death said, quietly, as he set him down on the ground. A gentle hand brushed his forehead. _:I love you.:_

And then Death's footsteps moved away, towards the door. His thoughts slowed. He heard cannon fire and TC cursed. He commed back, _:I love you, Deathwheels. Save the sparklings.:_

  


* * *

Author's note: Sticking this at the end for non-spoiler reasons. I'd love to know if Starscream's the original line from ROTF was, "The _sparklings _will starve," and it somehow got mutated into, "The _hatchlings _will starve." "Hatchlings" makes no sense for multiple levels. Since when do Transformers hatch out of eggs? If the writers had originally written, "The _sparklings _will starve without energon," that would have made worlds more sense, however.

I am way behind on responding to reviews, by the way. I am so sorry for that. I'm trying to get caught up. :-)


	59. Chapter 59

After returning to their quarters, Mikaela and Bee had both dropped off to sleep. Bee snored faintly on the mattress, and something clicked occasionally in his Camaro half. He was out cold, and had apparently told the absolute truth when he'd stated he needed several hours of recharge. Sam had talked him into taking it now, as they'd all been removed from duty and had nothing better to do and to Sam's eyes he'd been exhausted.

Sam, unable to rest, his mind in a whirl, had picked his laptop up and sat down cross-legged beside the bed. While his two friends slept he'd busied himself answering e-mails. Quite a few of the guests at the dinner had sent him 'get well' notes over his supposed stomach bug. He was fervently grateful that nobody had known the truth.

Along with thank-you notes and get-well notes, there were also tons of questions. He forwarded those e-mails on to the right Autobots. Anything to do with technology got sent to Wheeljack and Ratchet, political inquiries went to Optimus, requests for interviews and appearances to Elita and Bee, and a plethora of e-mails regarding research into human medicine were forwarded to Doc. It took him until mid afternoon to clear his inbox.

When that task was done, he turned his attention to the news. The first few sites he looked at were fairly mundane, with the expected mix of negative and positive articles. After sending a few links to Optimus, he moved on to a gossip page for giggles.

The top article on TMZ ...

He nearly dropped the laptop.

_Oh, shit, they had a camera on us and we were close to the edge of the deck, they could see us from below, and with night vision, and shit, shit, shit ..._

"Sam?" Bee looked up from his pillow. Bee's hair was mussed, and he rubbed at his eyes. "Your heart rate increased."

"Go back to sleep," he said, miserably. "There's nothing we can do about it."

"Do about what?" Bee sat up, swung his long, bare legs over the edge of the mattress, and reached for the laptop. He'd crawled into bed wearing only boxers. His legs were covered in fine golden hairs that were only a little darker than his blond ponytail. "Oh. Hmm. I should have scanned for that possibility."

"Your sensors were offline, remember?" Sam said, miserably, as Bee clicked the "play" button on an incriminating bit of video. For the entire world to see, he traced his fingers along Bee's lips, then kissed him. Their features were way too clear and easily identifiable. "Shit."

"Want me to hack their website and take it down?" Bee suggested, possibly semi-seriously.

"Optimus would have _both _our bolts."

"You don't have bolts."

"I'm sure he'd improvise." The easy banter made Sam feel marginally better.

"What happened?" Mikaela looked up, no longer sounding sleepy.

"Paparazzi happened." Bee shut the laptop, and set it on the bed. "Sam, we both should have been more careful, but it's not the end of the world ..."

Not the end of the world? Well, maybe not literally, but his panic started returning. His parents were going to find out. The N.E.S.T. soldiers would find out. The media was never going to leave him alone. He'd get questions about his sex life, his orientation, wherever he went. _I'm not gay! I like girls and alien robots! That's not gay, it's perverted! _He thought, nearly bursting out in hysterical laughter. Pretty much, it was the end of his world as he knew it. He buried his face in his arms and instead of a fit of unstoppable giggles he just simply said, "I am really starting to hate my life."

Bee moved to crouch beside him, gentle fingers tugging at his arms until he unfolded from his fetal position, and then reluctantly stood up at Bee's urging. Bee wrapped his arms around Sam, pulled him into a tight hug, and said, "I'm _sorry_. Do you want to break this off with me? I'd understand. You could say you were drunk, or it was a dare, or something of that nature. There's no audio. We were both overwrought last night. Things might feel a little different to you now that some time has passed."

He remembered how broken Bee had seemed the day before. Bee's bare skin was warm against Sam's arms and hands. Bee, who had been so patient with him, even when he'd not deserved it, who had been so forgiving, so _loving_. Suddenly, with an acute wave of embarrassment, he remembered the time he'd thrown Wheelie out his dorm window at Bee, and ordered them to leave, simply because he wanted a 'normal' life ... and Bee hadn't said one word of recrimination back. It must have hurt like the _pit _when he'd done that, and Bee had forgiven him. Had that only been a few weeks ago? It felt like a lifetime.

He pressed his forehead to Bee's and said, "I'll just have to deal with whatever comes. -- Do you think Optimus will be pissed off?"

"A little annoyed at our indiscretion, though he would never tell us to break it off. All things considered, this actually isn't the worst thing that could happen. I believe I know human nature well enough to realize that to many humans, this will make us seem _more _like them." Bee sighed. "I'm just worried about you and Mikaela being hurt, Sam, particularly with me leaving in a month. Both physically and emotionally."

He groaned. "Don't remind me."

Mikaela, who had been silently watching them, suddenly rose and Bee extended on arm to her. He pulled her into the hug too, and said in a low voice, "You two are my best friends in the world. I love you both with all my spark. Don't ever forget that."

"Mmmhmm, big boy." Mikaela sort've squirmed in between Bee and Sam, pushing him aside a bit, until she could get her arms around Bee's neck. Sam took a step back and watched in astonishment as she kissed Bee, cautiously at first, but then with real intent. Bee's eyes were wide with surprise, and returned the kiss for a moment, but then he finally put both hands on Mikaela's shoulders and pushed her back gently. "'Kaela, Sam's upset."

"I'm okay," Sam said, swiftly.

"Liar," Mikeala said, in an almost accusing tone of voice. "Sorry, Sam. Only one mouth, two gorgeous guys ..."

Bee gave her a gentle push in Sam's direction. Bee clearly expected her to give him the same treatment he had just received. However, Sam found himself just staring awkwardly at Mikaela. She'd just been kissing Bee, and a small part of him was screaming she'd been unfaithful. Even though he told himself he didn't mind, even though he told himself this was what they'd all chosen, she'd just kissed his best friend, and it had not exactly been a platonic peck on the cheek, either. What if she preferred kissing Bee to kissing him? And she'd pushed him aside to kiss Bee, which somehow made him far more jealous than he might otherwise have been.

Finally, she leaned in and planted a swift peck on his lips.

"Still mad at me, huh?" he said, softly, as his irritation was replaced by concern.

That got him a pout. "Maybe."

Sam was aware, in the periphery of his vision, that Bee was watching both of them. If Bee thought that he was the cause of friction between Sam and Mikaela, Sam was pretty sure Bee would call it off. And suddenly, desperately, he just didn't want that to happen. He reached out, grabbed her firmly, and pulled her back. "Maybe I know a way to make you less mad."

"Maybe you do." She spoke to words like a challenge. "Gonna show me?"

"Gonna." He dropped his arms to wrap around the small of her back, and he pulled her up into a deep, passionate, enthusiastic embrace. She felt so _good _in his arms, particularly when she readily responded to his touch. He slid his hands up her back and ground up against her, perhaps a little more possessive than he normally would have been, but God it felt good to hold her like that.

Then Mikaela's phone rang in her purse. He reluctantly let her go, and she hurried off to answer it. Bee met his eyes, and quirked an eyebrow up. Sam hesitated, as his heart started to race. He could hear it thundering in his ears. Bee's expression stilled, and he turned away. The moment was lost. He had been thinking of kissing Bee, and they both knew it, but now it just seemed too awkward.

Mikaela was setting a time with someone on the phone. She added in response to a question, "... hope you don't mind seeing me in jeans and my boyfriend's t-shirt. I had a house fire last week and I haven't had a chance to do much shopping beyond the necessities. Yeah, that's right, on the news ..."

As soon as she got off, she said, "That was Gallego's secretary. 'Jack and I need to leave pretty quick -- I don't know how long I'll be gone."

The Camaro transformed behind Sam, and he reached out to run one metal hand over Mikaela's shoulders. "Be careful, Mikaela."

She nodded, and leaned into his touch for a moment. "Are you two going to be okay?"

Sam traded a glance with Bee's mech half. He said, "Yeah. We'll be fine."

"We'll probably go out to dinner. If that won't bother you." Bee's other half had stepped up next to Sam, and Bee put an arm around Sam's shoulders.

His girlfriend -- God, _their _girlfriend, now -- glanced from Sam to Bee, then back. She bit her lip, and then pouted, "I'll be horribly jealous, but I _guess _it's okay."

Bumblebee smirked. "If you want, I can show you the videos later ..."

"What? Hey? No!" Sam protested, making both of them look at him and _laugh_. Then he covered his face with his hand and said, "I'm so doomed."

"There better be good video, big guy," Mikaela patted Bee on the knee as she walked past his armored leg. "Just don't kill Sam from embarrassment."

Sam growled, "There will be _no _video."

Bee, chuckling, said, "I think TMZ's got that covered."

"Oh, frag you," he said, but he was laughing even as he added an upraised middle finger to the insult. It was amazing how the two of them could make him feel better about almost anything.

* * *

Inevitably, when Sam and Bee left the ship (and they actually left before Mikaela, who was still fussing with her makeup), they were followed by paparazzi. Bee was unimpressed by their tracking skills, and didn't even have to try very hard to get rid of them. A mile past the security cordon, he pulled into a parking garage for the stadium. The paparazzi all lined up behind him, a few revving the engines of their vehicles in excitement. Bee pulled a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet, leaned out of the window, gave the cashier in her little booth a bright smile, and said, "I'm trying to lose the vultures behind me. Any chance the gate could break for a couple of minutes?"

She eyed him, then recognized him after she saw the armor on his forearms, and her mouth opened in a wide 'O' of surprise. "You're one of the Autobots! Oh, wow, cool!"

He nodded, and said with wide, innocent eyes, "And I could use a hand. The paparazzi are going to cause a wreck if they try to follow me. I'm just trying to go out to dinner with a friend."

She peered past Bee to see Sam, who waggled his fingers. She giggled suddenly, "Oh, hey, I saw you two on TMZ!"

Bee heard Sam make a strangled noise behind him. The Camaro's internal optics showed he had sank down in the seat and covered his face with both hands. Surprisingly, he managed to joke, "Yeah, and now we're running away from my parents, who are going to _freak_ when they see that."

"We're going to elope," Bee agreed, brightly. He winked. "Think they'll let us get married in Canada?"

The girl burst out into delighted laughter, and waved the money away. "Sure, I'll run interference. Pull a ticket and go on through."

Bee grabbed a little paper ticket from the dispenser, and the gate lifted automatically. As soon as they were through, the girl stepped out of her booth and crouched in front of the ticket dispenser. Bee's finely tuned sensors overheard her telling the car in line behind him that the machine had jammed ... again. She made it sound convincing.

"_Can _we go to Canada?" Sam asked jokingly, as Bee rounded a corner out of sight of the booth, and then immediately headed for the exit on the far side of the building. He didn't bother with transcanning something new. Bee just threw a temporary holomatter illusion up, changing his appearance to that of a generic silver sedan with heavily tinted windows. It wasn't like the paparazzi would have even basic scanning equipment.

"Nope. I don't have a visa. We get the distinct impression the United States does not want us to leave the country." Bee flashed Sam a grin. "Though maybe we could go to Niagara Falls someday ... I hear it's most romantic."

"Oh, frag you. You're picking on me again." But Sam was grinning as he said it.

They escaped the parking garage with no paparazzi trailing them, and Bee, feeling absurdly satisfied by such a simple victory, headed for the highway.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"Dinner. I don't know about you, but I'm starving." Bee's system had been quietly reminding him he'd had nothing to eat all day. "And Ratchet will have my bolts if I don't consume some calories, shortly followed by Wheeljack making something creative from them, and Doc insisting on a full systems overhaul of what's left of both protoforms to make sure there's not a physical reason I didn't eat."

Sam snickered.

"I'm glad to hear you laughing, Sam," Bee said, seriously.

"And you. You scared me last night, Bee."

They traded a look of complete understanding. Bee stretched out in the driver's seat, and said, "I am sorry about the video."

Sam shrugged. "It's almost a relief, actually. My father's going to blow a gasket when he sees it, but at least it'll be over with."

"We're going to need to be careful," Bee said, quietly, after a moment. "About a lot of things. I'd have much preferred to keep our relationship quiet for your safety. You are going to be ten times the targets for the Nobots than you were before. You're not going to have a normal life, Sam. I'm sorry."

"Like my life was normal before." Sam hunched his shoulders. "I tried. I _tried _for that normal life. And you see how that turned out! I'd love to go to college someday, but I don't know if that'll ever be possible. But at least ... at least I've got you guys. And _you_. If I've got to chose between the normal life and you, I pick you."

He said the last three words in a rushed, breathy whisper that made Bee glance over at him. Bee said, calmly, "You know, with our technology, you can live thousands of years. You'll get that education someday. The novelty of our arrival will wear off within a few years. Someday, humans will see us as normal."

"Yeah ... maybe."

* * *

_:Fang, hang in there,: _Death commed Fangface, not bothering to encrypt it. At the moment, he frankly didn't care if the seekers knew about his relationship with the young leader. He had a lot bigger worries, including at least forty enemy mechs surrounding the building.

_:Hanging ...: _Fang's response was weak. Too weak. He was arcing hotly from something in his internals, sparks spraying and even balls of plasma rolling across the floor. _:If I don't make it, Death ...:_

_:You're going to make it.:_

_:If I don't make it, the Matrix is yours.:_

_:I don't want it.:_

_:That ... that's an order, Deathwheels.: _Fang lifted his head up briefly. He was drifting in an out of consciousness, and after a moment, he slumped back down. Static crackled from his vocalizer, but Deathwheels was pretty sure that it wasn't an attempt at voluntary speech.

_:I'm here, Fang,: _he commed, _:I'm right here. I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm right here, and I'll defend you until I offline if I have to.:_

Red optics flickered weakly. He didn't know if Fang had heard or not, but he repeated, _:I'm right here. I'll never leave you.:_

"I'm scanning enough sparks for at least sixty mechs, now." Thundercracker restlessly did a systems check of his weapons, pulse cannons sliding back under his armor then out again. He shot Death a keen look. "We've got another twenty minutes until I can warp out of here."

"How come Skywarp's got a bigger power plant than you do?" Deathwheels asked.

Thundercracker shrugged. "Megatron never trusted me. He made sure that I couldn't outrun the other seekers in case he ever decided he needed to take me out."

Death grunted. "Typical. You were his Air Commander's trinemate."

Thundercracker smirked at that. "He didn't exactly trust Starscream, either."

"Heh. Point taken. Look, if we get out of this alive, catch me after we patch Lord Fangface up. I'll make sure you get an upgrade. " Deathwheels nodded at the door. "Cover that for a moment. I want to see if I can figure out what's shorting in Fang's guts and tie it off, before he sparks a fire."

Skywarp, who had been checking the building for other exits, returned then. He nodded at Fangface, even as Death was kneeling beside him. "Why'd he save me?"

Fangface stirred to consciousness again. He was fading in and out, probably due to overheating. "Nobody ... kills my ... soldiers. They're _mine_."

Deathwheels snorted, and popped a piece of armor off Fang's chest with a grunt of effort. To Thundercracker, because TC had to have come to the obvious conclusion by now, he said, "And if you think he's possessive about his troops, he's ten times worse about me ..."

That prompted a swift laugh from Thundercracker. "I'll bet. How'd you score Lord Fang's attention, anyway, Death? I know I've seen other mechs hit on him in the past, and he's never shown the slightest sign of interest."

Deathwheels glanced over his shoulder, grinned, and said, "I'm bigger than he is."

The banter was a distraction, deliberate, from the deadly seriousness of the situation.

_:He did give me a choice, but ... he was sitting on me ... at the time,: _Fang's optics flickered to life as Death found a bundle of neural wiring that was grounding out against his fractured spinal struts. He pulled a roll of tape out of subspace and swiftly covered up the bared wires.

"I wasn't sitting on you, you fragger. I'd have squished you."

_:Not ... that ... little. Afthead.: _

Death surveyed the rest of the damage. Fang was in bad shape. He was going to die if they didn't get him to a medic, and he didn't trust the medics on the Nemesis to deal with this level of repairs. The housing on Fang's memory core was cracked; not even a swift transplant into another protoform would save him if crud got in and fried delicate quantum circuits. He gingerly wiped lubricant and energon away from the hole, then pulled a bottle of epoxy from subspace. He taped over the crack and sprayed epoxy over the tape, then smushed several more layers of tape into the epoxy to reinforce it as it hardened. Hopefully, that would keep contaminants out.

_:You saved my life.: _Skywarp shook his head slowly at Fang, when Fang's shifted his gaze from Death to 'Warp. _:Nobody's ever done that before but my trine. And we're not even friends.:_

_:Could be ... friends ... now.: _Fang lifted his head up, and fixed 'Warp with a keen stare. Then he slumped back down, and added with shuttered optics, _:Need more friends. Am alone too much.:_

"Huh." Skywarp regarded the mangled body at his feet. "Okay. If we get out of here alive, I guess we're friends."

_:Not if we survive. Friends now.: _Fang was, Deathwheels realized, being far more serious than he'd ever seen him before. This was a brutally honest offer. He was very near death, he knew it, and he wasn't acting or faking. Skywarp was an unlikely 'friend' but Skywarp seemed a bit rattled by what Death knew had been a rather impulsive act of heroism from Fang. If Fang had time to think his actions through, he probably _wouldn't _have saved Skywarp. Fang's impulsiveness was one of his bigger weaknesses.

_:The Order says ... I have to live ... they say we have to save the sparklings.:_

"The Order?" Skywarp said, in confusion.

Thundercracker asked quietly, "He wasn't delusional when he was talking about a Matrix earlier, was he, Death?"

"No." Death gritted his dental plates for a moment. "Fang, the Order of the Primes said you had to live?"

Silence.

_:Fang?: _Death prompted.  
_  
:It's so quiet ...:_

His audio receptors had offlined, Death suspected.

_:... So dark ...:_

"The Order of the Primes ...?" Thundercracker blinked his optics several times. _:Fangface, you're seeing the Order of the Primes?:_

_:They're so beautiful. They're telling me I must live. They're telling me the sparklings must live. They're so beautiful. You can see Primus in their sparks. Primus himself, Deathwheels. Primus is here. They're so beautiful ...:_

"Sometimes badly injured mechs hallucinate ..." Deathwheels speculated uncertainly.

_:Death, Vector Prime says to tell you I'm not hallucinating. I can't hear you. They're so beautiful ... their sparks are so beautiful ...:_

"Oh, Primus ..." Thundercracker breathed. "He's a Prime. Fang is a Prime?"

_:The Primes say we must save the Sparklings. If they die, we die, and all will be for naught. We each joined this war thinking we fought on the right side. What point is there to right, or wrong, if our people _go extinct _in the end? Nothing is worth oblivion.:_

Thundercracker traded a long, long, searching look with Skywarp. Skywarp grunted. "How much mass do you think you could move, TC, if we removed the fail-safes and gave it everything we've got? I mean everything, holding nothing back?"

"I've fought for a lot of things," TC said quietly, "but never for Primus. Pretty much, I always figured I was going to go to the Pit when I died."

_:They are so beautiful. They love us so much. I never realized how much they love us. And how much they grieve.: _Fang's hand moved to stroke a tiny figure in his arms. He still had hold of the sparkling he'd saved.  
_  
:Fang, you're getting kinda disturbing,: _Death stared at him, rattled. He'd known Primes before. He'd only ever heard of Optimus actually talking to Order of the Primes, back before everything had gone to the Pit. It was eerie to hear a Decepticon speak like this. He had all sorts of faith in Fangface, but he'd never expected to hear this sort of eerie faith _from _him. He'd seen promise in Fangface from the moment he'd met him, long before he'd found the Matrix; Fang was charismatic, intelligent, and ambitious, ruthless enough to win, sane enough to know when to quit. However, he had never expected anything like this from Fang.

And yet ... there was suddenly something in the air, a feeling of electricity, of energy. A tremor ran across Death's armor in reflexive response to an unexpected wash of electromagnetic energy. Something was _here_.

_:I must live.: _Fang's tone wasn't beseeching, or frightened. It was simply a statement of fact.

At that moment, a swarm of alien mechs surged through the doorway, firing not just at the three standing transformers, but throwing thermite firebombs into the banks of berths, which lit with a roar and towers of sparks. Death recognized themite instantly; it was a common weapon used amost universally by space-faring species, and a dreaded one, needing no atmospheric oxygen and burning with enough heat to destroy even the most durable of alloys. There were dozens of mechs, each throwing grenade after grenade in a rapid-fire coordinated assault.

Rage lit Death's optics. He yanked his pulse cannon up and leveled it to return fire ... he intended to drive them back through the doorway but they were already in full retreat, having done the damage they intended to ... then he detected several encrypted transmissions between the seekers ... the EM built much higher, making him wonder if an electrical storm might be brewing, or was it truly an unnatural source? The energy levels went higher and higher, and sparks crackled across his armor as he moved. Something was brewing, something _big_.

Then the world dissolved in a dizzying, disorienting, swirling space bridge. It was the worst ride he'd ever been on, bar none. He could feel wild gravitational surges tossing them about. Something struck Death in the back hard enough to dent his armor. His sensors screamed with errors. Painful, searing heat washed across him as the thermite continued to burn all around him even as they leaped.

When they burst out of the other end of the bridge, there was a gust of wind as an oxygen-laden atmosphere rushed into the building, and heavier gravity pulled him down hard. The thermite grenades roared with fountains of sparks. A siren began to wail, and he heard encrypted overlapping Autobot chatter over the comms as the 'bots responded to the sudden appearance of the building on their base. _:Fang?:_

Silence.

He impatiently reset his optics a couple of times before they cleared, and took a quick, frantic stock of his surroundings. Thundercracker was out cold, barely visible through the smoke, and against the blinding light of burning grenades, but Skywarp was slowly picking himself up off the ground. Fangface was not dead, yet, but he was in pretty sorry shape. Death's processor seemed to slow with fear as he took in Fang's damage.

"Warp," Death said, "We need to get Fang to Ratchet. He's not here. He's six hundred miles to the southwest of here."

"Ratchet?" Warp said, vaguely. "The Autobot medic?"

"He's the closest medic who knows what the frag he's doing." Deathwheels didn't like the results of a new scan of Fang's vitals. He was slipping, and fast. He scooped him up, thrust that painfully broken body into Warp's arms, and said, "I'll take care of TC. You get him to Ratchet."

He commed a set of coordinates to Warp.

"I can't ..." Warp said, responding with a ping of damage reports. His fuel levels were near critical, and his power plant had stress damage. He only needed to jump a several hundred miles, but he was at his absolute limit. Honestly, Deathwheels wasn't sure how they'd managed to move the entire building -- and through the smoke and the fire his scans were telling him they'd moved the _whole _thing. Plus a good-sized chunk of Martian crust.

"You _can_." Skywarp didn't matter, Deathwheels thought viciously. What mattered was that Fangface _live_. Plus, they were arguing in the middle of a fire so intense he could feel his paint nanytes turning to powder and flaking off from the radiant heat. Fangface was priority number one. Harshly, he snapped, "Would you defy the word of Primus himself?"

"Is Fang really a Decepticon Prime?" Skywarp cradled the broken body to his chest a little tighter. He was swaying on his feet. "He's _our _Prime? He fights on _our _side?"

"Jump, Skywarp! That is an _order_!" Death's vocalizer hit a frantic note, then sputtered with static as corrosive black smoke rushed through his vents. He didn't care how badly Skywarp ended up fragged up. He didn't care how badly _he _got injured. He just needed to get Fangface to safety.

"I ... yes, sir." Skywarp's faceplate suddenly lit with a savage grin. "Even if it kills me. With a Decepticon Prime, we can finally _slag _those Autobots!"

He popped out of view.

"Primus," Deathwheels said, an oath. Then, in an entirely different tone of voice, he whispered, "Primus. Hand of our Primus himself." After another moment he added, "Primus, you better make sure that Skywarp actually makes it. He's in pretty bad shape."

_The sparklings!_

The closest sparkling was a seeker model, blown from his eons-long slumber on a berth, who now had fire crackling and snarling around his legs as he lay in unfeeling repose on the floor. Death kicked the flare away, burning iron splashing across his foot as he did that. It _hurt_, and he ignored that, and kicked the flare again, driving it towards the door. The heat was intense enough to slag anything within a radius of several feet. Nothing was going to extinguish it until it simply burned itself out. The stuff would even react explosively with water.

Some of the sparklings were dead, he realized, even if they had been alive before. Melting metal ... armor, struts, internals, titanium from the berths, the aluminum and iron from the grenades ... ran liquid across the cement floor. _Our children!_

Rage lit his processor, causing battle systems to activate instinctively. He had heard Fang shouting that they were killing sparklings. They'd known, and they had slagged them anyway, deliberately, with callous cruelty. He wanted to keen his grief, snarl his rage. Instead, he forced himself to focus, pulling the ones he could to safety, away from the fires, towards the exit. Corrosive, toxic smoke swirled around him. It was so hot, the light and infrared so intense, that his optics offlined, and he switched to sonar. He grabbed an armful of bodies and hauled them to safety, stumbling through the blown-open airlock and shoving them down the mountain of rubble outside.

Over and over, each trip taking seconds, he splashed through melting metal and burning energon, grabbing the sparklings, pulling them to safety. His legs stopped reporting any sensory information whatsoever. He dared not look at the damage, and his strides grew unsteady and stumbling as parts warped and melted.

The building was enormous, and the little ones farther from the door would be fine, but the ones within close radius of the fires were _dying ... _a spark chamber burst with a flare of EM that washed across his sensors and made him wail. They were _dying_.

Fang had said the sparklings must live, had said the Order of Primes had decreed it, and he was failing. They were dying all around him.

A tower of berths toppled over, supports melted through by the heat. Dozens of small sparklings tumbled to the ground, splashing into molten metal. He screamed, grabbing them up, never mind the damage to his hands, and stumbled back to the door. He threw them rudely out into the open, knowing the rough treatment was better than the heat, better than being melted alive before they ever saw the world for the first time, then staggered back through the puddles of molten metal.

Thundercracker suddenly rose up, keening in agony.

_TC. He'd promised Skywarp he would see to TC. But the sparklings! The sparklings! _The dilemma threatened to shut his processor down, but he didn't have the luxury of the time needed for indecision.

Another figure appeared in the doorway. He spun as his sonar warned him he had company. A large, blocky mech commed, _:What the pit's going on here?:_

_:Sparklings!:_

_:Decepticons!: _The mech stated the obvious.  
_  
:No glitch!: _He grabbed TC's arm, yanked him forward, and shoved him towards the door and the other mech. It was an Autobot, probably, and would be more likely to help than to shoot. _:Get him out of here!:_

Something burst in his internals with a sharp flare of pain. Liquid ran cold down his struts, then ignited with a _whoosh_. He tried to ignore it, but his processor suddenly started throwing up terminal errors. Shutdown was imminent. He lost his sonar as the sensors melted through. His stumbled, and his hand connected with a mech's leg high on a berth. He grabbed the foot, lunged for the door while dragging the surprisingly light sparkling behind him, made it most of the way, and then lost his footing. He splashed into a puddle of the molten metal on the floor, screamed as it hit as-yet unburned parts, and then a hand grabbed him by a piece of heat-distorted armor and started pulling him to safety.

He lost his grip on the sparkling as his arm ceased to function. _:Not me! Get the sparkling!: _He yelled at his would-be savior.

_:You just had a leg! It's just a leg! There's no body attached!: _The other mech shouted at him, and pulled him out through the doorway.

His only warning that he was about to offline was a sudden flare of noise through his audio sensors. Static crackled. Then, nothing.

* * *

The Ark had been vibrating with energy all day as an endless stream of humans had trooped through the halls on tours. Now, things were peaceful, and Ratchet was fervently glad for that. He sat on a stool, tinkering with Prowl's protoform. It was in excellent running order, but it could be _better_. He contemplated swapping out a few sensors that probably had many years of life left in them, but weren't completely new. Prowl deserved the best. Prowl deserved to wake up in a body that was as new as any other sparkling's.

"He needs a new designation," Optimus said, quietly, from the med bay doorway. Ratchet had known he was standing there, and had been quietly ignoring him in hopes that Prime woudl take a hint and go away.

Ratchet ran a test of a motor pathway, verifying the wiring was perfect, before answering, "Have you thought of one?"

"Elita suggested Ranger."

"It's as good as any, I suppose." Ratchet clicked a piece of shiny, spotlessly silver armor back into place. "If he doesn't like it, he can chose another name."

"Selecting a new designation makes it feel final," Optimus stepped into the room, and the door swished shut behind him.

"When we do the accounting of the dead, when the Ark comes back with Mirage's troops, Prowl's name belongs among the others." Ratchet's voice was taut with sudden grief. "This isn't Prowl. Ranger ... is as good a name as any, and I'll try to remember he's a sparkling, but it's going to be slagging hard."

Optimus stopped beside the bert, and rested the palm of his hand over Prowl's -- Ranger's -- spark chamber. "I've already instructed Magnus to add his name. And yet he's not dead."

"Humans would term him a reincarnation. It's the same thing." Ratchet spotted a smudge of grease on the mech's unadorned armor, and grabbed a cleaning cloth and a spray bottle of cleanser from a table beside the berth. He wiped away the dark stain, and shook his head. "He's going to be our only sparkling. Wheelie doesn't really count; he's more adult than child. He'll have nobody his age around. Maybe we can encourage some human children to visit -- Annabelle Lennox, maybe."

Later, much later, Ratchet would decide that Primus had a black sense of humor, to chose to that instant. A nanoklick after Ratchet spoke, Teletraan sounded a calm alert over the comms that a seeker had just popped in over the ship, and a klick after that later a tremendous _crack _of displaced air nearly deafened his audio sensors. Where there'd only been empty space before, a Decepticon seeker with smoking armor stood with his back to them. He was radiating heat way into the infrared, and to Ratchet's sensitive olfactory sensors, he stank of thermite.

Both Autobots reacted by powering up their weapons, and Prime shouted for backup over the comms. The seeker spun about, and Ratchet realized he had an armful of battered armor and twisted struts that was probably another mech. The seeker wasn't in good shape himself; he had a hole blown clean through one wing, a deep gouge across his chest armor that exposed his sparking, smoking internals, and when he took a step towards them he staggered. Ratchet automatically ran a scan, medic's programming coming to the forefront, and realized that the seeker's power cells were drained nearly dry even though he had a half-full tank of energon and his power plant was running flat out.

"How far did you jump?" Ratchet demanded, putting his weapons away in favor of a more detailed medical scanner. This probably wasn't an attack. The seeker would have to be pit-fragging crazy to attack them in that condition. He was probably looking for help.

"Mars. Back to Nevada. Then here." The seeker stumbled towards a berth, then stopped when Optimus didn't lower _his _weapon. "Deathwheels said you'd help him. I'm not one to b-beg, but I owe him my life, and the Order of the Primes said he has to live."

Him. Ratchet turned his scanners on the smaller mech in the seeker's arms. Order of the Primes? What? Belatedly, he recognized Fangface, when Fang's head lolled over the seeker's arm. _Oh. Prime business. Great. If the Order of the Primes gets involved, everything _always _goes to hell. They only stick their ancient noses into our business when it's world-ending critical. _

"What happened, a coup?" He glanced back up at the seeker's faceplate, and belatedly recognized Skywarp under a tremendous layer of soot and general battle filth. Energon had mixed with the grime to form long black streaks in the grooves of the seeker's faceplate. Skywarp wasn't exactly the last mech Ratchet would have expected to be playing the hero and talking about holy things, but he was close. He would only have been more surprised had it been Megatron himself. His optic ridges went up, way up.

"Death said it was Nebulans." Skywarp started to sway.

Optimus finally put his guns away and grabbed for the mech in Skywarp's arms. "Skywarp, did they attack your base in Russia?"

"Mars," Skywarp said, "Will you help him? I guess the Order of the Primes said he has to live."

"Of course we'll help. Unlike some other mechs, we actually follow Primus's teachings," Ratchet snapped, "if you want to talk about _religion._"

Optimus transferred the battered predacon to a berth. Ratchet yanked a drawer open and pulled out his most heavy-duty set of armor retractors and simultaneously yelled for the medics, _:All medical personnel to the med bay _now_. Wheeljack, return to the ship immediately!:_

"Of course we will," Optimus said, "Warp, why were you on Mars?"

"Sparklings ..." Warp was still swaying, though Ratchet thought most of that was the fact he was running on empty. A quick scan had revealed primarily superficial damage. The sparking was from damaged sensors, not anything truly serious, though they likely hurt like the pit. "... We got them out. We jumped the whole building to your base in Nevada. I don't know why he wanted them there, but Fang said _there _and not our base. The Nebulans came back. They were killing the _sparklings. _I ... we did it. I didn't think we could move that much mass. It was like I suddenly had all the energy I needed ... I gave it every bit of power I had, and then I found some more ... Fang saved my life. Fang saved my life and he got shot. Why did he do that? I don't understand. And why were they killing the sparklings?"

"Easy." Optimus's voice turned soothing, even as Ratchet determined Fangface was in pit-slagging critical condition, no two ways about it. "Easy, Skywarp. We won't hurt either of you. Tell me about the sparklings."

"Get him out of here." Ratchet said, shortly. He'd deal with _sparklings _later ...

Fang's arm moved, probably just a capacitor misfiring, but it revealed he had a tiny protoform clutched to his chest, sheltered by his armor.

"Sparklings," Skywarp said. He stood rooted to the ground. "Over a million sparklings. Like that one. Some of them are still alive. The Nebulans attacked us. They were killing the sparklings. I've never jumped so much mass so far in my life ... I don't know how I did it. I don't know. I was trying for a hundred foot radius. I got way more than that. Most of the building, I think. I couldn't let them kill the sparklings. Even I'm not that mean." His voice turned plaintive, confused, "Why were they killing the children?"

Ratchet gingerly picked the sparkling up, scanned it, and verified it was unharmed but in deep stasis lock. He thrust the sparkling at Optimus. "Get both of them out of here ... First Aid can work on 'Warp."

Optimus said, "Silverbolt's calling me. He says that a building nearly a mile long and a quarter mile wide, plus a hell of a lot of rubble, just got dumped on the gunnery range. He says there's a mountain of rock and the building's on top of it."

"Told you. We jumped the whole building out ..." With a fizz of static, Skywarp slumped forward. Optimus grabbed for his arm and managed to break his fall, though the seeker massed nearly as much as Optimus did.

Optimus, optic ridges raising high, observed to Ratchet, "I didn't know they could move that much mass. And from Mars?"

Ratchet grunted. "They can't. They must have been pretty desperate to try, and they're lucky they didn't end up going to the Pit in the process. It'll be interesting to see how much damage he did to his internals. The math on the power needed just doesn't _work_, Prime, unless the 'cons have some tech we don't know about."

"How bad's Fang?" Optimus's concern was audible in his voice, even as he crouched

"If he survives the night, it'll be the hand of Primus. Get Skywarp out of here. First Aid and Doc can get him stable." Ratchet shook his head. "I'm going to need Wheeljack for this. Damned prototype ..."

_:Jack, where are you?: _Optimus asked.  
_  
:Five minutes away in traffic. I heard the alert. We under attack, boss?:_

_:Not at the moment. We're going to launch as soon as you arrive. Teletraan, I want you airborne as soon as his wheels hit your deck.: _Optimus grabbed a saw. "Tell me where to cut, Ratchet."

Ratchet pointed at an armor plate. "Start there. We want his armor off. Primus only knows what damage it's hiding."

Like all of the mechs, Optimus had basic medical training. Ratchet had made a point of getting everyone comfortable with field repairs. Without another word to Ratchet, Optimus set to work cutting and prying off mangled armor. He continued to issue instructions, _:Teletraan, get all the humans off our ship except the crew.:_

_:Kat and Emily too? They just arrived to talk to Doc about the trip.:_

_:They can stay, if they want. Give them a choice. Who's off the ship right now?:_

_:Aside from Wheeljack and Mikaela, Bee and Sam went to dinner. They're a half hour away in traffic. Sam's parents and the Lennoxes also went to dinner together, with Sunstreaker and Ironhide driving. The mechs and the Lennoxes are three minutes away and already returning. They left the Witwickys behind. Something about needing to pay a bill and slow service.:_

_:Primus.: _He shook his head, and pinged Bee. When he got a response back, he sent a quick, terse explanation of what had happened. _:Bee, pick the Witwickys up and meet us in Nevada. You have permission to speed whenever it is safe to do so.:_

_:Will do, boss.:  
_

* * *

_:Ratchet, how far away are you?: _Inferno asked Ratchet, a few moments later. _:Got a pretty critical 'con here.:_

_:My sympathies. I've got one of my own.: _Ratchet's voice had that vicious tone of snark that meant he was truly scared about someone. _:How bad?:_

_:Burned to scrap. Thermite fire, and he was fragging _wading _in molten metal, getting a bunch of -- Thundercracker says they're _sparklings _-- out of it. I've never seen anything like it. He melted his feet _off _and didn't stop until he tripped over the stumps. He's covered in congealing metal. Processor core glitched out completely from the heat, it'll need to be repaired or replaced, I don't know which.:_

_:Slag. Which 'con is it?:_

_:Deathwheels.:_

Ratchet blinked his optics at that news. The few glimpses he'd gotten of Deathwheels had not even hinted that he might have heroic tendencies. He looked down at the mech on the table. Fangface was barely hanging on. Optimus, with calm competence that would have surprised anyone who hadn't served at his side for a few tens of thousands of years, had a plasma torch in one hand and was efficiently freeing a piece of armor that had welded itself to a support strut, blocking access to Fang's mangled internals.

"Watch that torch around that energon line," Ratchet cautioned, absently.

"Ratchet," Optimus said, in a rare rebuke, "I was welding around energon lines before you got your medical license."

"Yes, Orion." Ratchet grabbed a large container of solvent. There was so much pure filth -- soot, dirt, leaked fluids -- in Fang's chassis that he couldn't even identify half the damaged parts. "Mind the energon lines anyway."

"Hnnh."

Beneath them, the Ark's engines rumbled to life, and there was a slight quiver of inertia as the ship launched skywards. He sensed Optimus say something to Teletraan, and Teletraan respond. Likely, he'd just ordered Teletraan to hit the afterburners. They'd traveled at a slow, sedate pace to keep human authorities happy earlier. This, by contrast, was an emergency. Teletraan's maximum speed was several times the speed of sound. They'd be there in minutes. _:Teletraan, what's our ETA?:_

_:Twenty minutes, forty-five seconds.:_

_:Inferno, I'll be there in about twenty-five minutes.: _He factored in some time to get the doors open. _:Can you keep him from deactivating for that long?:_

_:Damned if I know. I'll try.  
_  
Optimus got the armor plate free, dropping it onto a pile of similar bits of metal. Ratchet snarled an oath, spotting a field-repair patch on Fangface's memory core. Continuing to swear -- in several languages -- he grabbed a filtered air compressor, hooked it up to one of the valves on the memory core, and turned it on. Then he swabbed a damp rag over the patch. To his relief, there were no air bubbles, and the compressor reported no drop in pressure. The patch was good. Any dirt that had gotten into the memory core might have already caused harm, but there wouldn't be any more working its way in. He would need to recharge the core with an inert gas later, but Fang had bigger worries at the moment. He turned to scrubbing grease off parts that would need welding.

Wheeljack and Wheelie both ran through the door simultaneously. Ratchet said shortly, "Wheeljack, take over from Prime here. Optimus, Wheelie, go hook Skywarp up to an external powerpack, then start getting his armor off ... if he gives you any trouble, put him in stasis lock."

It wasn't, actually, the first time they'd had Skywarp in an Autobot medbay. Ratchet had no illusions about that particular patient. "And Wheelie, be careful around 'Warp."

"I know Skywarp," Wheelie said, sounding sour. "If I had my choice, we'd just use him for parts."

First Aid showed up next, looking half asleep still. Likely, he'd been roused from recharge. They kept opposite shifts, so someone was always awake for emergencies, and Ratchet wouldn't have been surprised if First Aid had been in the middle of a long defrag, given the schedules they'd all been keeping, and this being the first time (ha!) any of them really had a chance to slow down for a minute. It took a mech a bit to reorient if an extended defrag was interrupted in mid cycle.

Ratchet asked him, _:Processor efficiency?:_

_:Sixty-seven percent.:_

_:Go help Wheelie and Optimus. We'll have more injured in a minute. Ping me with a systems check when you're back to optimal efficiency.: _He didn't want First Aid working on a critical patient while he wasn't at optimum efficiency himself.  
_  
:Yes sir.:_

_:Inferno, how's it going?: _He turned his attention back to the problem of Deathwheels.  
_  
:Slagging-not-good.: _Inferno shot some video over the comm of the other mech's injuries. _:His processor core's not booting at all. I can't even get an internal diagnostic out of it. And, by the way, he's got the same model of processor core that Prowl has. Dumb minion my aft, Ratchet.:_

_:Powerplant still operating?:_

_:No, and his slagging batteries are toast. He's down to physical containment. And I don't like what the scans are showing me.:_

They were still twenty minutes out. Ratchet simultaneously stripped out a handful of burnt neural wiring from Fang's internals and ordered Inferno, _:Send me the reports from your scanners.:_

The data was rather bad. Ratchet snapped, _:I'm beginning to hate Nebulan mechs. Fragging _thermite!_:_

_:They slagged sparklings with it, Ratchet.: _  
_  
:I'll just have to slag a few of them. Okay. Inferno, here's what you need to do ...: _

He worked efficiently, calmly, but with an edge of urgency on Fang, even as he directed Inferno to begin emergency repair on Death. By the time they were approaching Las Vegas, he'd stabilized Fangface, much to his relief. Fang was a tough little mech, that was certain. Deathwheels was now the more critical of the two, and as soon as the Ark touched down, Ratchet grabbed a tool kit and ran for the door. He didn't care what faction the mech belonged to. Anyone who would save sparklings while suffering catastrophic damage in the process was going to get Ratchet's respect, and his personal attention. If Ratchet had anything to say about it, Fang's minion was _going _to survive.

_Few more 'cons like that, and we'd have a lot less of a war ... _Ratchet thought, savagely, as he thundered down a hall at full speed.


	60. Chapter 60

Sam was absolutely silent, too pale, and had not said a word since they'd picked his parents up at a Denny's. He sat in the passenger seat, hunched up, picking at the sleeve of his shirt, and not looking at either Bee's humanoid form or the radio where he usually addressed comments to the Camaro.

Both his parents were equally quiet. Bee had not seen Judy spend more than a few moments without making a comment, and he figured her silence was significant. She stared out the rear window, one hand resting on the glass. Ron, arms folded, had his eyes fixed on the back of the driver's seat. His jaw was set. Bee figured Judy's silence was shocked, Ron's was surly, and that Sam was trying very hard to be invisible within the close confines of his cab.

He sighed aloud. "We're approaching a cluster of fast food restaurants. I require food and need to eliminate waste."

"You need to take a piss and grab a bite." Ron's words were sharp. "Bee, I know you can speak perfect American slang when you chose."

"When I chose," he agreed, words spoken with calm ease, despite a very uneasy feeling in his processor. "Using specific word choices to avoid appearing too human is a habit that is sometimes hard to break. I am wary of appearing too human as some people may find it unnerving. I will write some code to remind myself that you would prefer I use normal American slang, if it bothers you."

"Please do remind yourself you're not human," Ron snapped.

"That is not something I have ever forgotten," Bee replied, fingers tightening on his own steering wheel. He forced himself to give no outward sign of any emotional response.

Sam, by contrast, visibly flinched. "Dad ... don't."

"Ron, let him be," Judy whispered.

"Somebody's got to say something," Ron announced, then waited expectantly for somebody else to react to that pronouncement. "Well?"

Bee scanned ahead. The Burger King, McDonalds, and Taco Bell were two miles up the road, at a cross roads. They'd left the city behind quite a long while ago. Cars whizzed by on the busy road, but there wasn't a structure closer than the off ramp.

"Well? Sam, you done sulking?" Ron Witwicky demanded. "I know Bee's perfected the art of giving people the silent treatment a long time ago, but I'd expect an explanation from my own son."

Bee crossed traffic to the right-hand emergency lane with one swift move and hit the brakes, hard enough to jar all three humans in their seats. In a conversational tone of voice he said, "It's quite a long walk to Nevada."

"Ron, be nice." Judy had gone two shades paler.

Sam didn't say a word. He just stared straight ahead.

"Well?" Ron repeated.

"Sam will talk to you when he chooses, Mr. Witwicky." Bee didn't bother to try to hide the anger in his voice now. The few times any other Autobot had provoked him into that precise tone of voice, they'd almost instantly backed down. He had a threshold few dared to cross. Everloving _Ironhide _had heard that note in his voice once, and had instantly apologized after some long-ago argument involving Bee's ability to, ironically, hold his own in a fight. Bee was furious. He was utterly, absolutely, _beyond _furious. He did multiple systems checks, which served only to focus him, and not lessen his rage.

Ron Witwicky leaned forward and growled close to Bee's humanoid ear, "I would appreciate you not interfering with a discussion I was having with my son, _robot_."

Sam reached out, opened the Camaro's door, and simply left car before either human likely registered his movement. Bee, who had been aware of just how fast Sam's heart was racing, was unsurprised, and let him go. He opened the driver's side door as soon as there was a break in traffic, and pursued him on foot with his humanoid half. Ron Witwicky tried to push the seat forward so he could climb out too, and Bee calmly refused to let him, and shut both doors. He was rather grateful for his ability to literally be in two places at once. He had, quite simply, had enough.

"Let me out," Ron demanded.

"If you'd like to walk home, you can do so after you hear me out." Bee kept his voice calm and measured as he spoke through the radio, despite his fury. This was going to be a battle, and losing control of his logic circuits due to blind rage would not help him win. Sam had marched fifty feet up the road, and was now sitting on a guard rail. Bee sat down next to him. Neither of them said a thing; Bee figured that Sam would start crying if Bee tried to talk to him now, and his pride would be damaged if that happened. So he didn't push. Sam would talk to him when he was ready, which might not be this evening.

On the other hand, he wasn't very worried about _Ron's _dignity.

"Let me out, you god-damned over-sized erector set!"

Bee took a second to google the term 'erector set' then snorted an honest laugh. "Mr. Witwicky, is that honestly the best insult you can come up with?"

"I swear I'll tell Optimus you, you, you _bullied _me." Ron was turning an interesting shade of purple. Bee scanned his blood pressure, and was mildly concerned about it, and about his heart rate.

And, actually, Optimus's reaction was a valid concern, due to a few standing orders from his superior. Bee hesitated, then called Optimus on his cell phone -- it was too far for his comm, which worked line of sight only. _:Prime, how's the situation in Nevada?:_

:Under control. All injured mechs have been stabilized, and there is no sign that the Nebulans intend to attack the base at this time. We are actively scanning for approaching mechanoid entities. Is there a problem, Bumblebee?:

:A personal one. I've stayed out of the issues between Sam and his parents until now, but Ron Witwicky just threw the ball into my court. Do you have any objection to me letting him know he's out of line?:

:What does Sam think?: Optimus's response was wary.  
_  
:I have no idea. He's so upset about his father's behavior that he's not talking to me, and I'm not going to push. This just became my fight, however. Mr. Witwicky insulted me personally. You did see the video on TMZ?__ I'm assuming he has, because he just told me I needed to remember I'm not human. As if I would ever forget. Or _want _to be human.:_

:I'm rapidly growing tired of the poor judgment of the human news media, Bee. That video was an invasion of your privacy and Sam's, plain and simple.: Optimus's tone changed to real irritation, not directed at Bee. _:And yes, I believe that you would be in the right to react as you feel fit to Mr. Witwicky. Proceed. Let me know if you need anything.:_

:Thanks, boss. He's already said he's going to call you, by the way.: Bee shot Optimus a file of the conversation so far, and was rewarded with a snort of disapproval. Not for the first time, he wondered what, precisely, Sam had said to Optimus the morning before. Optimus asking Ratchet to talk to all three of them had been oddly concerned, and definitely indicative that Optimus was worried. Optimus had also stated he would be taling to them personally. That worry of Prime's had some justification. Bee was worried too, about both his human friends.

Well, Optimus had just given him permission to, as the humans said, take his gloves off. Bee had bitten back any number of retorts to Ron Witwicky in the past, due to orders that included, essentially, "Be diplomatic towards _all _humans." He considered the problem now, with care, cool tactical analysis replacing his anger. Ron might fight to lash out, to score points, to cause pain to those he was angry with. Bee, quite simply, fought arguments to _win._ He didn't want to piss Ron off so badly that he reacted in blind rage, saying and doing things he ordinarily wanted. He didn't want to make Sam have to chose between the two of them, or put Sam's mother in an awkward spot. Still, the man needed to back off, start treating Sam -- and, by extension, Bee -- with respect, and generally get his head out of his aft. _This can't be any harder than convincing Mirage and the terrible twins to play nice together, _Bee thought, with some sour irritation at the situation, and the man who seemed to be at the core of all the trouble.

"Well? Are you going to let me out?"

Bee said quietly, "Mr. Witwicky, we need to talk."

"Well, I don't want to. You're supposed to do what we say. You're Sam's guardian!"

"My standing orders including seeing to Sam's welfare, and yours. That does not include following _your _orders." Bee wasn't about to open the door, or even let Ron push the seat forward.

"That's it. I'm calling Optimus. This is ridiculous."

While Ron dialed Prime, Bee said, "Mrs. Witwicky? Would you like out? This is strictly between your husband and me." Ron hadn't tried to unclick his seat belt yet. If he did, he was going to discover Bee had complete control over the buckle.

"Oh, no. I'm fine." Judy had a strange gleam in her eyes. Bee decided it was very close to amusement, and made a note of that. She and Ron had a close relationship, but certainly didn't function in lockstep. _She _certainly heard the note of warning in Bee's voice. _She may relish being the fly on the wall to this. I've gotten the distinct feeling they do not agree on many things centering around Sam._

"Optimus. Your damn _scout _won't let me out of the car, and he's pulled over to the side of the road, and he's being a jerk. Insubordinate. Can you do something about him?" Ron spoke into the phone with satisfaction in his words, clearly confident that Optimus would side with him.

With his keen hearing, Bee could hear Optimus's response, and it made him practically quiver with a suppressed laugh. "I am already aware of the difficulties you are having with Bee, Mr. Witwicky. For reference, the closest analogy to 'erector set' I can think of in our language translates to 'clockwork mechanism' and this is a playful insult at best, as it is so ludicrous. If you'd like to insult him more thoroughly, I would suggest calling him a glitch, or questioning his fighting prowess, his speed, or his processor capabilities. You would insult him far more if you called him a 'glorified Commodore 64' or accused him of owning 'overgrown nerf guns' or suggest a go-kart would be a more suitable alt mode."

"Optimus, damnit, he's bullying me around! He won't let me out of the car!"

Prime said calmly, "I am very busy, Mr. Witwicky. At the moment, I am assisting Ratchet with emergency repairs to some gravely injured mechs. If you have nothing important to tell me, I am going to conclude this call."

Ron sputtered. Prime, apparently taking that as confirmation that there was nothing important that Ron had to say, stated calmly, "You may certainly call back and leave a message detailing your complaints, if you chose. I will speak to you later, Mr. Witwicky."

After he snapped his phone shut in irritation, Ron said sourly, "We might as well get going. I can see I'm not going to win this argument. You've got too many advantages over me."

Bee said, in the calmest, steadiest tone he could muster, "Mr. Witwicky, I would like to know why, precisely, you are upset about the idea of your son entering a relationship with me."

Mr. Witwicky growled, "So you admit it."

"Yes, I admit we have a relationship that is a bit more than 'only friends'. Your son is very important to me. Why do you object?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He growled, sullenly.

"I am, as you note, an alien. Please explain your objection." Bee's anger faded, replaced by both amusement of the blackest kind, and a certain amount of honest curiosity. It _didn't _make sense to him, not really.

"Where to even start, Bee?" Ron flung himself back in the seat, and covered his face with both hands. "Do you know what people are going to _say_?"

Bumblebee snorted. "I read the comment section of that blog post."

"And don't you care?" Ron seemed to think this was a valid point. "They're going to say horrible things about Sam. It's embarrassing."

Bee sighed. "I am worried from a public-relations standpoint, yes. From a personal standpoint, why should it matter what people we do not even know think?"

"Our friends are going to be horrified. It's perverted!" Ron flung his hands in air.

Bee growled, "Your friends. Not Sam's. Why should Sam's behavior reflect on you? He is an adult, fully capable of making his own choices. If your friends think it does, then they are not the friends you believe them to be."

"That's another thing. He's eighteen!" Ron slammed the palm of his hand into the back of Bee's driver-side seat. "He's a kid! He's my little boy, and I don't want you hurting him!"

"You love him," Bee noted. "But Mr. Witwicky, by both our standards and yours, Sam is an _adult_. His behavior is that of a responsible adult, and he has reached the age of legal majority. Your little boy, as you call him, has impressed me over and over again with the choices he makes. Generally speaking, when he makes a bad choice -- such as leaving Mikaela and I to go to college, despite considerable evidence that the Decepticons might still be after him -- it is because he is trying to please _you_. He is also often torn between us, between actions and behaviors he knows you would like to see, and between what his heart tells him is right. I would like to see that tension eased, as I do not think it is doing him any good."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ron said, mulishly. "He's _eighteen. _You're just a tad bit older. To you, he is a child."

"If you would like to solely base his maturity level by comparing his age to mine, I would note that there is not a huge difference between 18 years and 53 years, when I am tens of thousands of earth years of age." Bee hissed static. Ron was fifty-three years old. Sometimes, Bee thought he was more of a child than Sam. "I would also note that your father married your mother when they were sixteen and fifteen, respectively, and he was leading a mission to the North Pole when he was one year older than Sam. _They _were not considered children. _I _do not consider your son a child, and I assure you, if I believed he was too young to make rational choices about his own attraction to me, I would not allow this relationship to continue."

Ron had gone deadly quiet. He said nothing, but he was glaring daggers at Bee's radio, over the back of the seat. Bee figured he was going to explode in a moment. Bee added, softly, "In the face of the fact that I'm a giant alien robot, asexual, with one mind split between two bodies, and I'm a survivor of a war that has nearly annihilated my entire species, I figure the age difference is inconsequential in comparison."

Judy giggled, a tiny giggle. Yeah, she was actually enjoying this. He wondered if Sam realized just how solidly his mother supported him.

"And again, I ask you, what is your object to my interest in your son. More importantly, what is your objection to your son's interest in me ..."

Bee's hinting that Sam might return Bee's interest provoked the response he had been expecting from Ron, who snarled, "Sam's _not _a pervert!"

"Ron ..." Judy objected.

"By the standards of my people ..."

"_Fuck_ your people! He's human! This is perverted! It's wrong!" Ron slammed his hand down on the back of the seat again. "It's _embarrassing! _My son's _not _gay!"

"I'm not male, but that's aside from the fact that you cannot change your son's orientation by denying the truth." Bee spat static again. "Primus. You should be aware that Sam is _terrified _that you will abandon him, that you will coldly and cruelly cast him out, should you become aware of his ..."

"He's not some fucking deviant!" Veins were popping out on Ron's face. "You've confused him!"

Bee growled, "No, _you _have confused him by forcing him to chose between the truth about himself, and your affection. Sam can't change who he is. Every bit of credible research I've seen indicates that sexual orientation in humans is a hardcode ..."

"And he's fucking hardcoded straight! I've had enough of this, enough, let me out of this car!"

Bee noted, "Your son sees me as male ..."

"Damn straight he does!"

"... and he approached me, not the other way around."

"That's a lie!"

Bee ground out, frustrated, "You've seen the video. I can provide a much clearer copy, if you would like to verify what was said between us. It's no lie."

"It's a lie! Damnit, I'm going to register a complaint with, with, with the state department or something!" Ron snarled, "This is kidnapping! You won't let me out!"

Bee said as calmly as he could, "I would not 'out' Sam, Mr. Witwicky, but I suspect you've known the truth about him for a long time, and you have certainly seen the video. Otherwise, you would not be ..."

"... My son is not gay!"

"Ron ..." Judy spoke up, with an expression of dismay on her face.

Ron talked right over the top of her, cutting her off. "If he was gay, he'd have said something to me by now! Jesus! It's not like I'd disown him! My son's not gay, and if he was, I'd be okay with it, I swear. He's not gay! He's not!"

_There_. There was the chink in the man's argument that Bee had been looking for. Bee said firmly, "Sam is so terrified that you'll leave him, abandon him, if he tells you the truth, that he has nightmares about it. You have made your son believe, to the very core of his being, that your love is conditional on his behavior. If he admits to being attracted to men ...."

"He's not!"

"... he is terrified you will stop loving him."

"Well, that's stupid." Ron sounded uncomfortable. "He's my son. He'd _still _be my son. Shit, that's stupid of him to think. But he's not gay!"

Judy said, quietly, "Bee, I know why Sam's so scared of ..."

"Don't tell him about that. Shit." Ron suddenly looked scared, rather than defiant.

"You shut up, Ron Witwicky!" Judy's sudden flare of anger was impressively close to the spark-stopping fury Bee had felt earlier. He literally cringed on his shocks in reaction to the whip-crack of her voice. "He's right, by _God _he's right about the way you've treated Sam, and I swear, sometimes I think I never should have come back."

"Judy!" Ron protested, desperately.

"Bee, you're right. My husband's an idiot."

"I didn't actually say he was ..." Bee tried to protest. He didn't want to stoop to any actual insults.

"Judy! Damnit, you don't need to join in ..." Ron had both fists balled, and his jaw muscles bunched out when he stopped talking.

"What I was trying to say ..." Judy began again.

"Damnit!" he interrupted.

"... was that ..."

"Will you shut UP!" Judy turned to him, and snarled in his face.

Bee was impressed. Ron actually silenced, recoiled away from her, and let her speak.

"_Thank _you. Bee, this should have been funny. When Sam was four years old, he saw a couple muppets kissing on a children's show. He asked me why people kiss, and I told him that people kissed to show they loved each other. I didn't think much about it, and I wasn't very specific about what _kind _of love. So the next thing I know, I was baking cookies and I turn around and he's kissing Miles in the middle of the kitchen. I've known Miles's mom since we were on the cheer squad in high school. He and Miles were best buddies when they were little."

Ron groaned and covered his face.

"I thought it was funny. So did she. We were laughing pretty hard. Little kids do stuff like that, y'know? It doesn't mean anything. Well, my idiot husband came to see what all the giggles were about, and Sam had a new audience, and he cheerfully demonstrated kissing Miles to his father before I could stop him. Ron then he spanked the crap out of Sam for it, with a leather belt, in front of Miles's mother. Then he banned Miles from the house. He told Sam he'd never be allowed to see Miles again, and he _beat _Sam."

Bee growled in low, angry horror, engine doubling in RPMs as well as the metallic snarl he spat through the speakers. Ron went from purple to pale in reaction to that noise, but Judy plugged along sturdily, "I left, Bee. I picked up and _left_. I told Ron I was going to divorce him then and there, and I meant it. We'd been on a downhill slide for a long while, and that was the final straw. I wasn't happy with mean things he said to me, but I don't let _anyone _hurt my son, not even his own father. And I figured that was that. I'd promised myself long before I ever met Ron that I'd never stay with an abuser."

"Tell him the rest," Ron said, almost pleadingly. His eyes were closed now. He sounded shaken.

Judy nodded. "Sam _loved _Ron, and Ron loves his son, Bee. Don't ever doubt that. Ron can be a complete and total idiot, but he'd die for his son. I planned on moving in with my mom, but _he _moved out into a hotel that night, and told us to come home. And he promised to keep helping with expenses. I still said I was going to divorce him, and that he was bloody well going to help with expenses because that was called child support, but ... well, there was Sam."

She sighed, and brushed her hair back from her eyes. "There was Sam. From Sam's standpoint, he'd done something bad, and made his father angry, then his father moved out, and _left_. He thought it was his fault. He thought he'd done something so awful that his father didn't want him any more, and that his father had _left_."

Ron Witwicky rubbed a finger across the back of the seat, where he'd earlier punched the leather. He said quietly, finally, "It wasn't his fault. I ... got visitation, during the divorce proceedings. Four hours, once a week. And he would cry, Bee. Every time I saw him, he'd cry, and he'd beg for me to come home, and he'd apologize. He was always saying he was sorry for what he did. It killed me, Bee. It didn't matter what I said, or what Judy said. He was convinced it was all his fault."

Bee sighed, but didn't interrupt.

"Bumblebee, most women in my position would have been right to leave." Judy traced a finger across the glass of the rear window. "Sometimes, I think maybe I should have, whenever I hear him harassing Sam. But ... Sam loved his father, and he thought everything was his fault. And to tell the truth, Ron impressed me and made me fall in love with him all over again while we were apart. He did everything he could to make it right, Bee. He went above and beyond what anyone would expect. He went to counseling, by himself, then with me and Sam. He paid for private counseling for Sam, too. He covered our expenses, just like he had before, so I could stay home with Sam even while he lived in rat hole of a hotel. He paid for it all. He worked two jobs, sold some season tickets he had, sold an antique car, sold his stereo equipment, anything, to raise money to keep us in good shape."

She sighed. "He stopped smoking, he stopped drinking. He stopped going to the track. He stopped going to bars at night with his buddies. He was drunk when he hit Sam, you know. And it was the little things -- I'd come home and the grass would be mown, and none of the neighbors would admit to doing it. He didn't admit for years it was him doing it, because he couldn't stand the thought of us living in a house with an unkempt lawn. On Christmas, somebody left a whole bunch of presents for Sam on the porch in the middle of the night, and when I asked if he was trying to impress me, he said he just wanted Sam to have a good Christmas. Anyway ... he's not a perfect man, Bee, but who is? I offered to reconcile the day before our court date. I said he could come home, and we'd start over. I also told him if he ever laid a finger on Sam again, I'd leave forever. I meant it. Still mean it."

The silence in the car was profound, broken only by a ticking of cooling metal in Bee's engine compartment. She continued, after a moment, "Ron never hit him again. Or me. He stayed sober, too. He really stepped up to the plate and became a father, and he wasn't much of one before. Pretty much, I gave him an ultimatum, Bee, and he met it honestly. He's not a perfect man -- all three of us have heard him say incredibly unkind things -- but he does love Sam very much, and he does try, as best he can, to be a good dad. It's not like he ever had a good role model; Archibald Witwicky was loony tunes from before Ron was born. He's sort've had to fumble his way along. "

After taking a breath, and glancing between Bee's radio and Ron, she continued, "And, no, he doesn't want Sam to be gay, not because he'd disown him, not because he thinks it's an unforgivable sin, but because he doesn't want Sam hurt. He's protective of Sam, sometimes far too much. You have to realize, it's a little better now, but when we were born, it was a _crime _to have a same-sex lover, and being gay was something incredibly scandalous. It was the kiss of death for a social life or a career, and it could easily mean literal death. Then when Sam was born, AIDs had just been discovered ... and he doesn't really _like_ gay people, either, but it's how he was raised. He doesn't want them dead, or anything, it's just what _he _was taught."

She trailed off, hunching her shoulders. "I didn't much want Sam to be gay either, but sometimes I wondered. He'd see a handsome actor on TV and he'd get this funny look in his eyes, and he just _tried _too hard to be seen as straight. And he'd react with hysterics if anyone teased him about his potential orientation. You know what Sam's like. He got a _lot _of teasing about it."

"Sam remembers," Bee speculated.

"I don't know. He was four years old. I haven't asked. However, now that he's older, Sam's so phobic about being seen as gay or effeminate it's not funny, and he has nightmares about his father abandoning him whenever his father's mad at him. From his perspective, when he was little, his father did leave because of something Sam did." Judy sighed. "I think he thought it was his fault, and I couldn't ever convince him different when he was little."

Bee heaved a huge sigh, letting air rattle through his vents.

"Ron," Judy said, shaking her head now, "Here's what I see. I hear your objections to Bee ..."

"Judy, damnit ..."

"Let me talk. Then you can have your say."

"Hnnh." But he didn't argue. He looked a bit mulishly still, jaw set, but not angry.

"... I hear your objections to Bee, but look at the other side. We've known Bee in two years. In that time, have you ever known Sam to be upset because of anything Bee did, ever? Bumblebee is ferociously loyal to Sam. He spent two years living in our garage, in a space too small for him to even sit upright, because he was protecting Sam, and he never said a word of complaint even when he was alone for days on end because we were all busy. I don't know if you've noticed this, but you almost never see Autobots working alone. They seem to travel in pairs or packs and Ratchet says it's because they've higher social needs than humans."

She shook her head, and then continued, "_I _used to go out there and talk to Bee, because I felt bad he was all alone.. I have no doubt he'd die for him, and he would never, ever do anything to hurt Sam. He's also," Judy ticked off on her fingers, "selfless enough to risk his own life, time after time, to save Sam, and save this world. The other Autobots are quite fond of him, and I've rarely heard any of them say anything negative about him. And if you want to be materialistic, he's also reasonably well off, likely to become a lot more wealthy, and he's a Prime, which means he's important. More important than all of that, though, is that Sam loves him."

Judy shrugged. "It's weird, and it's crazy, and I'll confess I'm not entirely fond of the whole idea, but if the two of them want each other ... that way ... I'm not going to stand in their way. Sam's an adult. If he's happy, fine. That's all I ask. If _you _try to get in their way, Ron, I swear I'll ... I'll ..." she sputtered for a moment, before settling on, "... I'll make your life hell. Don't think I won't."

Ron was silent for a long, long, _long _time. Judy glared at him. Bee let him stew. He was a stubborn and proud man, and Bee didn't want to push him. Finally, though, he said, "Damnit, I _liked _Mikaela."

"Oh," Bee said, relaxing, "we sorta came to an understanding. What you _didn't _give me a chance to tell you is that your son isn't gay, he's bi, based on what he's said, and the rather hormonally obvious reactions he has to women. He hasn't broken up with Mikaela, though, uh, for a bit we thought Mikaela was going to leave."

Judy said, with considerable snark in her voice, "I'll _bet_."

"She's okay with this?" Ron growled.

"She is now, as far as I can tell. We do still have some issues to work out. I swear to both of you, I have no intention of hurting either of them, and every intention of the relationship functioning as a three-way triangle."

"Bumblebee," Judy said, with actual amusement, "Do you_ realize _how this sort of thing will sound to most people? What, are you _trying_ to do, get my son and Mikaela _famous_?"

"Or killed," Ron muttered, with considerably less humor.

"Most humans will disapprove, and we are aware of this. That's why I don't intend to get caught in any public indiscretions with either of them again, Primus forbid! However, among my kind, we have a saying, and that is that love is not finite. Binary pairs are most common, but trios are fairly routine." He sighed, again. "You should also know that I will be leaving in one month's time, on a mission which may last years. Both Mikaela and Sam are aware of this. We have decided we will make the best of our time together while we can." His voice became softer, a plaintive note touching his words. "I love both of them, and have for a long time. I never expected ... I never expected to be able to express that, to them. This wasn't planned, and it was something I tried to avoid. They were happy as a pair. They've both decided they want to include me, though. I know ... I know it's hard for you to accept. I know it feels weird, and strange, and _alien_. But I swear to you, I will do everything in my power, in the time that remains to me here, to make them happy. And I will do everything in my power to return someday, to them."

"You always have made Sam happy. Mikaela, too." Judy folded her arms. She didn't look happy, but she wasn't condemning him out of hand. "I like you, Bee. I just ... he's my little boy. He's my _baby_."

Surprisingly, it was Ron who said, "Not such a baby anymore. Huh. Fine. Tell the kid he can come back."

Bee hesitated for a moment, then took what he assumed was an offered olive branch, and said, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." Ron snapped, "I'm still tempted to take you apart bolt by bolt."

"Yes sir. I'm glad we understand each other."

* * *

Inside the Camaro, the dome light was on. Sam tried not to watch, as his parents -- both of them, God -- argued with Bee. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, that they did appear to be calming down. He folded his arms, a bit chilled by the cool desert air, and said, finally, "So they know?"

Bee was leaning against the guard rail, arms also folded. He stared up at the sky, at the stars. "Yeah. They know. I clarified a few things for them, but I think they both knew for a long time, Sam. Your mom is very perceptive. Your father tries not to be."

Bee's words about his father trying not to be perceptive surprised a short, humorless laugh from Sam. Then he said, "So, do I need to start walking?"

"They'll behave, or they walk." Bee turned to face him. "They're not happy with me. They're not happy with you, either, I'm sure. But they're calmer."

"At least until I'm alone with them," Sam said, glumly, any trace of amusement vanishing.

"So walk away." Bee tentatively reached a hand out towards him, resting it on Sam's arm. "I would have left your father standing by the side of the road had we not been facing a crisis of unknown proportions. I did not appreciate his attitude towards me, and I'd had enough. I got permission from Prime before I told him off, by the way, in case you hear anything about that. I'm sure your father will vent to others, and the word will spread about the things I said to him."

"Permission?" Sam blinked at that. His father had certainly provoked the fight, and deliberately so.

"We're supposed to be nice to humans, even when we would ordinarily assert ourselves." Bee ran a hand over his face. "We don't want to make people frightened of us. If you haven't noticed, we're not shy about telling each other off if we're angry. Culturally, we're warriors, Sam, with all the posturing and the aggression you'd assume that would come with that heritage. Even those of us who were sparked as civilians have a warrior's heritage behind us -- we don't emphasize it to your general public, but we were warriors first, and Primus taught us how to love and how to live in peace with one another, acccording to our religious teachings. But humans ... it's different when we relate to you. What would be a fairly ordinary exchange of insults between two mechs, or between two humans, can be quite frightening to the human if the other party in the argument is fifty times the human's mass."

Sam looked up at him, then shook his head. He could see that, and could see why Optimus might have chosen to be very specific about 'don't fight with the humans' given the temperaments of some of the mechs in question. Something occurred to him, however. "You put up with an awful lot of crap from me that you shouldn't have. Orders too?"

"No, that wasn't the reason." Bee said, with a small smile. "You wouldn't have been scared of me even had I snapped back at you when you deserved it. Pissed, maybe."

Sam sighed and said in a small voice, "I really am sorry about some of the things I said to you."

Bee shrugged. "You were forgiven as soon as you did it. Sam, you're young."

"_Don't _remind me." He winced. He didn't like to be reminded that he was just a teenager, particularly by Bee.

"I'm not being condescending. I'm just pointing out that I have significantly more experience with _life. _My perspective is different." Bee leaned against him suddenly, arm wrapping around Sam's back. Bee was standing on the ground and Sam seated on a waist-height guard rail; Bee's head was at shoulder height to Sam. The Camaro's headlights didn't reach this far into the darkness, still, Sam tensed a bit when Bee leaned his head against Sam's arm. Then Sam forced himself to relax, and Bee continued, "I just didn't want to fight with you, Sam. I didn't think it was worth it."

"Geeze. I wish you'd stood up to me a few times."

"That's just not my nature." Bee shrugged.

Sam snorted. "Says the sixteen foot tall alien war machine from a warrior culture."

The sigh that Bee vented was long, slow, and loud. "I _can _fight, I _will _fight, but I chose my battles."

Sam slowly wrapped his arm around Bee's shoulders. "Thanks, Bee."

"You're welcome. You're not mad at me for jumping in the middle of your fight with your parents?"

"Fuck, no." Sam slid off the guard rail. "I'm glad you had my back."

Bee's teeth flashed white in the darkness, catching the dim glow from his own headlights when he smiled. "C'mon, Sam. I think they'll be bearable if you're ready to go back to the car. Neither one of them is going to disown you, and they know, now. We should get moving again. I'm sure they could use us at the base as soon as possible."

He nodded, and took a deep breath, then headed back. He felt like he might be walking to his own execution, and when he reached for the passenger side door handle, he halfway expected to be met with an explosion from his father. However, Ron simply said, "Sam," in a cool tone of voice.

"You okay, honey?" His mother asked, after shooting his father a glare.

"Fine." Sam sat down, and buckled in.

Bee rested his hands on his steering wheel and pulled out into traffic, then glanced over at Sam. "So, there's a Taco Bell and a Burger King and a Dairy Queen ahead. I haven't tried the food at any of them. Where do you think we should stop for food?"

"None of the above," his mother said, with a laugh that spoke of her relief at the change of subject, "They're _all _gross."

"Too bad there's not a taqueria around ..." Ron said, with a sigh.

"... Taco Bell is not considered a taqueria?" Bee asked, with swiftness that made Sam suspect he was jumping at the change in subject.

"Oh, God, no." Ron said, then he started to wax poetic on the subject of Mexican food. Apparently, all three of them were glad for a new subject. That made Sam a bit surprised; he had honestly expected that his parents would have been too furious to give it a rest, for _days_. Sam leaned back in his seat, listening to the conversation between his father and Bee. His dad was deliberately staying in safe territory. Bee was his usual curious self, asking questions and clearly interested in Ron's opinions on what constituted good Mexican food. They were both being good. He was astounded.

As Bee had noted, his father certainly wasn't happy with the idea. He might _never _be happy with the idea that Sam wasn't the straight shooter Ron wished he was. However, whatever Bee had said to his parents had taken the edge off of Ron's reactions, and had made his mother quiet and thoughtful. Instead of her usual chatter, she was quiet.

Sam sat in quiet, grateful silence, trailing his fingers across the door panel occasionally in an affectionate touch he knew Bee would sense and his parents couldn't see. Maybe things would turn out, if not fantastic, at least okay.

* * *

Fangface woke to a world of pain. He blinked his optics open, then quickly shut them again. He didn't know where he was, and his chronometer warned him that it had been reset. He couldn't be sure how long he had been out. He ran multiple systems check, discovering quite a bit of damage. Stress fractures, damaged joints, leaking internals.

"I know you're awake," Ratchet's cranky voice made Fangface open his eyes again, a bit relieved to be in the Autobot med bay. He was in alt mode, and he was pretty sure he'd been in protoform when he'd lost consciousness. Somebody had run him through a transformation sequence when he'd been out cold, which meant they'd had far more intimate access to his processor core than he liked. He also realized just how compromised he was when it was only _after _that realization that he detected the datapad jacked in to his autonomic functions.

"Ratchet." Fang rolled onto his chest and started to sit up, but Ratchet planted a hand between his shoulder blades and pushed him back down.

"Easy, Fang. Don't get up until we're sure you won't glitch out again." Ratchet's voice was gentle, and when Fangface relaxed as much as the pain would allow, so was Ratchet's hand. Ratchet's palm remained resting on his back. "Your back struts are broken in three different places. I've bolted a temporary bridge in place. You can get up, but don't try anything strenuous. And I made some temporary emergency repairs to your enternals."

"Can't you do something about the pain?"

"Did." Ratchet shook his head at Fang. "I'm not going to dial the errors back any more, they're there for a _reason_."

_Damn sadistic medics_, Fang thought, even though he would have done the same thing had their roles been reversed. He pushed himself upright, taking Ratchet's words to heart. His back was stiff, and the flood of errors made him flinch in reaction, but at least sitting up gave him a better perspective of the med bay. He scanned it, noting he was in a room with three berths. He was closest to the window. The middle berth had a still, silent Autobot lying on it. Silver armor gleamed under the bright med bay lights, and the mech seemed to be completely offline. The farthest berth had several tiny, unconscious mechs lined up on it, almost certainly some of his sparklings. A human he didn't immediately recognize was also sitting on the berth, on a plastic chair, with a sparkling in her lap. She had a dremel, and seemed to be removing slag -- literal slag, melted and congealed metal and silica -- from his armor.

"Hiring the natives, are you?"

"That's Mikaela. She's my apprentice." Ratchet turned around and leaned against the berth next to Fang, folding his arms, back to Fangface. He watched Mikaela for a moment. In a conversational tone, he added, "You nearly died, Fang. Neither side can afford to lose you right now. You're important, and you scared me."

"Then I owe you a second debt." He visually traced a line of cables from his dataport to a monitor. There were more wires running under his armor, probably to his spark chamber, hydraulics, and coolant system. He wasn't getting any internal temperature reports, and his hydraulic pressure sensors all insisted he was flatlined. Since he was sitting up and not sprawled like a ragdoll across the bench, he knew that the latter was a false reading.

"Hnnh. Repay it by keeping your aft out of my med bay. Bad enough I'm always fixing my side. I don't appreciate fixing 'cons, even 'cons I like." Ratchet glanced over his shoulder at Fang. "Deathwheels is in bad shape. He pulled a bunch of sparklings out of the worst of the fires, and melted himself to a ruin in the process. Kept going until he offlined. I brought you out of stasis lock because I wanted to talk to you about him before I go any farther with his repairs."

Oh, _Primus. _"Memory core damage?" Fang guessed, instantly suspecting this would be the 'do we reformat him or do we let him die' talk. He'd never had to make that decision for anyone before. And Death ... Death, oh, it was _Deathwheels. _He couldn't imagine a world without Death in it. He keened, low, optics shuttering, as his joints locked with sudden, horrendous emotional pain that translated to a physical spasm through his whole body. The monitor _meeped _behind him. His life _sucked_. Every time he found a good thing, it was always just plain yanked away from him. The Autobots had been a good thing, and he'd been forced to both leave and betray them. Wheelie had been a good thing, and Starscream had taken him away. And now Deathwheels ...

"Woah!" Ratchet turned around, facing him again. "Calm down, you little idiot. He's not _that _bad."

Fangface blinked his optics open again, in relieved shock. Somewhat surprised he said, "He's okay?"

"No, he's a slagging mess." Ratchet ran a hand over his face. "But his spark's strong, and his memories are intact. Physically, he's a ruin."

"Feh. Don't scare me like that, then." Fangface huffed a sigh. Physical damage could be repaired. "I thought you were going to ask me if we should pull the plug."

"Overreact much?" Ratchet pointed a finger at Fang. "TC said you were partners. I never thought I'd see the day -- what did he do, sit on you?"

Fangface laughed, honestly, relief that Deathwheels wasn't a candidate for termination making him giddy even with the pain he was in. He wasn't sure what he would do if Death died; he really didn't want to think about it. In a few short days, Deathwheels had gone from an important and more-or-less trusted minion to the center of Fang's universe, and he wasn't shy about admitting that to himself. He just wouldn't say it aloud. "Very close to that. He knew what he wanted, that's for sure."

"You're happy?" Ratchet asked, softly, sounding very concerned. "This has to have been recent. You didn't react like he was your partner when we shot him in Russia."

Fang ducked his head in embarrassment, and tried to shrug. Something wasn't working right in his shoulders, and he couldn't quite make the motion. He thought some of his hydraulics might _actually _be offline. Also, it hurt. He froze, then slowly straightened his back. "Less than a week. And yeah, Ratch, I'm happy."

"Well, good for you." Ratchet caught Fang's chin suddenly, with slim fingers that were deceptively strong. He certainly had a medic's hands, nimble and sensitive, yet powerful. "Listen to me, you little glitch. If you ever need _anything _you can come to me. Do you understand?"

Fang hissed at both the insult and the invasion of his space. Ratchet retreated. Fang flicked his tail around his forepaws, summoned his dignity, and said, "I figured I could, after last time I was here. It's why Deathwheels knew to bring me to you, too. What I know, he knows. Ratch, can tell me what happened after I passed out? I know the seekers jumped us back from Mars, but I don't remember anything past that point. And how are my seekers doing?"

"Hnnh. The seekers are camped out in a conference room with a guard. Optimus sent TC off to the Nemesis to tell them you'd been delayed, with no specifics given as to why. He jumped back here after deliverig the message, surprisingly, I think, because he's worried about you as much as his partner." Ratchet stepped back closer to Fang, reached up, and disconnected the cables tying Fangface to equipment. Then he lowered the table with a comm'd command at it. "Hop off that berth for a second. You should see something."

Fang slid cautiously off the table. Everything hurt when he moved, but not so bad that he couldn't bear it. Mostly, the errors that remained seemed to be functioning as reminders not to stress his back or bear too much weight suddenly on his forelegs. Something was really wrong in one of his shoulders. Ratchet led him to the window, and then pointed out at a still-smoldering ruin of a building, not a hundred yards away, lying atop a very large pile of rock and rubble. Fangface recognized the converted stellar troop-transport barge from Mars.

His chronometer had failed. He wondered how long he'd been out. "Did you go back to Mars with the Ark and move it? I'm surprised you could get it into orbit intact."

"You've only been offline ten hours."

"Then how ..."

"Thundercracker and Skywarp moved the whole thing." Ratchet stared up at the sky, lips pressed together in clear thought.

He scowled at Ratchet. Then he did the math, and confirmed his immediate assumption, which was that this was a literal impossibility. They didn't have the power to move that much volume, or even a hundredth of that much volume. Also, judging by the shape of the pile of rubble, they'd thrown an elliptical field rather than a spherical one. That would have taken even _more _power to do.

"You're glitched if you expect me to believe that."

"Thundercracker said you claimed the Order of the Primes were all around you, and that they told you that you must save the sparklings." Ratchet rested a hand lightly against the glass

_Memory _came flooding back, of lying on the ground and seeing them standing above him, stately and impossibly tall. He had felt so small, and so very awed by their orders to _save the sparklings_. He had not even thought about that until Ratchet reminded him. It felt both surreal and yet very real. He knew it had happened. He knew they had been there.

The medic didn't move. He simply said, "Miracles. They do happen, and that was one, or I'm a drone. _Primus_, there are so many sparklings in that building that I could cry just seeing them all. I haven't seen a single sparkling in tens of thousands of years, and then two seekers, a Pit-spawned shock trooper and the Decepticon Prime drop hundreds of thousands of children on our doorstep."

Behind them, Mikaela had stopped grinding slag off the sparkling's armor. The room was completely silent for a long moment.

"The Ark won't be able to provide enough energon for all of them." Ratchet shook his head in quiet disbelief. "We've got some stored here on the base, right now, enough to keep them all fueled until we can get more. Fangface, we're going to need three ships, running relays from Nieryl Six, to keep all those sparklings alive until we can get refineries working here on Earth. That's at least six months out."

"Deathwheels said the same thing," Fangface shivered, armor plates rippling up and down his back. "The only way to make this work is if both factions work together, isn't it?'

"Yes." Ratchet's hand lowered from the window to rest on Fang's back. "Optimus said we'll recall the Navigator to help, but she's the only other ship besides the Ark big enough to make a difference for us. He's already sent the subspace transmission. We're going to need the Nemesis too, and maybe a fourth. Our calculations are that three ships could fill the need, but that leaves us no cushion if one of the ships needs to be taken down for repairs. Also, we're going to need more fighters. We've forty Autobots, not all of which are warriors, and TC said you were attacked by at least eighty Nebulans."

"I'm in." Fangface didn't hesitate. He would give it his everything and his all to make this work. One did not argue with the demands of one's God, and he couldn't believe they had asked _him _to see to the survival of the sparklings. However, he wasn't sure that his effort would be enough, and he cautioned, "But the problem is, I may lose control of some of the 'con army. I think I might be able to keep the Nemesis, and I have some loyal supporters among the officers on a few other ships, but the rank and file mechs are _not _going to be happy."

It was so quiet in the med bay that he could hear the distant thrum of generators, and Mikaela's breathing.

Fangface bowed his head, slowly. "Ratch, I wish I had more time. I don't know how many will follow me. I ... need to return, to talk to them. I need to be repaired, too. Will you ...?"

Emergency repairs were one thing, but he could tell how much work he'd need. The Autobots had absolutely no obligation to help him, Primusly touched or not.

Ratchet's hand was a gentle, warm weight on Fang's back. "Of course. You'll note some of the armor across your chest is now duryllium. I'm using the alloy reclaimed from those plates to have new struts machined for your back, and a new joint for your hip. You're scheduled for surgery tonight."

"Thank you," he sighed. "Ratchet, about Deathwheels. What were you going to tell me?"

"We have three choices for him. Come, you can see him in the next room."

Ratchet led the way through an adjoining doorway. It was clear that the 'bots had already worked on him extensively, too. He'd been stripped down to a naked looking framework of struts and internals, and only critical internals at that. There was, notably, no processor core in the room. His memory core had been pulled and was sitting on a gurney beside the berth. The shiny metal of his spark chamber had heat marks rippling across it, the chamber itself damaged by the intense heat of a thermite fire. He scanned it, noted that the marks were superficialand that the spark chamber was hooked up to an external containment generator, and then took in the rest of the damage.

Death's legs ended in melted, twisted stumps. Both hands were twisted and distorted. He had metal melted and congealed in his joints, and one knee was locked into a thirty degree angle. His sensors were fragged, optics cracked, antennas melted. Most of his internals had been pulled, but it was clear the very structure of his body was compromised. A scan of the form revealed zero active nanytes, too. They'd been toasted by the heat.

"We don't have a protoform shell anywhere near his size," Ratchet said, softly. "We have three options. Since he's your partner, you get to make the call on what to do here. That protoform of his is your design anyway, isn't it?"

"Yeah, mine." Fang rested a hand on the spark chamber. It was warm to the touch, and vibrating ever so slightly. "I found him near death, and with his spark chamber compromised. He was a little guy. Same size as Wheelie is now. I figured he'd be pretty traumatized by what Soundwave tried to do to him, so I rebuilt him to be blasted big. I thought he'd feel safer if he was bigger. I was right, and he says he likes being big."

"Hnnh." Ratchet leaned against the wall. "You should have been a medic, Fang, or an engineer. Not a warrior."

He desperately wanted to lean into Death's arms, to feel Death's hand on his shoulder, or see his partner smile. Instead, Deathwheels was a still, motionless, broken. Only the steady harmonics of the spark chamber under his hand, and the readouts on the monitor confirmed Death was still alive. "I guess Primus has other plans for me than being a medic."

"Or Primus put a spark-gifted medic into a Decepticon warrior's body because he knew that your talents would be needed someday. The Primes of the Past do not speak to ordinary mechs, Fangface. They've certainly never deigned to talk to me." Ratchet straightened up. "We can send him home as he is, and you can repair him on the Nemesis. We can transplant him into a new protofom. We'll have _no _shortage of empty protoform shells and replacement parts for the forseeable future. Or Wheeljack can repair his current form on board the Ark during the trip to Nieryl Six."

Fangface took a moment to think about the options Ratchet was presenting. Putting Deathwheels into a new body was the easiest solution, but not necessarily the best choice for Deathwheels. Fang knew he would be _most _upset if he woke up in a new protoform. He was extremely attached to the body he had. However he wasn't Deathwheels. He mused, finally, "He likes being big, but I don't think he's that attached to that specific form. He'd probably rather be awake as soon as possible." Fangface ran a hand down one bared strut.

Ratchet folded his arms. "His processor core has some fritzed circuits, but it's repairable. I've got it in a nanyte bath right now."

"Good." Fangface blew out a sharp breath. "When you get ready to do the transplant, I'd like to help. It's not that I don't trust you, Ratchet, it's that I don't trust _anyone _and it's Deathwheels. He's my ... he's my everything."

"Hnnh. If things go south, will you blame yourself?"

"Oh, definitely." Fangface grinned, then sobered just as quickly. "But I'll deal. Please, Ratchet."

Ratchet rubbed his forehead with two fingers. "Okay. We'll fix you first, then you can work with me on Death."

"Thank you, Ratchet." Fangface eyed the berth. With his armor gone, Deathwheels took up much less space. He jumped up onto the berth, wincing as his abused body gave him a rush of errors in response to the sudden movement. He laid gingerly down, resting his head on his paws, hip and shoulder in contact with Death's mangled body. "If you don't mind, I'll stay here with him until you need to put me under for my repairs."

He didn't trust them. Ratchet might like him, but there was a whole army of mechs at the base -- plus a few squishies -- who had reason to hate decepticons.

The medic's expression was inscrutable. He simply said, "I'll have First Aid hook you up to a monitor in here. You shouldn't recharge without external surveillance on your autonomics until I can fix some of the damage to your internals."

He snorted. "As if I'd be comfortable enough to power down on a ship full of Autobots."

Ratchet shook his head, then stepped closer to Fang, and crouched so they were at eye level. "Do you remember what I told you, the other day?"

"What was that?"

"I told you that you could make me believe in you again." Ratchet shook his head, in evident disbelief. "I didn't expect you to manage to do so this quickly."

"You believe in me?" That pleased Fangface, more than he ever would have admitted to anyone, and he lifted his head up in surprise. He couldn't take his eyes off Ratchet's blue optics. They were bright, shining, studying him keenly. Ratchet had his head tilted a little to one side, apparently thinking. Fang grinned a low, slow expression, "Really? I could use a good medic ..."

That prompted a laugh, but an honest one. "In your dreams, Fang."

Had he been in good shape, he would have stretched lazily. He was forced to remain still, but he favored Ratchet with a pout, "But they're such _good _dreams."

Ratchet chuckled. "I'll bet. You've desired me since you met me."

"Have _not_." He was startled out of his teasing by the outrageous claim. "Always thought it was the other way around, you fragger."

Ratchet reached a hand out, and Fangface thought he was going to brush a hand over his cheek until Ratchet flicked him in an audio receptor with a finger. "Arrogance is a bad habit, Fang."

He snapped at the medic's fingers, missing by a mile, and said, "You'd know about arrogance." The two shared a grin. Then Ratchet, far more seriously, said, "Decepticon Prime. It's what you are. And it's what we needed, both sides of this blasted war. Recharge without fear, Fang. Nobody will hurt you on my watch."

After a long, long moment, he put his head back down and closed his eyes. He heard Ratchet leave the room, heavy footsteps echoing faintly on the metal deck plating. The steady, subtle harmonics from Death's spark chamber made the berth vibrate every so slightly, which Fang found reassuring. He knew his partner was alive, and his spark strong. He let recharge claim him with surprising swiftness.

His last thought before he powered down was, _Huh. Decepticon Prime. I can live with that name. _


	61. Chapter 61

Author's Notes:

I'm just not happy with this chapter, but here it is. It's a transitional chapter, moving forward several story arcs, but I think it's got too much chatter and not enough action.

Next chapter -- Sparklings! And _lots _more action.

Oh, and "Compass", Fang's creator, is a canon Autobot who told Megatron to go shove it up his cannon and switched sides over the way the sparklings were being treated. He'll show up eventually. Kat's going to love him. LOL.

* * *

The door to Optimus's quarters slid open as Ratchet and Ironhide approached. Optimus was at the window, alone; he had summoned both of them a few minutes earlier. Optimus looked tired, Ratchet noted, watching his stance. He walked up to join Optimus, aware of Ironhide following behind him. Ratchet stopped two steps behind Optimus, intending to scan him for issues, and Ironhide continued past to join their leader at the window.

The scan came up clean, though Optimus's power cells were a bit low, and his chassis warm and engine hot. His cooling fans were hard at work. He had been exerting himself very recently, likely working with the others on the sparklings.

Ironhide grunted a question, coming right to the point, as always. "Think there's any truth to it? What TC said about Fang babbling about the Order of the Primes?"

Optimus's window faced the pile of rubble that held the sparklings. He said quietly, "There may well be."

"TC's calling him Decepticon Prime." Ironhide pressed the fingers of one hand to the glass. "I don't like it, Optimus. He could be dangerous."

Optimus's sigh rattled every vent he had. "It is entirely possible that Fang could defeat us. However, did it escape your notice that if he'd jumped the sparklings to the Nemesis, they would have acquired a formidable tactical advantage?"

Ironhide grunted. "Most of them would have died. They don't have the energon capacity to keep them alive as long as we hold Nieryl Six. 'S why we fought so hard for that Pit-spawned moon and its refineries."

"Yes. But if they'd saved five thousand, ten thousand, sparklings? It would have doubled their numbers. We've counted thousands of live seekers, and and over two thousand constructicons in the mix. There'se even a combiner team with all six sparks alive. Had he jumped the sparklings to the Nemesis, and saved just those, he would have had everything he needed to utterly destroy us." Optimus glanced down at Ironhide, sadness and exhaustion in both his voice and posture. Optimus's mood seemed to deflate Ironhide's irritation, and Ironhide's expression came to mirror his leader's.

Optimus continued, "Instead, Fang had them brought here, knowing we would do everything we could to save as many of them as we can. Fangface has made mistakes in his past, Ironhide, some of them terrible. He's broken two oaths. He's betrayed his fellow soldiers to Megatron, when he called them friends and lived among us as one of my valued mechs. Once, he was a trusted member of this team and he _betrayed _us. And yet, perhaps, he has become an honorable mech after all that. He chose to save as many lives as possible, he chose the future of our race, over victory. It speaks well for his character that he would chose such a thing. He has made mistakes in the past, and betraying his team to the Decepticons will ever be a stain on his honor, but perhaps if he had not, he would not be alive and in the position he is in today."

"He's still a 'con." Ironhide's words were flat, without audible emotion.

"Mm." Optimus nodded. "A Decepticon Prime."

Ratchet took the final two steps forward, to stand between them. "We'll need his help to keep the sparklings alive, and potentially to defend them. The Nebulans will be back."

"Ally with the 'cons." Ironhide didn't like the idea.

"Until all are one," Optimus murmured, "It has been our rallying cry for how long? And yet, Ironhide, I want you to maintain that suspicion. It will be a long, long time before I trust any Decepticon leader. Fang has an inclination to serve his own interests first and foremost, and I have not forgotten that."

Ironhide bowed his head. "I don't trust him, Optimus."

A long moment stretched between them. Ratchet mirrored Ironhide's touch to the window, his own palm spreading flat. The reinforced glass was several inches thick, and nearly as clear as air. Randomly, it occurred to him that the technology to make unbreakable glass might be yet another thing they could sell to the humans. They would need a fortune in funds to support the sparklings.

Ratchet reminded Ironhide, in reaction to Ironhide's suspicions, "I was a senator during the 19th Quintesson War, 'Hide. Do not forget that I headed the committee to investigate Megatron's abuse of the warrior sparklings. Their operational code was uploaded with a datapad, not by another mech, and they were trained almost from their first awareness to fight and kill, before they even began to develop the ability to think abstractly or question the validity of input data. You were there too, you know this. It made for very effective soldiers, because they never developed normal attachments nor normal empathy when they were younglings. It made them sociopathic and it made them hardwired to react with violence rather than thought. I suspect Megatron did this deliberately, because he wanted soldiers who had no morals and no empathy. You should be aware that Fang was created as part of that program."

"That was how Fangface was raised?" Ironhide knew about the sparkling program, but clearly not that Fangface had been part of it. "Primus."

"I asked him about it, when he first joined us. He had the usual datapad uploads, he said, but he was a prototype, and as such he had a closer relationship to one of the engineers who designed him. Apparently, the engineer -- his name was Compass -- worked closely with Fang for the first ten years of his life. To hear Fang speak, to read between the lines, there was not much affection, but there was a consistent adult presence, and praise for a job well done, and fair treatment. That was more than almost all of the others had."

Ratchet's lip plates twisted up into a faint smile. "Fang said that before Compass left, he told Fang that he didn't approve of the program. He also told Fang the only reason he stayed as long as it did was because he cared about Fang, and he told Fang to find him if he ever left military when he became an adult. That makes me wonder about the mech. It must have been very hard to design a new style of protoform, to see it sparked to life, to watch the sparkling grow up in your care, and all the while knowing that the sparkling would likely only ever be used as an instrument of war. I personally could not do such a thing."

Through the thick glass of the window, Ratchet regarded the vast warehouse full of living and dead mechs. It was a graveyard and a nursery, all in one, at the moment. Another tanker full of energon rolled towards it. Inside, every N.E.S.T. soldier they could spare, and every Autobot, and all the human support staff, and a few random volunteers, were making sure all the live sparklings were connected to the energon drips, and the lines to the dead protoforms were clamped off. Many had been jarred loose, thrown from their berths, by the rough transit and rougher arrival. There were a million bodies or more in the building, though only half of them were alive. The labor alone needed to keep them alive was going to be staggering. They would need to hire human help, in the short term, and that made him nervous to contemplate.

"That care was enough," Optimus mused, "to make a difference, perhaps."

"Maybe." Ratchet lifted his shoulder up in half a shrug. "Or maybe he's simply spark-gifted with an unusual degree of resiliency. The Order clearly believes in him, so I see no reason we shouldn't give him a chance."

Optimus smiled. "Yes, there is that. I'm not going to argue with my ancestors when they see fit to give us such a clear sign. Ironhide, I'm going to ask Fang to send up as many 'cons as he can spare and he feels can be trusted. We'll have the 'cons set up a camp beyond the gunnery range, with a few 'bots keeping watch. We'll need their help with the sparklings -- with the fuel delivery systems, and with sorting the living from the dead. I'm willing to bet that the Fallen was using drones to maintain it, but the drones must have been in another building. We'll also need help guarding the children from both human and Nebulan threats. They're going to be ..."

"... one pit-slagging huge target," Ironhide agreed.

"As quickly as I can, I want to get them dispersed to multiple secure locations." Optimus made a fist. "I'll talk to Fang, get his input, but I believe that the best thing is for them to be raised as neither Autobot nor Decepticon. We will need to activate them in small numbers, to raise them properly, and keep the rest in stasis lock. Until they're old enough to understand, I don't want to teach them about our history."

Ironhide grunted. "With all due respect, Optimus, I don't like the idea of Decepticons here."

"Can you identify another way to protect them?" Optimus's exhausted tone returned.

"Long term," Ratchet mused, "we'll be able to train the first sparklings activated as warriors to defend their siblings, but in the short term, no, I don't see any way. Ironhide might not like it, but I can't think of alternatives. The chance of failure is too high if we rely solely on human support."

Ironhide vented an aggrieved sigh. "I want to interrogate that Nebulan we captured, and see if I can't get some contact information for his command and control. How quickly can we bring him online?"

Ratchet didn't like the idea of waking the enemy mech. It was dangerous. "First Aid completed his repairs this morning. However, we don't have a suitable brig and I haven't identified all of the functions of his internals. Even 'Jack's stumped by some of them."

"Right now, we're blind to their intentions, Ratchet. I'd like to try to open a dialog. There's an outside chance this could be a horrible misunderstanding." Optimus didn't sound like he thought a 'misunderstanding' was a likely explanation, but Ratchet also knew Optimus _liked _Nebulans, as they all did, and felt terrible guilt for the fate of their world. "I would like to speak to their officials if possible, and try to de-escalate the situation."

"Yes sir," Ratchet sighed. "I'd like to handle Fang's surgery myself, and that's urgent. 'Jack's working on machining Fang the parts we need right now. Would it be acceptable if we had Wheeljack activate our prisoner while I do Fang's surgery?"

"That's acceptable. Ironhide, I want contact information: names, frequencies, command structure, and any mission information you can extract from him. Try to find out their point of view." Optimus paused, and then because it was Ironhide, he added, "Nobody is to hack him. He's not a 'con. Do not be physically abusive to him."

"Sir. We won't know if he's telling the truth." Ironhide paused, then added, outrage making his capacitors hum in what was probably an involuntary activations of his battle routines, "And they attacked _sparklings_."

"Well," Optimus said wryly, "if he gives us the contact frequencies for his superiors and they respond when we call, we know he's telling us the truth. As far as any other information he gives goes, we'll need to evaluate it when we get it."

He turned to Ratchet. "I'm going to have Ironhide take direct responsibility for the Nebulan threat, while I handle human politics. It doesn't escape my notice that you work well with Fang, however, and he trusts you as much as he trusts anyone. Will you be his point of contact, and coordinate our activities with the Decepticons? That is assuming that Fangface agrees to work with us."

Ratchet shook his head firmly. "I'm a medic, Prime. Not a general." Optimus was smiling fondly at him, and that expression made Ratchet bristle. "What?"

"_If_ Fang agrees ..."

"He'll agree," Ratchet said, sourly, "I just don't know if he can get his troops to follow him when he does."

"... then most of our work with the Decepticons will be medically related. The care and maintenance of a very large number of sparklings is something I know you will be happy to tackle, yes?" Optimus's optics glinted with what was probably amusement. "Also, you can be trusted to work fairly with the 'cons, and be impartial when the inevitable disputes crop up between factions. I haven't forgotten your resume, Ratchet."

"Huh. Fine. You're right. As long as my focus remains on the sparklings -- and repairing Fang. He's going to need a lot more work, and I do not even know _how _to recreate that alloy of his." Ratchet, to tell the truth, was looking forward to working with the sparklings. And, perhaps, if Fang worked with them honestly, they could find a way to end the war for the benefit of the children. He grunted, "Very well. I'll outline what I'll need immediately, starting with the basic maintenance we need, labor requirements, and identifying some suitable facilities for storage. And -- I know Perceptor's all sorts of useful on Nieryl Six at the refineries, but can we recall him here? I could use his input on Fang's alloy, and I imagine he'd be handy at helping the humans retrofit their facilities to make energon."

Prime ran a hand over his face, considering Ratchet's suggestion. "He's the only scientist on Nieryl Six at the moment. Who are we going to send to replace him?"

"Socket?" Ironhide suggested.

"Hnh. Socket's smart, but he's nothing like Perceptor. I can tell him to start studying up on fuel processing, however." Ratchet shrugged. "I can't spare 'Jack."

Optimus rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment. "We can't risk the refineries going down due to preventable issues. Quickmix is about six weeks from Nieryl Six, with Topheavy's team. We'll send him to relieve Socket. I've already sent Topheavy a summons to report to Earth as we could use Skyfall here."

That earned a grunt of agreement from Ironhide. "Oh, that'll be like fire and energon, the first time there's a 'con ship at the space port."

"I am aware of Quickmix's temperment, but there isn't anyone else within a three months' worth of travel time who could help." Optimus stared skyward for a moment, lip plates pressed together. "Back to the subject of the sparklings, Ratch. I want to activate a few immediately. Tonight, before the ship leaves."

"We're in the middle of a war, still!" Ironhide burst out.

"Yes, we are," Optimus said, quietly. "It will be no less dangerous for the sparklings to be awake than it will to be for them helpless in stasis. If they are awake, in fact, they can defend themselves or hide, if it comes down to that. Also, if we wake a few, they will fairly quickly be able to help with basic maintenance."

Ratchet nodded. He was hesitant to wake them now mostly because it added to the work load, but Optimus was right. They were more vulnerable in stasis than even the youngest sparkling would be if they were awake. And some children would certainly help with moral. "I'll start identifying who among us is willing to be a mentor. Of the mechs here, the only ones I would truly object to raising a sparkling would be Wheelie -- he's too young -- and Sunstreaker, Skids, and Mudflap. On a personal note ... I've never had a sparkling of my own, but it will be nice."

"Those of us who are capable of raising sparklings _should_," Optimus said, firmly.

For a long moment, Ironhide didn't say anything. Then he grunted, "I'm up for it. Never raised a sparkling before either, but it can't be _that _hard."

Ratchet smirked. "This, I want to see."

Optimus, who'd had quite a few children of his own, gave an honest laugh. Ratchet, as a medic, probably had a much better idea of just how much _work _sparklings were, and how much worry, and how much hassle. It was all completely worth it, but Ironhide was in for a rude awakening if he thought it wasn't difficult. After trading an amused look with Ratchet he said to Ironhide, "I look forward to asking you how hard it is in a few weeks."

Ironhide's optic ridges quirked upwards, but he didn't repeat his comment. Instead he said, in a very different tone of voice, "Ranger will have peers. This is a good thing. Younglings need other younglings."

"And aside from Ranger, I can take one more," Optimus agreed. "It will be good for Ranger to have a sibling. To think, I, too, was just contemplating how lonely it would be for an only sparkling on a base full of warriors ..."

Ratchet drummed his fingers on his thigh for a moment. "There's nothing to set him apart from the others, really, other than his frame. He has a civilian frame, and that will be more obvious now that I've removed his upgrades. They won't notice that for awhile, though, and if you activate him at the same time, he'll be one of the gang. Eventually we'll need to tell him, and offer him the memory files that Teletraan is putting back together, but I don't think that's wise to do until he's at least old enough to think abstractly. Several months, at a minimum."

After shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Ironhide burst out, "But _we'll _know."

"Yes, we will. Also, at some level, I believe the _spark _knows the difference between being a true sparkling and a reformatted mech. When he realizes he's being treated differently, and that will be inevitable, that would be the time to tell him." Optimus glanced down at Ratchet. "What are your thoughts, Ratchet? I believe that as soon as he becomes aware that he is different than the others, that we give him the option of regaining what memories we've been able to salvage. There is a valid argument in making him wait until he's a full adult, however."

It was Ratchet's turn to blow an enormous gust of a sigh out his vents. "I don't know. I'm still not even sure it's wise to allow him to regain the memories at all. Yet, they _are _his."

Optimus said quietly, "We don't have the right to take that choice away him, in any event. How bitter he might be were he to find out, someday, that he had already lived an entire life, and we deleted it simply because _we _felt he would be best never knowing?. It won't be easy for Prowl -- Ranger -- to know what he did as Barricade, yet it is his decision to make."

"Do you think a youngling can make that sort of decision?" Ironhide asked, sounding skeptical and concerned.

Optimus's voice was as distant as his gaze. Ratchet wondered what he was seeing; by the look in his optics, it probably wasn't the beehive of activity outside. "Which would be worse? Allow a child to make a major decision about his fate, or make that child wait until he's a full adult before we tell him? I would be furious if my mentor had kept such a thing from me. To have lived decades of life, oblivious to what might be ...? Additionally, I suspect, from a psychological standpoint, it would be easier for him to know most of his childhood. It would be a shock, otherwise, and feel like a betrayal. Yet there's a balancing act, because we do want him to be very secure in his awareness of being Ranger before he uploads Prowl's memories."

Ratchet nodded. "And yet, to ask a child to make such a decision ... there's no easy answer here, Prime, no right answer."

"You could also tell the little slagger he's a reformat when he's little, but not _let _him make the decision until he's older ..." Ironhide suggested.

Optimus nodded. "I will present to him the option of waiting, but if I believe he has enough self awareness to make a rational choice, and is making the decision with sound reasoning, I will let him do so. Also, I know you would like him to be one among many, but we cannot raise him like the other sparklings, in all honesty, because he _isn't _like them. He will be one of them, with peers and friends, and yet there are factors which will set him apart. It won't be easy for him to be different, yet we must prepare him to make a decision about what is best for himself, for Ranger. That means preparing him, counseling him, in advance."

"Hnh." Ratchet could see that.

"Also," Optimus mused, "we must factor in that we already know Ranger is profoundly spark gifted. Prowl had some of the highest scores of any cadet at Iacon for several generations."

"Hnnh. The third option, of course, is just to download the damned memories back into his core and let him wake as Prowl." Ironhide shook his head, clearly uneasy with the whole thing.

Ratchet glanced upwards, towards the speaker that Teletraan usually used to communicate. "Teletraan? Fill Ironhide in about your work, please."

"Ironhide, sir, I have managed to assemble about sixty percent of the video into a coherent timeline. Twenty-nine point five percent is irretrievably corrupted or deleted. The remaining bits are either duplications, or I am unable to locate the context that they belong in. Some may not be his memories at all, but may rather be memory files others have given him that have become disassociated from their identity tags. That is the good news. Unfortunately, I am not able to match his emotional coding to the majority of the memories in question, except for those incurred while he was Barricade. Many of the emotions that Barricade were highly inappropriate, such as glee in response to the pain of others, or anger and fear when others made friendly overtures."

Ratchet held both hands, palm up, to Ironhide, saying without words that he had no options remaining.

Optimus elaborated, "Ironhide, were we to attempt to reboot Prowl with that much memory damage, he would be a very broken mech. Even were were we to only give him back his memories as Prowl, and lock those of Barricade, he ... wouldn't be Prowl. Not with that kind of damage. There's no emotion attached to the video. It would be like looking at a film of another's life, with scenes missing."

Ratchet completely agreed with Optimus's words; clearly, Optimus had taken his assessment to heart. He elaborated, "My _medical _opinion is that our best bet for having a sane mech with a healthy emotional state, at the end of the day, is to wait until he's had some time to establish a personality and identity as Ranger, then counsel Ranger ahead of time to deal with what he will learn when we give him the memories. My priority as a medic, at this point, is to have a sane and healthy mech, not a shadow of what was once Prowl. In that light, we may also wish medically lock Barricade's memories and provide him only text file descriptions until we've had time to do some substantial preemptive psychotherapy."

Optimus nodded. "And all of this is a tentative plan that may change once we get to know Ranger as himself. Jazz used to describe Prowl, as a youngling, as 'formidable' but Ranger will be raised in a very different environment, and will have me as a mentor. He may develop quite differently. Among other things, Prowl was very badly bullied by his peers when he was small. I cannot imagine anyone will get away with bullying Ranger."

His expression and voice tone held an 'or else I will deal with it'. It was very clear that Optimus wasn't about to let _anyone _hurt Ranger.

"So, boss... do you want Ranger to have a sibling? Any thought of what, precisely, you're going to adopt?" Ratchet let his voice turn teasing. "You always did like mechs with wings, and there's four thousand, two hundred and forty-seven seekers in there ..."

That provoked a dry laugh from Optimus. "Not a bad idea, actually. I'm sure Silverbolt would appreciate having another wingmate."

"That's a thought," Ratchet said, eyes lighting up. "Silver's been alone for so long. I know he's been following around after Windy like a lost puppy, he's so desperate for _anyone _who groks flight. You think he would adopt some seeker models?"

"I think," Optimus said with a grin, "he's already asked, and I already gave him the green light."

Ratchet smiled in response to Optimus's expression. The grin had broken out on Optimus's face spontaneously, making him look millenia younger and less war-weary. _Oh, Primus. We could be so happy here. Children, a civilized world with such a fascinating native culture, a new start. If only we can make it work. If only ...  
_  
His Matrix stirred, startling him. _Make it happen._

Huh?

_Make it happen, Ratchet._

"How do I do that?" he said aloud, too astonished to even register the puzzled sounds his friends made. "What do you want me to do?"

_Follow your spark's desire. _

"I don't have a spark, I have a lump of charred carbon. Everyone knows this," he snapped, irritated at the non-specific answer. He knew that the Order of the Primes could be slagging specific when they wanted to be, and he presumed the communication from his Matrix was courtesy of them. "Tell me what you actually want me to _do_, you ancient buckets of bolts, and I _might _do it."

_We are amused by your sarcasm._

And then the Matrix fell silent. He pinged it, and got only a polite, and non-sentient, response back that asked what files he wanted to see. He looked up from staring at his chest plates to realize both Optimus and Ironhide were looking at him with nearly identical expressions of amused disbelief. "Communication from beyond the Well?" Ironhide guessed. "Better you than me."

Optimus clapped Ironhide on the back. "Don't worry, your time will come, old friend. Your time will come."

* * *

_Interrogation._

To tell the truth, Ironhide was not particularly good at it. He was impatient, hot-headed, and his processor had long ago been optimized for the rapid decision making and swift violence needed for battle, not the cool tactical analysis and psychological games required by a good interrogator. Empathy wasn't one of his spark gifts, but he also had absolutely no love or appreciation of sadism, to the point where he had a hard time even _thinking _in such terms. He was a warrior born, no more and no less.

However, most of an ancient lifetime spent observing Jazz and Prowl had taught him a few tricks. Jazz had been inventive. Prowl had been ruthlessly, coldly, efficient. Between the two of them, they could have extracted information from the Unmaker itself, had the opportunity presented itself. Ironhide had watched with appreciation, taken notes, and learned well.

He padded into the sick bay, where the enemy mech was strapped down to a medical berth. Though he was offline, the power literally cut to his processor core by an override that Ratchet had installed, they were taking no chances with an unplanned reboot. Repair nanytes were funny things, useless for some repairs, marginally useful most of the time, but for a few specialized tasks, _brilliant_. Among other things, they conducted electricity by design. It was entirely possible that, with the right specialized coding, his could build a bridge and restore power to his core. Ironhide had exactly that mod to his nanytes, for exactly this sort of situation, if the tables were ever turned. So did every soldier in his command.

Apparently, however, Nebulan mechs hadn't yet learned the clever trick of programming their nanytes to bridge cut power conduits. The Nebulan soldier was still offline.

He unbolted the metal straps, slung the comatose mech over one shoulder, and headed into the main surgery. Ratchet was up to his wrists in Fang's internals when Ironhide walked in, and gave him a cool nod. Already anticipating the reason for Ironhide's detour into the surgery, he asked, _:What tools do you need?:_

_:Some remote power control switches, and the doohickies needed to install 'em. Nanyte repellent. Soldering iron, flux, solder.:_

_:First Aid already installed a remote on his motor pathways and sensor arrays. I personally pulled his comm circuits and they are in a box in my desk. I believe I got everything communications related, though I wouldn't swear to it. It's too pit-slagging easy to disguise an antenna and a couple transistors in with a cluster of something else, and I don't know what his internals are necessarily supposed to look like, to be able to identify a mod. Anyway. Anything else you need to be able to cut power to?: _A file of data on the alterations that Ratchet and First Aid had done, preparatory to waking the alien mech, followed.

They had been thorough. They were, regrettably, experienced at this.  
_  
:I'm going to take out his gyros.: _Which would render the mech unable to tell up from down.

Once upon a time, long ago, Ratchet had disapproved -- strongly -- of interrogation using anything other than what Jazz had referred to semi-seriously as, "Talk torture." Talking it out with prisoners was sometimes quite effective, particularly if you were dealing with disenchanted enlisted soldiers none too happy with their command. Given the cold, ruthless, efficient way this soldier had come after them, Ironhide was inclined to assume this was not going to be that easy, and he was going to try a classic, and effective, technique that Jazz had been fond of. Ratchet, who had replaced idealism with pragmatism a long time ago, and who once would have protested everything about interrogating an enemy vehemently, now just sighed. And then he transmitted Ironhide a schematic of where to find the circuits that Ironhide would need to cut.

Ironhide was far from being a medic. This, however, was not medicine.

* * *

The alien mech jerked awake with click of relays, a thunk and whine of capacitors charging, and a whoosh of fans. Blue optics snapped open and he tried to roll to his feet, only to discover that Ironhide had his bound wrists secured with stasis cuffs to a ring bolted to the floor. He had a couple inches of slack between his hands and the rings. His feet were likewise secured, so that he was stretched out and unable to move.

"You speak Cybertronian?" Ironhide grunted.

In Nebulan, the alien snarled, "Die, Cybertronian!"

"Yeah, I already heard that part right before I slagged your aft." Ironhide switched to Nebulan. "What's your name?"

Silence.

"You understand me?"

Silence.

"Care to explain why you attacked us unprovoked?" Ironhide leaned against the wall, arms folding. "You realize that if you'd just introduced yourself to us we'd have been all sorts of friendly. We're very much alike in design, and believe it or not, we'd welcome friends."

Silence. Which was getting monotonous.

Ironhide rolled his optics, "You pray to Primus, by any chance?" He used the Cybertronian word for their God.

The mech's optics widened. Then they narrowed.

"Figured." Ironhide nodded, unsurprised. From the little info they'd gleaned by hacking the others, they already knew that the Nebulan mechs had remarkably similar religious beliefs, which likely reflected a root origin in Cybertronian tech. They also had something startlingly like an Allspark as their source of life, and that made him suspect that the Nebulans would have similar religious beliefs. "So do I."

"Apostate." It was the first word that the alien mech had spoken that wasn't a death threat. His voice was utterly without inflection.

Optics narrowed, Ironhide very nearly uncoiled from his position leaning against the wall. He forced himself to relax, however, and said in as a calm a voice as he could muster, "You care to explain why you just called me that? 'Cuz I'm pretty sure I've followed Primus's teachings to the best of my ability since I was a scraplet."

The mech didn't say anything for so long that Ironhide thought he wasn't going to respond. However, finally, he snapped, "Primus tells us to make order from chaos. War, by definition, is a cause of chaos. You make war."

"I wouldn't argue with any of those assertions," Ironhide shrugged, "But I'd also point you attacked us first."

Silence. But he thought he'd scored. The mech just sat there, glaring at him.

Ironhide ran a hand over his face. "You know, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. My name's Ironhide."

_That _got him a hiss. "You take _his _name?"

"There's another Ironhide? Really?" The Nebulan mech's voice tone had gone from emotionless to scandalized, as if Ironhide had named himself 'The Unmaker' or 'Unicron.' Ironhide shook his head. He saw no reason to enlighten the mech about his age. Or that he suspected he _was _the Ironhide that this mech had just referred to. "Nevermind. What's your name?"

Silence.

"Hnnh. Even the human soldiers will give their name, rank, and serial number to an enemy." Ironhide sighed. "Here's what I want: subspace comm frequencies so my boss can call your superiors, the names of your officers, and your reason for being here. I'd also like to know why you to attack us unprovoked. And then I'm going to turn you over turn you over to Bee, and he's going to quiz you about your culture until you fritz from exhaustion."

That was a bit more than Optimus had asked for, but Ironhide was already planning ahead to planting Bumblebee on the Nebulan colony. Though getting Bee there was going to be logistically difficult, now.

Silence, from the mech, in response to Ironhide's statements.

"Right. Looks like we're going to do this the hard way." He pulled a datapad out of subspace, and cut the mech's motor functions, gyros and optics. That elicited a startled -- and very Cybertronian -- oath of, "Primus!" from the mech's vocalizer. He left him his voice, though he might cut it later if this wasn't sufficient. Given that he didn't want the mech to glitch completely from isolation shock, he left him tactile and auditory input. Extended, complete, sensory deprivation was a quick way to send a mech's logic processes to the pit and beyond, permanently.

He stood over the motionless mech for a long moment then said with utter truth in his words, "If we were evil, we'd simply hack you. We could do it, too. All we want is an open line of communication."

"This the best you can do?"

"Nope." Ironhide poked one more command line on the datapad, taking out the mech's chronometer. "See you later, buddy."

"What?" The mech, alarmed, hit a frantic note. "What? Don't _leave _me!"

Three long strides took him to the exit. Ironhide stepped out into the corridor, and let the door swish shut behind him. "Soundproof that room, Teletraan."

A growing wail of fear from the mech cut off abruptly. With a bit of appreciation in his voice, Teletraan said, "You are _cruel, _Ironhide."

Ironhide smirked. "I learned from the best. I'm going to play a few rounds of good cop/bad cop with him. Any idea where Sam is?"

"Sam?" Teletraan said, questioningly.

He started walking towards the med bay, intending to return Ratchet's tools. "Sam. I trust him to keep his mouth shut, and he might hear stuff the N.E.S.T. soldiers would be obligated to report to their superiors."

"Is Sam up to it?" Teletraan asked, concerned.

After a moment's consideration, Ironhide said, "He'll probably welcome it as a change from being the Official Autobot Secretary. I don't know what Optimus is thinking. Kid's got _way _more talent than that. Besides, I'll make him the Good Cop. Should be easy for him. He just needs to pretend he's some poor, oppressed native sentient and give the alien glitch in there some company when he gets to the point of fritzing out from the loneliness."

"Very well. I believe he's in his house with Bee."

Ironhide paused in mid stride. "Would I be interrupting anything?"

Teletraan's voice was very dry. "I just pinged Bee to ensure it was okay with them if I released their location. They are merely discussing ways to prank the twins while eating dinner."

"Which set?" Ironhide relaxed, lipplates turning up in a smile.

"Both."

It was very tempting to allow Bee and Sam to continue their planning, possibly after providing a few suggestions of his own. Bee knew better than to make the ideas more than hypothetical at this point; they were too busy and under too much threat of an attack. Still, once things calmed down, Bee had the ability to pull off the _best _pranks. Good times. Good friends. The Nebulans had no idea how very mortal, and very likeable, his people were. _We're just people. Imperfect. Sometimes complete fraggers, sometimes unbelievably heroic, and in all things, imperfect. _

He sobered, thinking of the prisoner. _He thinks we're demons from his people's past, and it would probably be ten times worse if he knew that he was dealing with the mechs personally responsible for the decision to retreat from Nebulos. The truth is, we're likely very much like his own people. Fraggit._

Ironhide really wasn't much for thinking, or philosophy. Still, it suddenly struck him as _wrong _to treat the enemy mech as, well, an enemy. If it were a 'con, he would have no hesitation.  
_  
They killed sparklings._

_But what have they been _taught _about us? He called me an apostate. An unbeliever. He all but accused me of worshipping the Unmaker. The 'cons will throw those accusations around to piss us off, but he believed his words. And the others -- the ones who killed the sparklings. Did they really know what they were doing, or where they merely following teachings passed down for generation after generation? Ratchet thinks they don't live more than a few thousand years at most._

He stood, arrested by that epiphany, in the middle of the hallway. He was dimly aware of footsteps behind him, but not until Sideswipe's teasing voice said, "Hey, General Gramps, you fritz out on us at last?" did he realize he was standing motionless.

"Hnnh," he turned to face Siders. "They're children."

"What, the sparklings?" As Sideswipe said this, Ironhide realised that the young warrior had energon and lubricant smeared all over his armor. He looked like he'd been rolling in it, or, possibly, helping with sorting the living from the dead. Dead mechs tended to leak as valves relaxed and seals rotted through and nanytes died.

"No, our enemies." He met Sideswipe's optics. Dust had covered the oil on Sideswipe's faceplate with a thin brown coating. "They're younglings, and they've been taught we're evil. I can fragging promise you that. Sideswipe, what would you do if a pack of Quintessans approached you in the field?"

"Shoot first?" Sideswipe lifted an optic ridge skyward.

"This isn't right." Ironhide turned around on one heel, and without further preamble, walked back to the conference room turned brig. Sideswipe said something questioning behind him, but didn't pursue him. Ironhide supposed his own expression was probably particularly formidable.

The mech was still screaming when the door swished open. He paused, then whimpered, at the sound of Ironhide's approaching footsteps. He was rigid, armor clamped flat to his body, capacitors that were no longer hooked to weapons systems screaming, terror in the twisted features of his faceplate. All after just a few minutes. Solitary confinement was brutal for his people; Ironhide would personally rather be tortured than isolated from all social interaction. Add sensory deprivation to it and some disorienting vertigo, and it was generally enough to make prisoners break within hours, without ever resorting to pain.

Without preamble or hesitation, and with a huge flare of unexpected guilt, Ironhide restored power to all of the stranger's functions. Then he bent over and removed the stasis cuffs.

He'd stacked the room's chairs up against one wall. He now pulled two over to the fallen mech, who was now curled up in a ball, keening to himself. It never ceased to amaze Ironhide how quickly even the threat of true isolation could unhinge some mechs. Cybertronians were designed for social interaction. It was a hardcode, and the need for it built into their very physical makeup. Mechs who could withstand some isolation -- such as Bee or Hound -- were truly rare, and generally incredibly stable souls. Even Bee, who sometimes spent years alone on missions, generally revealed himself to a few trusted natives just so he could have some measure of social interaction. Bee had survived his mission on Earth with the use of internet forums and occasional contact with live humans.

Cut a transformer off from _all _interaction with others, and their panic was almost instant. It was literally a hardcoded reaction.

Ironhide sighed, sat down in one of the chairs, and told the young enemy mech, "I can't do this to you. I hate doing it to 'cons and I won't do it to a youngling who only attacked us because of what he's been taught, and who's never had a chance to learn the truth."

Whimper.

"I'm older than you can probably imagine. I've done things I regret. I've done a lot of things that would probably strip your bolts to know about, that I _don't _regret. But you're a victim in our war, or your creators' ancestors were, at any rate. We brought your wrath down on us, and it's probably justified, and I'm not going to break a youngling just 'cause it's what we always do with prisoners that've got info we want."

Whimper.

The mech was still curled into himself, despite the removal of the cuffs. He was visibly terrified and, probably, Ironhide's words hadn't helped. Ironhide growled, "Oh, _stop _that. You're not a Decepticon."

Whimper.

After another frustrated grumble, Ironhide stood up, grabbed the mech by the arm, and pulled him to his feet, roughly. From a couple feet away, and a couple of feet down, frightened blue optics stared at him. He was a head and shoulders taller and a ton heavier than the other mech. "I'm ... I'm just a s-s-s-soldier-r!"

He was so scared his vocalizer was glitching.

"Sit." Ironhide pushed him down into the chair. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The mech sat. "D-don't leave me alone!"

Ironhide slumped down in his chair, rolled his head back, and offlined his optics briefly. He needed a second to master his irritation at himself, and at the kid (and he was more and more convinced this was a _young _soldier). It also gave the prisoner a chance to compose himself. When he straightened back up, the other mech was staring at him with wide optics, but he looked marginally calmer.

"Let's start this over. My name is Ironhide. I'm our leader's weapons master, his personal bodyguard, and, of late, his second in command. I've also been a soldier since Primus was young, and I've known our fearless leader since he was a sparkling, so if I say you're not going to get hurt, you can rest assured it'll happen. I don't serve Prime to torture younglings, and I'm fairly sure Optimus will side with me."

Optimus had never been comfortable with the idea of interrogations, though he acknowledged to the necessity. Ironhide knew he was being foolish, but slag it, he wasn't going to behave like a Decepticon and hurt someone who'd only attacked because he didn't have the whole picture.

"I'm not a youngling." The mech's chin jerked upwards.

"How old are you? Two hundred?"

"...Two-twenty."

"Two hundred twenty?" He said, half musing. He was pushing a million himself. What had he been doing at two hundred and twenty? He seemed to recall lots of parties, though he would need to un-archive a few files to be sure.

"Yes," the mech jerked his chin upwards defiantly, daring Ironhide to claim he was a child.

Ironhide did, precisely because he knew he'd been sensitive about his age when he was that young. Two centuries was plenty of time to become a responsible adult, but when mechs a million years old looked at others that much young, they tended to be condescending about it. Ironhide, quite deliberately, and with full intent to tick the other mech off, laughed and said, "Primus. You're a slagging _sparkling_."

"I am _not_. Slagger."

He grinned, having figured the kid out. If he was scared, or defiant, or likely hurting, he'd be silent. Piss him off and he started talking. It was amazing what you could learn from an enemy who was screaming epithets at you, both from the curses themselves, and from what they said in between rude words. "Nevermind. You going to tell me what your name is, or do I have to refer to you as 'scraplet' or maybe 'junior'?"

That bit of teasing, and the grin, earned him a narrow-optic'd glare, but it also won him three words, snapped out like his name itself was a curse, "Squad leader _t'Tamis_. Reconnaissance specialist."

Interesting. Instead of a designation based on a favorite object, a behavior, or a noticeable trait, the kid had an actual name, like the Nebulans -- and the humans -- used. Nebulan names didn't even really have a meaning, though human names sort've did. They were just a few random syllables bunched together.

"Huh. A scout leader. Surprise, surprise. Well, t'Tamis, your people's existence -- particularly the _mech _half of the Nebulan survivors -- actually come as a huge shock to us. We pretty much figured the Nebulans were dead. Megatron didn't just destroy Nebulos, he made it his mission to track down survivors on other worlds. He even hit an embassy on Callos, and took out one of our courier ships that we'd managed to pack with Nebulan survivors from an orbital station."

t'Tamis scowled, intensly, and said three simple worlds. "Cybertron destroyed Nebulos."

Ironhide shuttered his optics. "Megatron did. Megatron, Soundwave, and Shockwave and a few others in the high command. The rank and file were not involved; quite a few of them defected to our side after they fragged Nebulos. Fat lot of good that it did. I was there, kid."

Not only had he been there, but he had been on the comm saying farewell to his Nebulan counterpart, a good friend, when the doomsday devices had taken chunk out of the world's crust clear through to the mantle, and Nebulos had turned itself inside out. He'd heard t'Alnet tell him there had been an earthquake, even as he had observed a tremendous magma blast and visible atmospheric shockwave spread across the planet at several times the speed of sound. He had given t'Alnet a few moment's warning, but it had not been enough. Where was he to go? The planet had been tearing itself apart. Likely, he'd died instantly of cellular disruption caused by the overpressure wave.

"You were there." t'Tami's blue optics were huge, wide, disbelieving. Then they narrowed, "You're _that _Ironhide."

Ironhide shrugged. "Most likely, yeah, if your history records me as being on a dreadnought in orbit when Nebulos fell. Look, kid, I don't know what you were taught, but we tried to save Nebulos, and we failed. We fought. We _died_ for your world. Over twenty million Autobot soldiers died on that front trying to defend Nebulos, and that number only looks small when you compare it to the seven billion Nebulans that died that day. We tried. _Primus _we tried."

"This is not what I was taught." t'Tamis sounded skeptical.

"Likely not. The truth tends to get distorted by time, and by politics." Ironhide snorted.

"Our Eldest were there too."

Ironhide quirked an eyebrow up. "I might want to meet your Eldest." He heard the inflection in the Nebulan word which made it a proper noun, with a modifier indicating plural. A title, then, rather than a description, and there were more than one. He'd try to dig out what an Eldest was later.

The kid pressed the fingertips of both hands together in a nervous gesture for a moment, then said, "Our historians claim you sold us out."

Ironhide shuttered his optics for a second time, did another systems check, and then growled, "Not deliberately, I assure you. We surrendered, kid. We were losing and had no hope of victory. We negotiated a surrender, and retreated from Nebulos, and expected that Megatron would claim Nebulos, not destroy it. Destroying it made _no _blasted sense. It was pure revenge against us, and revenge against the Nebulans that sided with us. We've been fighting Megatron since, personally gunning for him. And, at least, we killed him a month or so ago. For the second time. Fragger was too evil even to stay dead the first time, but this time, it's got to be permanent. Two years ago, though, we thought the war was over and we sent a message out to the last remnants of our people and told them they might find refuge here. We figure you heard the message, yeah?"

Silence.

"We've fought a war almost to the point of the extinction of our race because we could _not _let Megatron do to another world what he did to Nebulos. And he damn near managed here, but we stopped him. Now we just want to see an end to the fighting. We have the approval from the human leaders to settle here, and we're trying to make a home for those few of us who remain alive."

Silence, from t'Tamis.

The mech met his gaze. Coldly, he said, "And yet you are the _same _race as Megatron. As you say, he destroyed Nebulos. What assurance can we _ever _have that you are not like him?"

Ironhide bit back a curse that would not have helped endear him to t'Tamis, given that his first reaction was to imply that the young soldier had a close and personal relationship with the Unmaker himself for daring to imply that. In as reasonable of a tone as he could manage, which for Ironhide was a curt snap, he said, "Megatron was mad. I spent the last hundred thousand years hunting his aft down across half the galaxy. I am nothing like him."

"And how would you even begin to prove it?"

Ironhide rose. "Get up."

"Going to t-torture me now?"

"No. I'm not going to torture you. Ever. I didn't fight Decepticons for the last hundred millenia just to start interrogating their victims. Your ancestors were victims. Your fear and hatred of us is because of that. What happened between your team and mine, and what your people did to our sparklings, that's all on Megatron's head too. Mind, I'll be less inclined to be forgiving if we make an honest effort to be peaceful and you guys hit us again. But interrogating you ain't the way to defuse this clusterslag of a mess." Ironhide pointed at the door. "Let's go."

The mech made no move to do so. Ironhide backed up, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and propelled him out the door with a shove. "That way. Walk in front of me where I can see you."

The first stop was Ratchet's office. He grabbed the mech's comm gear from a cardboard box in Ratchet's desk, then proceeded down the hall to the med bay. Ratchet, inside, gave him a questioning look when he pushed the prisoner through the door in front of him. Fangface's optics also rose, as the Decepticon commander was now awake, though still minus most of his chest armor. Fang was seated in alt mode, tail curled around his paws, looking perfectly content to have his internals exposed for all the world to see. Ratchet was working on the weapons mount at the end of Fangface's tail.

Ironhide gestured at Ratchet, "t'Tamis, this is Ratchet, our Chief Medical Officer, and Lord Fangface -- the current Decepticon leader."

t'Tamis _twitched _at the word 'Decepticon.' "Is he a prisoner too?"

"He's not a prisoner, he's a pain in the aft." Ratchet attempted to pat Fangface on the head. Fang promptly tried to bite him, with some serious intent, but Ratchet had clearly been expecting that and jerked his hand out of the way in time. Ratchet added, "He's got issues, but we're pretty sure he has all his shots."

"Funny, Ratch." Fang nibbled on his claw for a moment, then added to t'Tamis, "I'm here because _your _forces were trying to kill a whole bunch of sparklings, and I objected. There was some funny business from Primus himself in the whole matter, too, and even _I _will pay attention when the Order of the Primes says, 'listen up, idiot, you got to do this.' I got slagged. My partner got slagged _worse_. The Autobots are sentimental goody-two-shoes who were kind enough to repair us. And the sparklings."

"You're working with the Decepticons." t'Tamis's words were flat.

"Apparently," Ironhide growled. "Megatron's dead. Mind, I think Fangface is a lying, two-faced, treasonous, oathbreaking aftwit but I'll allow I like him better than Megatron. I don't want him dead, though _muted _might be an improvement."

"I feel the love already," Fangface grinned.

Ratchet casually rested a hand on Fangface's shoulders, a liberty that Ironhide was pretty sure few mechs could get away with. "He's our very own pet predacon ..."

"Oh, frag you."

"He's even housebroken."

"But not," Fangface replied in a sweet tone of voice, "declawed."

"We would not kill sparklings," the young enemy soldier said said, stiffly. He seemed to be oblivious to the banter between Fang and Ratchet. On the other hand, that camaraderie between them startled Ironhide. Had Ratchet so quickly forgiven Fang for his crimes in the past? He'd betrayed them. There had been truth in his words about his feelings for Fangface. Ratchet had a soft spot for troublesome punks, true, but being downright friendly with Fangface was carrying it a bit far.

Fang stopped chewing on his nail, and pointed at the berth that had several small sparklings in varying states of repair. Ironhide noted that many of them had damaged armor and melted external sensors. In a tone of irritation that made Ironhide wince, Fang drawled, "Funny, I _told _your guys they were sparklings, so they knew. You want to see the damage? Those are survivors."

t'Tamis scoffed, "Those are _drones_."

That earned a grunt from Ratchet and hiss of annoyance from Fang. Fang snapped, "They're sparklings."

"Oh, yeah, kid. You want to know why we're a bit fragged off at your side?" Ironhide didn't bother to hide his real anger. "They're _sparklings_."

One of Ratchet's optic ridges rose. "So your people don't kill sparklings, but you personally blindly attack a small force of mechs who would have been perfectly happy to be friendly. Your flier damn near _killed _Windy, with absolutely no provocation. Windy was trying to get away."

"That's different." The response was stiff.

"And why would that be?" Ratchet demanded. "You had no idea who we are. For all you know, one of that team could be a Prime."

"Sparklings are innocent." The kid responded, hesitantly. "They weren't responsible for what happened. And there's no living Primes left."

Ironhide ignored the comment about Primes, for now. He growled, "_I _was at Nebulos. You want to lay blame at my feet, feel free. It's probably deserved. We made a huge mistake in trusting Megatron to be honorable. None of the rest of that team were even _there_ and they bear _zero _responsibility. Wheelie wasn't even operational at the time, and Flora and Manywinds had been in stasis for four million years."

Ratchet pointed a finger at Fangface. "For that matter, Lord Friendlyfangs here was in a Decepticon brig at the time, for mouthing off to his commanding officer."

"_Who _told you about that name?" Fang grinned hugely, which was somewhat frightening given his namesake teeth. "That's freaking _classified_."

"... Thundercracker. He has the best gossip ..." Ratchet stage-whispered.

"That reminds me, I need to deactivate Thundercracker. He knows too much." Fang made this assertion with a complete straight face, and t'Tamis's eyes widened. Clearly, he thought Fang might be telling the truth.

The look that Ironhide favored Fang with promised imminent deactivation. Fang's sense of humor, and Ratchet's, was not helping, but he couldn't glower at Ratchet without getting a wrench to the helm. He got the distinct impression Fang was only humoring him when he jerked his chin into the air and shifted his gaze to a point well above Ironhide's head, allowing Ironhide to win a brief staring contest. Ironhide said, sternly, to t'Tamis, "You attacked a small force of mechs who were only investigating an anomaly. It got two of your team killed and for _no _reason. Had you approached us on friendly terms, we'd have been absolutely delighted to meet you."

Silence. He was getting completely tired of the mech's tendency to respond to anything he didn't like to hear with no return reaction. It was annoyingly passive aggressive. Ironhide much preferred enemies who had the processor fortitude to stand up to him and state their opinion.

Fang said cheerfully, "S'truth. The Autobots meet a bunch of strange, heavily armored mechs infringing on their territory and they actually _are _likely to greet you like long-lost brothers, invite you home, and throw a party. My side, now, they'd have hacked you, and then, if you weren't useful, killed you. Efficient, that way." Fang scratched at a tooth with one claw, then added, "After the stunt your side pulled with attacking us completely without provocation, causing the deaths of thousands of sparklings, and nearly offlining me and my bodyguard? The new official policy Decepticon policy is 'kill first, hack second.'"

"My side would _not _kill sparklings. Those are drones!"

Ratchet growled, reached out, grabbed the mech by the back of the neck before he had a chance to do more than duck, and propelled him across the room to the sparklings. Ironhide was amused, it was almost exactly the same move _he _had used earlier. Fangface slid back down to lie on his chest on the berth, chin propped on one paw. He commented cheerfully to nobody in particular, "Ironhide's the good cop. Ratchet's the bad aft. Ask me how I know."

Ironhide grabbed a wrench off a berthside table and casually smacked Fangface on the top of his head with it as he walked past. Fang jumped, hissed, sat bolt upright, and said, "_Ratchet_ is the one who's supposed to do that, fragger!"

"Ratchet definitely does not have a monopoly on smacking 'cons," Ironhide said, as he followed the medic. He kept a wary secondary optic on Fangface as he did. Fang was inspecting the weapons mount on his tail, and trying to look dignified, but he was definitely feeling full of himself. Past experience with Fangface told Ironhide that Fang was definitely not on his best behavior at the moment.

Ratchet grabbed the wrench from Ironhide's hand and made it vanish into a subspace pocket. "Stop harassing my patients or you will _be _one of my patients."

t'Tamis, optics wide, looked from Ratchet, to Fangface, to Ironhide. Ironhide observed that confused, somewhat shocked, look and said with a roll of the optics. "Our CMO outranks me in the med bay. Don't worry, I get my revenge on the gunnery range every few days. There, _I _rule."

This provoked a snort from Ratchet. "Optimus and I fragged your ass last time."

"Took two of you to do it."

"Means you're slipping, old mech."

"If I'm old, so are you," Ironhide pointed out.

With an air of infinite patience, Ratchet explained, "Yes, but I am in _much _better repair, because I don't dodge every attempt to do even the most basic of maintenance. Which reminds me, your air filters need changing."

Fangface, cheerful peanut gallery that he was, said, "You should know that there's a standing bet among the Decepticon officers about you two. Half the staff bet you'll frag each other someday. The other half bet you'll 'face each other stupid. There's a secondary bet that says you two are already doing it, but that doesn't preclude you from killing each other."

"Yeah?" Ratchet glanced over his shoulder, then picked up a tiny sparkling. "Which way did you bet?"

"Oh, murder most foul, just 'cuz I know you _really _want to 'face _me_," Fangface replied, with an absolutely impudent grin.

Ratchet shook his head and muttered, "Evil slagger." Then, louder, he added, "You _have _a partner, Fang. You'd think that'd stop you from hitting on me."

"Ratch," Fangface said tolerantly, "I said you wanted me, not that I ever wanted to 'face you. Geeze."

Ratchet deliberately moved so his back was to Fang, and popped the catches on the sparkling's armor. To t'Tamis he said, "There. See? A spark casing. You know what a spark casing looks like, right? Our internals and your internals have some important differences, but a spark's a spark. That's a spark casing."

t'Tamis cocked his head sideways, then reached out and touched the child, careful to keep his fingers clear of sensitive parts. He confirmed that the spark chamber was warm, had the vibrations of _power _coming from within that could only come from a spark, then said, "How could a mech be so _tiny_?"

"What's a sparkling look like in your culture?" Ratchet asked, sensibly, and perhaps with some knowledge that Ironhide didn't have. He was no scientist, but there was a sudden gleam of comprehension in Ratchet's eyes.

t'Tamis held a hand out at waist height. "Short, no armor, no weapons."

Behind them, there was a loud clang as Fangface slapped himself in the face, then he drew his claws down over his faceplate with a faint screeching noise. "They slagging didn't _believe _me. The fuel systems! They use methane for fuel, with an on-board biological reactor to generate it. Means there's a minimum size for a mech, and I have to say, that's the most inefficient fuel system I've ever seen. So they thought the little sparklings were drones of some kind, and the big sparklings were adults, probably. Kid, do you ever have larger sparklings?"

"Hnh? No, they're always small. Too dangerous to make them bigger, particularly around the sibs." t'Tamis seemed to be, weirdly, relaxing a bit. Perhaps the banter between Ratchet and Fangface had convinced him they weren't blindly evil monsters from tens of generations in his people's past. Ironhide would have sworn the clowning was a bad idea (despite the fact that the two had managed to draw him into it) but maybe it had made them seem mortal.

"Sibs?" Ironhide asked, curiously.

"Siblings. Our organic brothers and sisters."

"Nebulans," Ratchet guessed.

"Both races are Nebulans," t'Tamis corrected him on word usage. He fell silent, but this time, it was the silence of speculation. "My people killed a bunch of sparklings without realizing what they were?"

"And attacked with absolutely zero provocation." Fangface's eyes glittered amber. "The Order of the Primes got involved with the rescue of the surviving sparklings. Killing children without provocation? That's inexcusable, and as far as I'm concerned, it's an act of war. I _told _them there were sparklings in the building and they attacked anyway."

_Easy, Fang. We're a tad outnumbered, hot shot. _Ironhide barely managed to keep from speaking his thoughts aloud in complete irritation.

"When did this happen?" t'Tamis demanded. Then he added, "And there's no such thing as a Prime, sorry. If you guys got lucky and escaped, just call it luck. It was always a myth, told by the ruling class to control the population."

"That would have been yesterday," Ironhide said, answering the question about the time, even as both Ratchet and Fangface started snickering in response to the comment about Primes, or the lack thereof. t'Tamis heard the laughter, and reacted with silence and a stare at them. For the life of him, Ironhide couldn't tell if that silence was t'Tamis being passively aggressive, or if he was too scared to talk. His words had been bold, but it might have been false confidence hiding terror.

"And I wish I could do some show and tell on the subject of Primes," Ratchet said, grinning. "If we told you that you were in the presence of three of the universe's seven living Primes, would you believe me?"

"No."

"Ah, well." Ratchet shrugged. "It was worth a try. -- Ironhide, do you want me to reinstall his comm?"

Ironhide handed the parts over to Ratchet. "Yeah."

_:What game are you playing?: _Ratchet asked, _:Just so we're on the same frequency with this.:_

_:No game.: _Belatedly, he remembered that the mech _didn't _have a comm at the moment. They could freely talk about him without worrying he might overhear and decrypt their comments later. _:I'm not interrogating him.:_  
_  
:Huh -- what?: _Ratchet's optics narrowed. _:You clear that with Prime? Uh, did someone kidnap 'Hide and replace him with a Pretender?:_

_:Fraggit, Ratchet, we screwed up with Nebulos. We know it. Torturing this kid __won't change that. We know what they want -- our energon on fire. They're slagged off, they think we're the Unmaker's own spawn, and it wouldn't surprise me if they think they're doing Primus's own work if they rid the universe of us.: _Ironhide slapped the palm of his hand down on a berth, making t'Tamis jump, Fangface quirk an eyebrow, and Ratchet snort. _:Put the kid's comm back. I'm sending him home.:_

_:They killed _sparklings_.:_

_:Yeah, and so did we, at Nebulos. Our own _and _their children.: _There had been millions of neutrals on Nebulos, including the expected number of younglings.  
_  
:The Decepticons did that.:_

_:From their standpoint, _Cybertronians _did that, and it's been a hundred thousand years. I think the story's gotten a bit corrupted in the telling.: _Ironhide folded his arms. He was somewhat bemused to realize that, for once, _he _was the one arguing for a benevolent reaction rather than frank violence. _:The kid didn't kill the sparklings. He hasn't done anything other than attack us unprovoked, and the 'cons have done that more times than I could begin to count. Yet we're considering peace with the 'cons. For that matter, the 'cons killed Nebulos and we're thinking of making peace with the selfsame 'cons.:_

_:Point.: _Ratchet rubbed the ridge of his nose. _:I'm really worn out, Ironhide. I've been fixing babies all day. And I'm ready to strangle Fang. He's almost literally bouncing off the walls, in between schmoopy cuddling with his partner, who's about as off line as they come at the moment. I'd forgotten how _hyper _he is.:_

At that moment, Optimus pinged him -- and apparently Ratchet and Fangface, as well. _:Yeah, boss?: _Ironhide responded.

_:Ironhide, Keller's here. Teletraan told me of your actions with t'Tamis. I approve of your decision, and if he's a just a scout leader, he may not know any significant information, in any event__. Will you leave t'Tamis in Ratchet's custody and escort Fang to my quarters? I want to introduce him to Keller.:_

_:You're going to encourage Fang to talk to Keller?: _Ironhide considered that concept. _:That could be dangerous.:_

_:Fang will not hurt Keller.: _Optimus sounded confidant about this, and, in fact, almost dismissive.  
_  
:I wasn't worried about him physically harming Keller. I was thinking more along the lines of him _scaring _Keller, just for giggles.: _Fang's sense of humor was very much influenced by the Decepticons.  
_  
:And you don't?:_

_:Only the once! ... Okay, twice. Three times. But he had it coming!: _Ironhide protested.

_:Between you, both sets of twins, Ratchet, and Grimlock, I think Keller has come to assume Cybertronian humor involves intimidation.:  
__  
:And yet, like oxidation, he keeps coming back.:_

Optimus responded without much humor in his voice. Apparently, it was serious enough that the boss couldn't be coaxed into laughing. He explained, _:There's real concern on the Defense Department's part that we may have just imported an invasion force rather than sparklings, or that we might be allying with the 'cons to Earth's detriment. Additionally, they are understandably concerned about any Decepticon involvement in this.:_

_:Oh, slag.: _  
_  
:I had a very similar reaction.: _Optimus sounded worried. _:I want to introduce Fang to Keller as a way to assure him that we do not anticipate Fangface being a problem for Earth. Also, we need to take some mitigating measures to ensure that the sparklings are not seen as a threat. That's going to require Fang's approval and cooperation as well as ours. If he'll cooperate, and be reasonable, that will work to our advantage.:_

Ironhide smacked himself in the forehead, drawing an eyebrows-lifted look from Fang. _:Oh, Primus. I didn't even think of the human reaction. Can't say as I blame them for thinking that, either. I'll walk Fang over in just a minute.:_

_:Thank you, 'Hide.:_

He said, aloud, "Fang, Optimus needs to talk to you. Keller's here -- that's the human secretary of defense."

Fang sat back up. "He wants to talk to _me_?"

"More along the lines of Optimus wants you to talk to him and be diplomatic. Can you actually manage diplomatic?"

"I dunno," Fang hopped off the table and transformed. He looked a bit ragged with half his armor missing across his chest, and his internals visible. He tapped his fingers to his chin for a moment, then added, "If he's annoying, can I eat him?"

"Do I _need _to explain the meaning of the word 'diplomatic' to you?" Ironhide growled at him.

The Decepticon leader gave him an absolutely sunny smile. "I didn't know you were that familiar with the concept yourself, 'Hide."

Ratchet's laughter followed them out the door. Ironhide refused to smile in response. He was not going to acknowledge any amusement in reaction to Fang's antics. However, he would have admitted to anyone who asked that he did prefer working with Fang to any other Decepticon leader they'd ever met.


	62. Chapter 62

Chapter 62

"Elita," Keller's voice was audible through the Optimus's cabin's door, "you're looking as lovely as ever."

Prime's partner's laughter was clear, and deeply amused. "Keller, you know how _funny _that behavior is to us? I know human males compliment the appearance of their friend's spouses, but it's not something we do, and it strikes us as hilarious."

"Oh, but I mean it honestly. I saw the report on your new alt mode this morning. I'd actually considered buying a Solstice for my wife. It's a lovely car." As the door swished open to admit Ironhide and Fangface, Keller added, with honest curiosity, "Why is it so funny to you? I don't quite follow the cultural context there."

Elita was seated on the edge of Optimus's desk. Optimus was nowhere in sight. Keller, at the other end of the desk, was standing on it. Elita explained, "We understand that the purpose of complimenting a man's wife is to flatter the man. However, complimenting me on my appearance is not really all that flattering to Prime. It is to me -- and I agree, I like the Solstice too -- but we don't chose our partners based on appearance, so it strikes us as beyond shallow. I know that's not how you mean it, but it's just, simply, outrageous when processed through our cultural beliefs and behaviors. Complimenting me on my intelligence or my competence as an advisor, however, would be seen as a compliment to both of us: myself for the obvious reasons, and Optimus indirectly because he had the wisdom to chose me, and the desirable character traits himself to interest me."

Keller had stopped talking as Fang entered. Fangface sat on his haunches in front of the desk, and nibbled on a nail, not saying anything to either of them. He figured they could make the first move.

"Pit, Fang," Elita said, hopping off the desk. "I'd say you looked like scrap, but I saw you when you came in. You do look better."

"Now he looks like walking scrap," Ironhide flicked Fang in the ear as he walked past, and the loud noise that caused made Fang reflexively duck.

"Lord Fangface," Keller recovered his composure; he had been gaping briefly. "I'm John Keller, America's Secretary of Defense. Did they brief you on what my job duties are?"

Fang pinned his ears flat in irritation. The man's tone was faintly patronizing. "I am capable of doing research on the internet, and I speak and read fluent English. I understand your country's political structure, possibly better than most Americans."

He'd deliberately let his annoyance color his words, and it earned him a black look from Ironhide and a frown from Elita. However, Keller merely chuckled. "I suppose I had that coming. Optimus tells me that you are a very different mech than Megatron."

"Not crazy, you mean?"

"_That's _debatable," Ironhide growled, earning himself a backhanded swat from Elita, who didn't even look in his direction when she did it.

Keller smiled, but it was a smile at Ironhide, not Fang. "Optimus claims you're rational, and that you care for the welfare of others. I will tell you right up front, Lord Fangface, that I do not want you, or your army, here. Your predecessor nearly destroyed our sun, and multiple members of his army were active participants in the plot. I can't forget that, and I'm not inclined to be forgiving."

Fangface nibbled on his claw for a moment. Keller clearly wasn't afraid of much, and he'd come right to the point. There wasn't the barest trace of diplomacy Fang also recognized the bald statement for what it was: a challenge. _Pit, I wish I had Deathwheels here. He'd have a better idea how to handle this. _"Well," Fang said, finally, "it's pretty hard to keep lines of communication open if you run us off the world and out of the system. I understand your president is a believer in keeping dialog going, even with enemies."

After a moment of cautious regard, Keller snorted. "Definitely more rational than that crazy-ass homicidal idiot you people were following until recently."

"Which one?" Fang moved to another claw, chewed for a second, then planted both front feet solidly on the ground. He pulled himself up to his full seated alt-mode height, which was just tall enough to look Keller in the eyes when Keller was standing on the desk, and said, "Let me tell you about the leadership the Decepticons had, and still have. Half of them are batshit crazy and murderously violent. The other half are clever, ruthless, and strong enough to survive a hundred thousand years of war while working in a cesspit of an army, with a culture so vicious that cannibalizing our young was considered an acceptable way to repair soldiers. Among the Decepticons, there is precisely _one _mech who I call a friend. It says a lot about my people that I trust our enemies more than I trust my own side."

"You trust the Autobots?" Keller considered that statement.

Fang corrected, "I trust them _more_. I don't trust anyone completely." _Deathwheels, _he thought, but that wasn't anything anyone here needed to know. "It's funny. I'm here for repairs, because my own side doesn't have mechs I'd trust to do it, and this is the first time I've been able to relax and let my guard down in a very, very long time. I trust the Autobots not to frag my aft. I can recharge and expect to wake up."

He drummed his claws on the floor for a moment, and Keller took the opportunity to note, "Your army's ruthless, as you say. Why would that endear us the idea of working with you?"

"Because," Fang said, slipping back into a snidely condescending tone, "it would strengthen _my _position with some of my supporters. I'm fully expecting trouble in the near future, due to my plans to make nice with the Autobots. That could be very bad for Earth. The best thing I can offer them is a place to settle -- and I'm thinking Mars, not Earth -- energon, and a future for our race. And possibly some carefully channelled violence, because some of my mechs just aren't going to want to give up fighting, but they're not picky about what they get aimed at. Want some terrorists dead, or got another country that needs to get taken down a peg? We could be damn useful. But that means I need to work with the Earth governments."

Keller's eyebrows rose very high. "What do you hope to gain from Earth? You can't possibly think we'd agree to allow you to stay anywhere in the system. How can we trust you?"

_Can't really stop us, either, _Fang thought, but didn't say.

"And you've stated you plan to conquer us," Elita added, unhelpfully.

"Plans change." Fangface did allow himself to chew on a nail for a moment. It gave him a second to think. He wished Deathwheels was at his accustomed place, standing close enough to Fang's rear that Fangface occasionally flicked him in the ankles with his tail if he got distracted. The moral support would have been nice, the tactical analysis welcome, and the inevitable snarky comments wonderful to bolster his confidence. He would not have admitted it to anyone, even Death, but he was feeling very intimidated. Keller was _important_, and he wasn't someone Fang could intimidate or flatter into loyalty, or kill if he proved too difficult or dangerous to work with. He had to give the fleshie real reasons to believe he wasn't a villain ... and unhelpfully, he _was _the villain.

Keller realized it too, the fragger, and he was feeling confident with Ironhide and Elita backing him up. Fang suspected that he wouldn't sound nearly so unimpressed if he was alone with Fangface. Keller said firmly, "Sounds like you need us more than we need you. You need fuel and shelter for your army, and we've no reason to trust you."

Very much to his surprise, Ironhide said, with a short bark of a laugh, "Oh, we need Fang. And surprisingly, he's been working hard to prove we can trust him."

The door slid open behind them, admitting Optimus. "Good evening, Mr. Keller. I apologize for the delay; I was detained by the preparations involved in onlining Ranger," Optimus said, walking to his chair. "I see you've met Fangface."

"They've been trading preliminary hostilities," Elita said, optics dancing with amusement. "Keller's winning."

"This is not a battle," Optimus's voice was mildly chiding. "Keller, the reason I asked Fang to speak to you was that, surprisingly, I trust him. He earned our respect yesterday when he and his squad nearly offlined themselves saving the sparklings."

"You realize," Keller said, "that I might believe you regarding the sparklings, but most people won't. Optimus, they can't stay here."

Fang stood up, anger heating his processor. "Where would you have us send them, flesh ... human? We can't get them offworld if we wanted to!"

"Fang, sit down," Optimus took a seat at his desk, even as Fang found he'd plunked his aft back down on the decking before he even realized he'd taken an order from Optimus. Keller noticed that, too, because his eyes widened slightly. Fang hid his discomfiture by scratching at a tooth. Optimus said, "Mr. Keller, what assurances would you like us to offer? We have no interest in frightening Earth governments or her people."

A blink and a look of startled comprehension crossed Keller's face. "Optimus," he said, shaking his head, "sometimes, you make my job too easy, when you're not making it impossible. Am I going to need to fight this out with you, or are you really proposing to cooperate the first time around?"

Optimus rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers together. "I cannot ever remember _fighting _with you, Keller. Firmly disagreeing, yes. In this instance, however, I suspect we have a mutual goal, which is to ensure the safety of your country and your people."

"Uh," Fang held his claws up, "I didn't follow that line of logic, Optimus. I think there's some subtext here I'm missing. And the sparklings aren't a threat to Earth."

Keller folded his arms and met Fang's gaze with a keen look. "Even assuming they are sparklings, and at this time we have nothing but Optimus's word to go on ..."

"Pit, even _I _trust Optimus's word," Fang rolled his optics.

Optimus lifted one optic ridge up at him. "It's nice to know how you feel, Fang, but I've never expected that of the humans, and they're not in a position to give unconditional trust to us."

"... Anyway." Keller huffed a sigh. "... as I was saying before I was interrupted, I have nothing but Optimus's word to go on. Even if he is correct, however, sparklings grow up someday. What assurance do we have that they will not become a threat when they are adults? This is assuming they are not an invading army neatly packaged up in stasis and only awaiting Decepticon orders to conquer this world."

Fang started to bristle in outrage at the suggestion. He got as far as, "They're _babies_!" before being cut off by Ironhide's amused laugh.

"We don't have the energon to conquer Earth, and you know it." Ironhide pointed at Keller. "We've already transmitted the data to you regarding the amount of energon the sparklings will need, and our current production capabilities."

Keller waved a hand dismissively in the air. "I'm not worried about an invading force. Doc gave me a tour earlier, and showed me how much in disrepair they are. Sparkling or not, most of them would malfunction within minutes of waking unless you do some serious maintenance first. All the seals on their fuel systems are shot; something about peroxides and perchlorates in Martian dust oxidizing important bits. If you started fixing that many mechs, we'd notice. _And _you don't have the parts to do it on a large scale, and won't until you get the manufacturing capability set up here on Earth, and that's decades away."

This earned him a nod from Optimus. "As far as the odds of them becoming a threat _later, _Keller, my best suggestion is that they be socialized to see humans as friends from the time they are first brought online."

"Like a puppy, eh?"

Fang said shortly, "At the moment of first awareness, sparklings begin to build a framework of information about their world. They can be deeply influenced by their experiences during the first few hours of life, and then to a lesser extent over the next few years of life. Treat a sparkling badly, frighten him, hurt him, and he will grow up to be a suspicious, wary sort. Provoke him into violence and allow him to succeed at violent actions before he attain rational thought, and his neural pathways will forever favor swift, effective violence over cautious, peaceful resolutions. Provoke him into violence and then let him fail, lose fights, become injured, and you end up with a coward, afraid of confrontation. It's all very scientific. Megatron was an expert at manipulating the developing psyches of sparklings to make effective warriors."

The human started to say something, and Fang pointed at him, effectively silencing him. Their difference in size was such that, although Fang's claws were several feet away, it still had to be intimidating. Ironhide tensed. Optimus did not move an inch and gave off an aura of complete unconcern, even when Keller backed up a couple of strides. "However, a sparkling raised with love, affection, and firm guidance will nearly instinctively trust others, and will be fiercely protective of them. If the sparklings are raised to expect love and affection from _humans _they will be the fiercest guardians of the human race that one could ever imagine."

"Why ... why would you want ..." Keller was suddenly taken aback. "Why would you want the sparklings to love us? Strange sentiments, from a Decepticon."

"Oh," Fang cocked a back foot up, inspected his foot, and barely managed to avoid nibbling at the toes. Was he winning? Was the human seeing things his way? Or had he just scared him into wanting Fang personally offlined? Blast it, he didn't know how to deal with humans, and this one was important. "That. Well, it's like this. I could give you a lot of reasons, at least one of them profoundly metaphysical, for wanting the sparklings to survive. Let's just say I've got my orders, and they come from a power even an evil 'con like me won't argue with. I will fight to my last drop of energon to make sure those sparklings survive."

He scratched his auditory receptor with his back foot, then straightened up and transformed. Now he stood a head and shoulders taller than the human's height on the desk. He planted a hand on either side of Keller and loomed over him. Keller, somewhat to Fang's surprise, stood his ground, though the man's heart was racing and he shot a quick glance at Ironhide from the corner of his eyes. Ironhide's weapons capacitors were humming and Fang figured, with his chest armor missing, if he actually made an aggressive move towards Keller he was toast. Ironhide could kill him with one quick blast, and they both knew it.

Fang wasn't worried at all. He wasn't going to be violent, and Ironhide wasn't going to shoot at him without cause.

He continued, voice low and firm, "I work, every day, with mechs who are sociopathic afts. On the extreme end of the spectrum, I've killed scores of insane fraggers on my own side. I've put them down as if they were rabid animals, because they could not be trusted, or reasoned with, and would never be able to function in polite company. Worse, they were miserable, angry, full of hate and rage and spark-deep pain. Killing them was a mercy. I _fully _believe this. The only alternative was a full reformat, and starting over, and I _don't have the mechs to raise sparklings_. Not the way they should be raised. Simplest just to shoot them and be done with it. But the bottom line is that they are dead, and they're dead because they were," he deliberately used the human obscenity for the shock value, "fucked in the processor and a danger to everyone around them."

Fang slapped the palm of his hand on the top of the desk, making Keller jump involuntarily. None of the Autobots blinked. Ironhide's capacitors had stopped whining, a fact that nearly distracted him from his rant. He was suprised, to the very center of his being, that none of them had lifted a finger or opened a comm link to protest his rant.

He continued to address Keller, rising anger from Primus knew what source putting a menacing growl in his voice, "If those sparklings are raised to be suspicious of humans, or simply to _not know them_ ... Ironhide, what was your reaction to humans when you first met them?"

"Small, squishy, violent, stupid, and smelly," Ironhide said, voice an easy drawl. "A few of them grew on me, somewhat like oxidation."

"Heh. And he's one of the _good _guys. Secretary, if those sparklings are not socialized to humans, they _will be dangerous _to humans. That means it's entirely possible that they'll get hurt or killed by humans defending themselves. On the extreme end of things, they could conspire against humans."

Keller's heart rate was slowing, and his posture growing more assertive. Fang might have temporarily disconcerted him, but he realized the human had a formidable amount of courage when the man folded his arms and said, "I hear what you're saying, but if what you were saying was completely true, I should fear the Autobots. They've thoroughly convinced me of their benevolence and it's not like they ever met humans until two years ago."

Fangface quirked an eyebrow up. "You're dealing with very experienced adults in Optimus's crew. I'm pretty sure Ironhide would not be nearly as pleasant to work with if he was a teenager."

Elita laughed aloud, "He's got you there, 'Hide."

"Hnh. So in shorter words, you're saying you want the sparklings to be exposed to humans when they're little so they don't wear their welcome out when they're grown, because that's the best thing for the kiddos." Keller suddenly raked a hand through his hair, and turned to face Optimus. "Prime, you set me up, didn't you? I came in here expecting Megatron Light, and I get ... damn, I could almost like him."

Fang's anger vanished in a twinkling. "Really?" he said, impressed with himself. Had that passionate little speech really worked?

"Don't push it." Keller turned back. "What assurance can you give me that your troops won't be a problem?"

"The troops I station here permanently will be hand picked and under strict orders to behave," Fang said, placatingly.

"Not good enough. One 'con with a bad attitude could _kill _an awful lot of humans in a hurry." Keller was obviously no fool.

Fang smacked a hand down on the desk again, frustrated. Not even Keller jumped, which annoyed Fang a bit. "I'll supervised them personally, and I'll offline any ..."

"You talk a pretty talk, but you haven't earned _my _trust. Prime's mechs have." Keller met Fang's gaze and refused to look away. "You willing to let us supervise your forces? Closely?"

"No," Fangface said, bluntly, "because my mechs would never accept it. They'd rebel. Against _me_."

For a moment, they were at an impasse, then Optimus said smoothly, "We'll supervise the 'cons, Keller -- and Fang? You'll have to allow _some _human oversight. Make your people accept it. I know you're perfectly capable of knocking heads together if you need to, and this may be a time to do it. Also, the N.E.S.T. soldiers will carry both sabot rounds and small pulse cannons at all times. _They _will guard the sparklings with us. Mr. Keller, will that help alleviate your concerns?"

The Secretary of Defense blinked a couple of times, then said slowly, "You've never allowed us access to your technology before."

Optimus pressed his fingers together, and looked past all of them, seeing Primus-knew-what in his memories. "The sparklings will be a target, Mr. Keller. The pulse cannons will self-destruct if anyone tampers with them. I assure you, Wheeljack is very skilled at making things blow up."

"Tamper? Reverse-engineer them, you mean," Keller snorted, but he did sound relieved. "You'll let us split the sparklings up into separate, secure locations, under human control?"

"No," Fang said, flatly, even as Optimus was nodding slow assent. "Optimus, that's madness. The sparklings are our _future_. We cannot ..."

A long, slow sigh shook Optimus's vents. _:Fangface, we have no choice. We have no feasible way to remove the sparklings from this world, and even if we did, where would we take them? I fully empathize with human concerns in this matter. It is very likely that if we refuse to cooperate, they will either destroy the sparklings or seize them from us, and in the process, our hard-won and nascent friendship with this world's people will be shattered utterly. __If they attempt to hurt the sparklings, I will be forced to defend them. My first duty -- our first duty -- as Primes is, and always has been, ensuring the future of our race.__:_

_:You ask me to trust aliens with our children!:_

_:Do you have any better ideas? I do not.: _It was, to Fang's shock, an honest-sounding question. Optimus continued, _:I do trust Keller. He's always been honest with us, and he is a retired soldier who's seen combat himself. What I do not trust is the short cycle of this world's elections. The next president, and his staff, could be far less sensible and honorable, and the next president might replace Keller.:  
_  
_:Hnh. We should make sure the human public sees them as appealing _children_.: _Fang, disgruntled, sighed, stepped back from looming over the desk, and said in a calmer tone of voice, "Mr. Keller, I can agree to human oversight of the stasis'd sparklings, guardedly, as long as I am able to place trusted soldiers from my army at each location."

The human started to protest, but Optimus said smoothly, "We Autobots would do the same, Keller. Three-way oversight of the sparklings seems to me the best way to resolve the concerns of all three parties. And before you protest to me that we do not need Decepticons involved, unlike Megatron, Fang has a very personal interest in sparklings. For as long as I've known him, he's been fond of children. I have never known him to be cruel to a child, or to someone in a weaker position than his. He can be ruthless and swiftly violent if the occasion demands it, and I am somewhat glad to no longer be his commanding officer ..."

Ironhide snorted a laugh.

"... but he truly loves children. I believe he would object, likely very strongly, were we to attempt to exclude him now."

Fangface grunted. "To say the least."

"Was that a threat?" Keller said, sounding annoyed.

Fang held out a single hand, palm up, the universal Cybertronian gesture for 'I'm willing to deal' which Optimus would understand, even if Keller didn't. The signal was meant for Optimus, as a show of gratitude for Optimus's surprising support. He clarified his position to Keller, "Not precisely a threat. Might I point out that by caring for the sparklings you have one _hell _of a large number of hostages to ensure my faction's good behavior? -- And I'm well aware of how you would like react if Decepticons caused trouble on this world, and that reaction would not be to the benefit of the children. And all that's beside the point. Earth needs the sparklings. I'm sure by now that Prime has 'fessed up about the slight Nebulan problem ..."

"Yes," Keller growled, "he's kept is aware of the issue."

"... and I'm sure that Prime was just delighted when that skeleton danced out of its closet. Whatever. We don't know what the Nebulans have planned, and they aren't the only threat in the universe, and it also occurs to me that America's got to be delighted to have an army of baby war machines given your current domestic issues. The sparklings are going to be a formidable defensive force for this world someday." Fang drummed his fingers on his thigh, then realized he'd probably picked that nervous tic up from Ratchet, and stopped. "So you _want _the sparklings here. And you need my help to keep them alive, because the Ark can't transport enough energon alone. And if you want my help, that means I get to be involved in their care, because I don't trust the Autobots and I don't trust you, but I need both of you. Do we understand each other now?"

Keller frowned.

Optimus steepled his fingers together. "I have only minor objections to working with the Decepticons in this matter. Fang, I want to be able to veto your choice of guards. There are certain soldiers who my 'bots will never work well with."

_:And I don't always know the specific history between our soldiers, I know, Optimus. That's fine with me. I'll e-mail you a list after I talk to Death, and if you have any objections send them to me privately.: _Aloud, and aiming for some humor to lighten the mood, he said, "The same goes both ways, Optimus. I can tell you right now that I don't want a certain elder pair of twins within light years of my mechs."

Both Ironhide and Optimus chuckled. Keller looked surprised by the laugher, but then, he didn't have the context to understand just how wicked Sideswipe and Sunstreaker's pranks could be, and how likely it would be that a prank from the twins would lead to fighting between factions.

Keller grunted, "You've made some persuasive arguments. Tell you what, Lord Fangface, I'll think about your requests and suggestions, and get back to you. Ah, do you have an e-mail address?"

Optimus replied before Fang could. "I just sent you his contact information."

_:And that's your cue to scram, Fang,: _Ironhide said, cheerfully, _:I believe you've got a date with Ratchet to fix your partner. I'll walk you back.:  
_  
"Mr. Keller, Optimus, if I can take leave of you now, I should." He added, by way of explanation to Keller, "My second in command -- and my partner, that's like a spouse -- was very badly injured. I'm needed in the med bay."

Keller shook his head, and made a shooing gesture with one hand. "Go on, then."

As the door slid shut behind him he heard Keller say to Optimus, "Whew. Is he _always _that intense?" The privacy shield on the cabin cut off Optimus's reaction.

He traded a look with Ironhide. Ironhide rumbled, "We probably shouldn't tell him that you were on your best behavior in there. And, Fang -- good job."

"Good job?" he wanted to bask in the praise, but he was confused by it. He felt like he'd been out of control and argumentative the whole time, and he'd probably half-terrified the human.

Ironhide shrugged. "Keller was all set to dismiss you out of hand, and you did a damn good job at giving him reasons not to. Plus, Optimus was counting on you taking the heat for the sparklings' arrival. Keller knows who to blame, now. I imagine you'll be his favorite whipping boy for the rest of his term, but there's nothing wrong with a political round of good cop/bad cop."

Fang grinned all the way back to the med bay.

* * *

"So if we route the power conduit through here ..." Fang leaned across Death's chassis to indicate a narrow space between his oversized processor and his back strut, "there should be enough clearance if we insulate it thoroughly."

"If he gets hit in the back, though, that'll take out his cannons entirely." Wheeljack voiced his objection and followed it with a simulation of the effects of even a moderate concussive blast on Death's back struts. They'd bow inwards and potentially cut the insulation on the power conduit. "If they short out against his processor core, that's _bad_. They don't make processors like that anymore, and I imagine he'd object to losing his."

"True." Fang pondered the problem, and Ratchet pondered Fang. Ratchet had already figured out a solution to the problem of where to put the oversized power conduits to Death's oversized cannons, but he was curious to see what Fang was going to come up with. _:Wheeljack, let Fang figure this out. I want to see how much he _really _knows.:_

Wheeljack glanced up at him, then nodded briefly.

Several thousand years ago, Ratchet had been impressed by glimmers of intelligence from the young Decepticon soldier. Most 'cons didn't use their processors much and Fang had been a notable exception. He'd known enough about his own systems to help Ratchet figure out repairs for his rather esoteric systems. Ratchet was privately of the opinion that whoever had designed Fang's system had been a genius, but also assumed everyone else was -- the idiot hadn't even bothered annotating Fang's code, much less provide anything resembling useful schematics in Fang's base memory. That Fang had been able to learn as much as he had about his own workings had said quite a bit about his intelligence.

He'd also been rash, impulsive to the point of being a danger to himself, too scatter-brained to focus on any one subject for more than a few minutes, and hyper enough to wear Blurr out. Now, he was still all of those things, but he had picked up self restraint and at least _some _ability to think first. It might be the influence of age, and it might be the influence of the Matrix, but Fang was actually putting his intelligence to good use now.

"What about this?" Fang finally suggested, "We can install a seeker-model power plant in place of what's there. The output in amps is the same, so we won't have to rework his wiring, and the only major difference is that it's got slightly less fuel efficiency, but that's a fair trade to let him keep his guns. We'll need to weld a bracket here, and here, to support it ..." he tapped a claw against a couple supports. "And I think we'd need a higher-capacity fuel pump, but if we do all that, there will be more clearance to run a power conduit. The seeker model power plants are narrower in diameter."

"That would work," Ratchet allowed, "but why don't you just lengthen the brackets between his engine and his cooling fan here and run the conduit between them, along the edge of his radiator? That won't degrade his cooling enough to matter."

Fang blinked. "That'll work."

"And we'll be done in an hour, not days." Ratchet reached for the conduit line in question, even as Wheeljack went to get the brackets they'd need. Yeah, Fang was smart, but Ratchet figured he had a lot to learn yet. "That's a trick I use a lot."

The Decepticon leader shot him a pleased smile. "I learned something new."

Ratchet returned the smile with a grin. "You could be a very good engineer, Fang, if you could focus on it. I know you're likely busy with command issues, but keep dabbling."

"You realize," Fang said conversationally, "you're encouraging your enemy to develop prowess with protoform design. That's not to your advantage."

Ratchet flicked him in the auditory sensor by way of response, making Fang duck his head and hiss. "Let's just say I like you more than I hate Decepticons."

* * *

Death onlined to minor pain, and a disorienting flood of new data. The unfamiliarity provoked his battle routines into activating, and he tried to launch off the berth in a panicky flurry of activating weapons and sensor scans. The sensor scans worked, telling him he was in a completely unfamiliar room med bay. Nothing else responded.

"Told you he'd try to come up swinging," a vaguely familiar voice said, sounding blackly amused. "I've yet to have a 'con online in my med bay that didn't try to kill me before he was fully coherent. What do you people do when you've got to do an emergency reboot under in battlefield conditions?"

"If we can't disable motor routines? Push the 'on' button, and run." _That _was Fang, and he sounded only amused, not worried or frightened. "Deathwheels, you better be in there. If I have to reformat you, I'm going to be very displeased."

His vocalizer wasn't working, but his comm was. _:Fang?:_

"And he's alive!" Fang bounced up onto his hind legs, coming into view of Death's primary optics. "Slag, my friend, you scared me practically into a spark arrest ..."

"... he means that literally ..." the snarky voice interjected.

"... Primus, it's good to hear you say my name. You've been transplanted into a new protoform. I'm sorry, your old one was pretty trashed, so I decided you'd probably rather have a new form and be up and running right away versus waiting weeks for us to rebuild your old body. You're a bulldozer now. Can you live with that? You're not as tall, but your armor's actually heavier, believe it or not, and ..."

Deathwheels felt a command from a datapad unlock his motor relays. The other voice said, "You can sit up, but do it slowly."

"... and we managed to salvage your pulse cannons, and your processor core's fine, and so's my memory core, Ratchet says the patch you put on it probably saved my life, and we've got close to half a million live sparklings and we're going to be working with the humans and ..."

Death said dryly, "Lord Fangface, can we wait until the world stops spinning for the debriefing? Where am I?" He cautiously sat up, noting that he was still hooked to a datapad. The owner of the datapad was a horribly ugly green color, and Deathwheels belatedly recognized the Autobot's CMO. "Nevermind, I'm on the Ark, right?"

"Yep!" Fang was practically vibrating. "Did I make the right choice? I wasn't sure, but I needed you, and I figured you'd be okay with the new for as long as it was big, and ..."

Ratchet snorted. "Fang, give the mech a moment to reorient himself. Death, if I online your weapons, will you promise not to shoot my head off?"

_That _made him blink in surprise as he tried to figure out why the medic would take the risk. "You'd give me weapons?"

"Fang needs to stay here for few more hours. We're not quite done with his repairs. I believe his plan is for you to head back to the Nemesis and make sure they don't burn the ship down or start killing puppies in his absence." Ratchet studied the datapad. "And come up with a plausible reason for his disappearance that won't make the 'cons mutiny."

He checked his chronometer. He'd been offline for thirty-six hours. "Fang, what have you told them so far?"

"TC said I was injured and getting repairs. The truth. He was evasive as to where. The 'bots sent him home with suggestions that he improvise while I was still out cold." Fangface hopped up onto the berth behind him. "Death, I was so scared I might lose you. You were so close to death, they said you nearly died, you owe your life to _Inferno _of all mechs, he's only a field medic, Ratchet talked him through the repairs while he was working on me, and you saved all those sparklings, you're a hero, the Autobots even say so ..."

"Fang," Ratchet said, amused, "you sound like Bluestreak. Do I need to check you for a processor glitch?"

Deathwheels actually thought Fangface sounded like he was very close to breaking down. He'd probably been highly stressed for a long period of time, and now that Death was awake, his relief was leading to an overload of emtoions. Ratchet removed the block on Death's weapons routines, disconnected datapad. Deathwheels said, quietly, to Ratchet, "Thank you, Ratchet. Can I have a minute with Fang?"

"The med bay's not private enough for what he needs. Use my office." Ratchet laughed at the expression of embarrassment on Fang's face, and managed to pat Fang on the top of the head on his way out the door without getting bit. "Death, don't do anything too strenuous until you've had a bit to adapt your reflexes to the new form, but your code is scanning clean."

"He doesn't mean we should ..." Fang was very clearly nonplussed. "He can't!"

Deathwheels slid off the berth, somewhat shakily, and turned to Fang. He didn't bother commenting on the fact the medic clearly knew of their relationship. He'd find out what had happened from Fang. "So where's this office?"

"Umm ..." Fang hesitated, shifting from foot to foot.

Deathwheels got a better look at Fang, then shook his head. "Slag. You've got no chest armor. What happened to it?"

"They needed to use it to make replacement back struts and it was pretty trashed anyway." Fang hopped off the table. "I've got some temporary duryllium plates, but they're machining the hinges to fit better right now. And they're heavy. Wheeljack said he was going to make me some carbon fiber armor until we can get some replacement alloy. They're actually calling in some metallurgy expert of theirs -- I think his name is Perceptor -- to work on that."

It sounded as if a lot had happened while they were gone. He suggested, _:Package up your memories of everything that's happened in the last thirty-six hours and get ready to transmit them to me. Faster than a debriefing, and that way, you won't leave anything out.:_

_:I think I need you. Now. Right now.:_

"I know," Death said, wondering how he felt about Fang's reaction. He still hurt, he was disoriented, he was _tired_ and Fang was looking at him with desperate emotion and need. He would have liked some time to get his equilibrium back, to process the changes to his form, and to figure out just what the hell had happened with the sparklings, and Fang, and Primus. But Fang was staring at him with hungry, wide optics, and it was clear Fang _needed _him.

That true need was all that Death cared about, for the moment. As soon as they were alone, he swept Fang into his arms -- new arms, shaped differently, bulkier -- and leaned against a wall and shakily made the connection. _:Tell me,: _he said, and that was the only promptly Fang needed before he unleased a crashing wave of wild emotions: fear, hope, exhilarating triumph, terrified worry, awe, loneliness, and a sense of insecurity and inadequacy that made Death tighten his grip on Fangface and murmer an audible denial when it struck him. Fang followed the emotions with thirty-six hours worth of memories, and then just clung to Deathwheels while Death scanned rapidly through them.

_:I don't know if I did everything right,: _Fang thought hesitantly.

_:You did good. Real good.: _And that was true. Deathwheels was impressed by Fang's competence. Well, he hadn't gotten where he was in life by being a complete idiot, however, he'd definitely risen to the occasion. _:I'm proud of you.:_

_:Really?: _Fang melted into Death's arms, relief draining the tension from his battered body. _:You think so?_

_:I do. I really do.: _Death smiled. There really wasn't anything he wouldn't do for Fang, he decided.

* * *

This wasn't the best time for new sparklings, but Optimus figured it could be worse, and it probably wasn't going to get any better in the near future. Chaos, confusion, and _way _too much work, and multiple looming crisis were just simply going to be part of his life for the forseeable future.

_This is not Prowl, _Optimus said to himself, one last time. He carried the slim silver form through the door into his quarters with Elita following close on his heels. _His name is Ranger. I will treat him as any other sparkling, for now. He is our child._

"Are you certain you don't want me to do the uploads?" Elita asked, not for the first time. She followed behind him with a second sparkling in her arms; this was the brother they had chosen for Ranger. The second child had no name yet. Naming Ranger had been easy; they had an idea of what to expect from his spark. He would give the second child a designation after activating him.

He glanced over at her, then shook his head quietly. Elita had been far closer to Prowl than he was. The quiet tactician had opened up to her -- and to Jazz -- sometimes, in ways he had done with very few others. Prowl had a tendency to keep his own counsel, but Optimus's partner, with her natural empathy, had occasionally prodded him into sharing his personal feelings. They'd been close, close friends. It would be easier for Optimus to set his feelings for his friend Prowl aside than Elita, and less painful. Optimus had loved Prowl like a brother, but had left it to Elita to be his sounding board on the rare occasions he needed it.

And aside from the emotional connection, Optimus planned to stay here on Earth for the next several months at a minimum, if not far longer. Earth was home now, for as long as the humans would have them. Sparklings would have the closest connection to the one who first gave them their operational code. Elita would be coming and going, as she was now assigned to the Ark, and that meant either the sparklings would need to leave Earth to stay with her, or they would suffer the trauma of her departure. As he wanted the sparklings to be thoroughly exposed to positive human influences, keeping them on Earth was ideal, and that meant he would need to be their primary mentor.

He put Ranger's protoform down on the floor and sat beside him with casual grace. Ranger was so still, and yet, when he rested a hand on the protoform's chassis, he could feel the warmth and faint vibration of a spark through the highly polished armor plates.

Elita settled into a chair, a smile tugging at her lips, the second sparkling in her lap. It was smaller, standing a scant eight feet tall upright; not the flier he'd joked about, but a slim scientist type, with a large processor and nimble fingers. She said, "It will be good to see you with sparklings at your heels again."

He could agree with that sentiment. It would be nice to have little ones tagging along after him. He said softly, "Are you ready?"

She returned his nod. "Teletraan, please make sure we are not disturbed."

Optimus slid open the sparkling's chest plates, and connected a power cable to his processor core. Then he clicked the little one's armor closed, and said formal words, traditional words, of greeting. "From the chaos of the Unicron came the order of Primus. From the chaos of raw emotions comes the order of thought. From the chaos of unthinking violence comes the order of peace. And from the chaos of hate comes the order of love. Come to us, child, and know the order, the peace, the love of Primus."

It took the sparkling a moment longer to really rouse. When he did, it was with a panicked flurry of fearful motions. He lunged across the room with a scream of capacitors and a fearful, furious, snarl of static from his vocalizer. Terrified, he didn't stop until he'd wedged himself behind Optimus's desk.

Optimus exchanged a look with Elita, one of knowing experience. Every sparkling that ever came online reacted the same way, as protective routines activated and triggered fear in the face of the unknown input. To a new sparkling, everything was frightening because everything was _new_.

He waited. He had an idea that this sparkling would also be very curious, and he was right. After a moment, wary blue optics appeared over the top of the desk. He smiled, though Ranger didn't have the code uploaded to understand the expression, and said softly, "Hello, little one."

Ranger dove back down, frightened by the unexpected noise of his voice.

"I'm not going to hurt you." The words didn't matter, and he couldn't even interpret voice tone yet, but he would learn that the sound of Optimus's voice wasn't a threat, and perhaps he would investigate it. Ranger would be fiercely curious, with the spark-gifts they knew he possessed. "I am Optimus Prime, and I am going to be your mentor. I will not hurt you, child. Will you come to me? I don't want to have to retrieve you. That would be scary. It's better if you come to me ..."

The blue optics reappeared. After a moment, Ranger straightened up to his full height, just a scant foot taller than Elita. He wobbled for a second, then autonomic functions took over and he found his balance. He surveyed the room, eyes briefly studying Optimus before his gaze came to rest on Elita. Optimus was reasonably sure sparklings at this stage, prior to their first operational code upload, couldn't tell a mech from a piece of furniture, but something -- the bright shine of her optics, the gleam of lights of metal, or the color of her armor -- drew his attention. He stared for a minute, head bobbing up and down owlishly, then he advanced, driven by a spark-deep instinct to explore and understand his world.

Elita held perfectly still as Ranger inspected her without touching. Then he padded on about the room, first looking out the window, then staring with fascination at the glowing lights next to a panel of switches on the wall. He didn't reach to attempt to handle anything, as he didn't understand yet that he _could _manipulate his world. He just wandered, taking in optical input in a random fashion.

Optimus had fallen silent, enjoying watching these moments of discovery. He was learning about the world, and at the moment, Optimus suspected all that was going through that processor was pure, simple curiosity. However, finally, Optimus made a small chirping noise. That drew the sparkling's attention in his direction, and he repeated it. The child walked over to him, and, very slowly, Optimus raised his hand up.

When he saw the movement, the sparkling shied several feet away with an alarmed beep. It said something about his nature, really, that he didn't go diving back behind the desk. He was curious, but also wary. Hardcoded programming told him to be afraid of the unknown. He didn't understand movement. It was, therefore, by definition, unknown.

Optimus raised his hand again, and lowered it, then repeated this small gesture over and over. It was a simple, repetitive motion, predictable, and it became 'known' after a moment. The sparkling advanced, head bobbing as he tracked the motion. Optimus changed the gesture, moving his hand side to side, and the sparkling spooked again, but Ranger didn't flee so far, and he was quick to return.

Optimus, finally, extended a hand cautiously towards the child. At the brush of Optimus's fingers on his arm, at the unexpected sensation of fingers contacting his armor, Ranger backed hastily up. Optimus had honestly been expecting him to dive for cover at that, but he just looked down at his armor, then drew closer. He didn't flinch at Optimus's second attempt to touch him, he just looked. After a moment of getting him used to being touched, Optimus gently tugged Ranger's hand forward, and pressed it to his own arm, showing Ranger that he could _touch _things and get tactile input from his fingers.

Ranger didn't yet have the coding for facial expressions, but Optimus was pretty sure that the otherwise meaningless squeak he admitted indicated a happy realization. He reached a hand out to touch Optimus's optics, clearly drawn by the bright lights. Optimus let him poke at his optics, his mouth, at the shiny bits of his armor, at his windshield. Gently, while the sparkling was engrossed in exploration, he brushed a hand over Ranger's dataport, pulled it open, and plugged in a cable.

Downloading code to a sparkling wasn't anything at all like interfacing with an adult. When he clicked the cable into place, Ranger had already been desensitized to touch, and only barely reacted. He was much more fascinated by Optimus's headlights, and Optimus obligingly flicked them off and on to keep Ranger's attention while he worked. He connected the cable to his own port, and initiated a connection with the ease of practice.

The mind that he touched was almost pure emotion, with motivations as simple as if/then statements If it was frightening, then Ranger would run. If it was new, and not threatening, then he would investigate it. If it hurt him, then he would attack it. If it felt good, then he would enjoy it. There was no logic, no higher thought, just a spark and basic autonomic functions. Optimus connected on a far more basic level than two adults would, and Ranger belatedly felt the connection and reacted with predictable fear. He tried to lunge away, but Optimus was ready and swept the sparkling into his lap.

_:Love.: _He sent the emotion across the connection between them, before Ranger could begin to struggle or react with more than a flash of fear. _:Trust. Belonging. Affection. Safe. Secure. No threat. _Love. _Love. Love.:_

Ranger responded with, _:Curiosity. Trust. Pleasure.:_

What rudimentary firewalls Ranger had came down in reflexive reaction. Optimus kept _his _firewalls securely in place, having no desire for his sparkling to go rooting through his memories and learn things sparklings shouldn't know ... never mind learning about his own past! However, he kept sending the honestly affectionate emotions he was feeling, and, simultaneously, began a very long download of operational code and critical data modules.

The code was a copy of Optimus's own, slightly changed (and vetted by Elita, who excelled at writing code) to allow for Ranger's smaller, more streamlined structure and far more limited sensors. He installed it first, tucking it into place and setting the permissions so that Ranger couldn't alter any of it. Sparklings were notorious for corrupting their own operating systems before they learned better. Memories of messes his past children had made of their processor cores made Optimus double-check for any holes Ranger could use. It looked airtight, for now. He'd have Elita check again in a few days. He knew this would be a very clever sparkling.

Ranger had gone very still and silent against his chestplates. The world had just opened up to him, as he now had the routines to understand language, to recognize people, to read facial expressions, to truly understand cause and effect. It was a lot to take in. Optimus finished by addingsome specific modules, including multiple languages, human law and Cybertronian law, and a big chunk of data on physics, chemistry, and math that he suspected Ranger would make use of fairly quickly. He also gave Ranger a file with the names and appearances of every human and mech that Optimus knew and a map of the base. The last thing Optimus uploaded were the rules for Quattra, and that was purely a sentimental touch. Prowl had always loved the game, and had been the best of all of them at it. Only Jazz and Perceptor had ever given him much of a challenge at it.

Then, with a smile that reflected how easily this had gone, he disengaged.

_:Elita, he took it all in without a fight. He's _so _curious.: _The mind that had brushed his had been fascinated by the new data. There had been flickers of fear, which he'd readily soothed with _love _and _trust _and Optimus had been thrilled by that easy acceptance.  
_  
:Are we surprised?:_

_:Merely very pleased.:_ Optimus released the datalink capable and just sat with his arms around his sparkling for a moment. Finally, he said aloud, "Welcome, Ranger."

That got him a chirp of acknowledgement.

"Do you see Elita?" He pointed, and the code allowed Ranger to follow his finger's trajectory. "She is my partner, and she loves you too. Will you go to her?"

Another chirp. Ranger stood up and walked over, head tilted curiously to one side. He followed Ranger to Elita, and helped her shift the other sparkling to the floor. Ranger watched, then said, his first clear words, "Who is he?"

"This is your brother," Optimus said, quietly. "You'll meet him in a minute."

"Hello, Ranger." Elita said, "we're very delighted to have you. We've been wanting you to join us for a long time."

Ranger blinked his optics at her, and considered that statement. Then he said, in a voice that was eerily familiar, with measured, precisely pronounced tones, "You were waiting for me ... before I existed? My chronometer says I've been awake for an hour and a half. What came before? Where was I?"

_:Optimus, did he just ...: _Elita trailed off, stunned by that example of abstract thought from so very young of a child. She covered her mouth in shock and trailed off for a moment, likely shocked into a lack of speech. Optimus himself was dumbfounded. Elita finally said, with amusement, _:And how do we even answer that question?:_

"Did I do something wrong?" Ranger asked anxiously.

"No," Optimus said, crouching behind Ranger and resting a hand on his back. He wanted his sparkling to feel secure. "It is never wrong to ask questions, and I suspect it will be something you are very good at. She is just surprised that you are so insightful, so early. Most children are not."

_:Does the spark know what he was before, perhaps ...?: _Elita asked Optimus.

_:Perhaps, or perhaps he is merely the prodigy we expected. Do not forget that Prowl was described as eerily perceptive as a child. I believe I understand what his mentors meant by that description.: _

"Are you able to answer my question?" Ranger asked, politely, head tilted to one side.

"Yes." Optimus sat back down and pulled the child into his lap, something Ranger didn't protest at all. "A very long time ago, your spark was placed into this protoform by an ancient artifact called the Allspark. We woke you now because we wanted you to be our child. You are ours, and you will be safe and loved with us."

It was the simplest explanation he could give, without lying. He waited, hoping Ranger wouldn't question it any more. Ranger, fortunately, had another question. "Can I look out the window again?"

Optimus let him up, knowing the scene outside would make much more sense to the child now that he had the code to process what he was seeing. "I'm going to wake your brother, right now. Do you want to watch? You can look out the window later."

That earned him a happy nod. "I want you to wake my brother."

_Ah. There's the sparkling self-centeredness. _Sparklings had a tendency to think in terms of "me" and "mine" and expect adults to care for them, and cater to their needs -- and sometimes their wishes. The 'I want' statement was familiar to anyone who'd ever raised sparklings, along with the word 'mine.'

"You will need to be very quiet, and sit very still. Can you sit at Elita's feet? I need you to stay with her where it's safe, for now."

Ranger gave her an uncertain look, then took a seat next to Elita's chair. Elita rested a hand on his shoulder, fingers caressing the armor. "You're safe right here."

"Could this be dangerous?" Ranger asked. Optimus translated that to, _This is unknown. Should I be scared? _As phrased by one very smart sparkling.

It was never too early to begin teaching empathy -- particularly to _this _sparkling, who had always been as good at insight into others' emotional state even when he rarely displayed his own. Part of the reason that Prowl had been such a brilliant tactician was that he had possessed a remarkable ability to get inside the heads of others, both friends and enemies, and predict their behavior. Empathy was a huge abstract idea for a sparkling to master, and Optimus was pretty sure there were a few adults on his team (and a _lot _of Decepticons) who didn't really understand the cocnept. But he could begin now.

Optimus explained, "Do you remember how scared you were when you first woke up?"

"I didn't understand anything." Ranger's posture was more than a little formal. He sat with his back straight, head up, hands resting on his legs, door wings held at a precise angle. Optimus realized it was going to be a good bit more difficult to fully separate _Ranger _from _Prowl _in his thoughts, if the kid was going to sit like that. Optimus had rather fond memories of casual gatherings with his officers, with everyone sitting relaxed and easy except for Prowl, who always looked like his back struts were welded stiff and his door wings frozen in place. That had simply been Prowl's nature; he was precise in everything he did, including his very movements. Optimus had sometimes wondered if that had been acquired behavior, or spark-influence. He had his answer now, and it was going to give _everyone _who saw him deja vu.

"And then what happened?" Elita prompted.

"Optimus gave me the means to understand the world." The child's words were very specific, and very adult-like.

_Oh, Pit__, _Optimus thought, prompted into an uncharacteristic bit of mental swearing, and feeling his processor stutter in response to those precise words. Deja vu indeed! Suddenly, he was regretting this. He now knew on a more than academic level why reformats were considered so eerie by everyone who knew them, and he suspected he understood why reformatted mechs tended to do best when placed in entirely new setting. Also, on a tangentially related note, he had a sneaking suspicion that Prowl's mentor, many millenia ago, had probably gotten the shock of his life when he'd received such an unusual sparkling. Sparklings just didn't _think _this way, though by reputation, Prowl _had_. His early schooling was full of notations by instructors who'd been shocked at the adult level of comprehension from their young student.

_Profoundly gifted in analytical thought and pattern matching _had been the diagnosis. There was 'smart' and there was 'prodigy' and then there was 'profoundly gifted'. That sparkborn gift had been matched with an enormously powerful processor core, and it seemed clear that Ranger was already putting his abilities to good use. It would be painfully easy to forget, almost immediately, that this was a child, a _sparkling_, within a few sentences of spoken words from him.

Ranger smiled, however, and that shattered the illusion that he was looking at Prowl. The smile was very young, very innocent, and very much not-Prowl. The relief made Optimus's shoulders sag. He could do this. He could treat this sparkling as a new life, and not as the ghost of an old and much-loved friend. Ranger continued, head tilted to one side. "I ... was frightened. And then I felt safe. Umm. I think I'm grateful ... am I supposed to say thank you? You gave me rules that said if someone does something nice for you, you're supposed to thank them. I was so scared, and you made me not-scared. That was a good thing. Thank you."

Elita laughed, deeply amused, "You do not need to thank Optimus for this, little one. He's enjoying himself immensely, and we're grateful to have you."

"Your brother had a very different experience the first time he woke up," Optimus explained, after flashing Elita a smile. She was right in that he was having a very good time, moments of uneasy recognition aside. "Do you know how good it felt to be loved and welcomed by me, as I gave you the code to understand the world?"

The sparkling tilted his head sideways, clearly weighing Optimus's words.

"Your brother was hurt by bad people. Instead of being greeted with love and affection and made to feel safe, they just used a machine to put code in his head. It hurt, and there wasn't any good feelings with it, and probably scared him badly. So all he's ever known in the world is fear and pain. His entire experience and knowledge of the world is that people held him down and hurt him. He will be much more afraid when he wakes, and he could be dangerous. Good people rescued him, and now he is ours too. Elita will protect you if you remain at her side."

Ranger nodded. "I was afraid, but then you made it better. Nobody's ever made it better for him. So he doesn't know it _can _be better."

"Exactly right." Elita stroked the back of his helm, and traded a glance with Optimus that said she was mildly unnerved. He was too smart, making leaps of intuition far in excess any normal sparkling ever would. "Do you want to sit in my lap?"

Another head tilt, as the child considered the offer. "If he attacks us, would it not be better if you were free to act? I would be in the way in your lap."

_:You _did _purge his tactical analysis software, didn't you?: _Elita said, amused, delighted, and disturbed all at once.

_:Yes, I believe he just figured that out on his own. I did include some basic self-defense modules in his operational code. There's probably information in there about making sure you're not hindered and can hit back:_

"That's very wise, Ranger," Elita said, aloud, "though I don't believe that your brother will be much of an actual threat, beyond perhaps causing a few dents. He's much smaller than any of us. Dents hurt, but there would be no permanent damage. And we'll protect you from being dented."

Ranger nodded, clearly believing her. He remained seated at her side, however. His posture was still very upright, but he did lean his head into her caress when she brushed her fingers over his cranial plates again.

Once Optimus was sure that they were ready he brought the second sparkling online. This one shot across the room much faster, with a squall of terror that contained words, "No no no no no!" in Cybertronian.

Yes, that would be a reasonable reaction from one _very _traumatized sparkling. Ratchet had offered to reformat the child, but Optimus had been uneasy with the idea. He didn't think they had the right to alter memories without permission, and by definition the sparkling wasn't competent to give consent. A bad thing had happened to this child, but from bad things sometimes came great strength. Since he had operational code installed, too, he could already process data and language -- at least, Cybertronian language. Optimus could have uploaded the other language modules in the med bay, but he wanted to do it personally. It would be a good opportunity to establish a mentor/child bond.

He waited for a much longer period of time -- close to an hour -- for the second sparkling to emerge. Optimus could sit patiently for extended periods of time, and Elita busied herself after a few minutes by reading a datapad and occasionally glancing up at the desk to see what the sparkling was doing. They could hear the occasional rustle and clatter of movement behind the desk, but the child didn't even peer out. Somewhat to his surprise (because few sparklings were good at waiting, even insanely intelligent ones) Ranger also sat quietly, watching, hands folded in his lap and bright blue optics keenly interested.

After a very long time, Ranger's brother peered over the top of the desk and stared at them. Likely judging Ranger, as the smallest, to be the least threat, he finally stood up and snuck over to Ranger. "Bad things," he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot, "bad things hurt me."

Sparklings instinctively sought shelter from threats, running to a safe adult whenever danger threatened. His people were social, and finding safety in groups was a hard code that took effect as soon as a child could actually recognize another of his kind. This sparkling's instincts were now warring with his first experience in life, wich was that adults had held him down and hurt him, and his instinct to find safety and protection from others. He didn't know yet that Ranger was another child, and his compromise between terror of others of his kind and the need to band together for protection was to approach his brother. Still, he wasn't being violent.

Ranger's comm wasn't enabled yet, though Optimus figured that privilege would come very quickly, maybe within days. Therefore, he couldn't give Ranger any clues about how to act. Optimus held very still, wondering what Ranger was going to do.

"Optimus and Elita will keep us safe," Ranger said. He pointed at them. "That's Optimus, and that's Elita."

"Bigger." The sparkling turned to look at Optimus, and then took a nervous step backwards. His heel caught on Ranger's leg and he went down hard, tripping into Ranger's lap. Ranger instinctively tried to catch him and the sparkling thrashed and screamed in Cybertronian, "Lemme go, lemme go, lemme go!"

A small fist caught Ranger in the optics. The _crunch _of real damage was loud, as was Ranger's startled yell of pain. He shoved the other sparkling away, and lunged towards Optimus with a high keen of fright and agony. Optimus caught him ... even as his brother apparently decided that Optimus looked like a safe harbor and _also _dove for Optimus. The second sparkling's armor clattered against Ranger, who started to flinch away, then just made room for the other child, at least partly because he was getting scratched up.

Ranger held a hand cupped over his optic. His voice was taut with pain -- broken optics _hurt -- _and he said, "It hurts!"

"Shh, I know." Optimus held both of them close. "Ranger, let me see your eye."

"It _hurts_."

"I'm sorry. It happened so fast. I know we promised to keep you safe, and it ..."

One clear blue eye met his concerned gaze. "It hurts!"

"I know," he soothed the other sparkling with one hand on his back as the smaller child jostled Ranger and made him hiss in pain. "Shh. I know it hurts. We'll make it stop hurting as soon as we can, Ranger. I promise, it'll be better in a little bit."

He'd promised to keep Ranger safe, and already, Ranger was injured, hurting, and he could see the sparkling weighing the value of his promises. Somewhat to his surprise, the child curled against him with a muffled whimper. "Y-you couldn't have stopped it, but you would've tried. I know you would've if you could've."

Adult concepts, from one so young.

He wrapped his arm around Ranger, and shifted him a bit so he could reach the other child's dataport. He would not have the privilege of giving this little one his operational code, but at lease he could upload modules and get him calmed down. This contact was very different than the one with Ranger; the second sparkling was much more frightened, and had much less raw intelligence -- which was to say, he was a normal, albeit terrified, sparkling. He sent, _:Love. Trust. Affection. Belonging.: _and got back a burst of relief and gratitude. The sparkling relaxed a bit, realizing he wasn't going to be hurt again.

_:Not right. Not right. They hurt me. It's not right!: _A _strong _sense of injustice rode along with those words, and anger, and fear. _:They hurt me. It wasn't right!:_

_:Love. Safe. You are safe.:_

_:Safe. Safe is good.: _The sparkling relaxed. _:Not hurt. Feel good. Good person.:_

_:Love.:_

_:Love?:_

_:I love you, little one.:_

_:Love good.:_

_:Safe.:_

_:Safe?:_

_:Safe.:_

His reassurance worked. The sparkling relaxed into his arms, leaning against Ranger, and calming down considerably. _:Safe. No bad people?:_

_:No bad people. I will never let the bad people near you again.:_

_:Believe. Bad people BAD and you keep me safe?:_

_:With the last pulse of my spark.: _

Ranger whimpered in pain, not complaining but hurting too much to remain silent anymore. He was quivering against Optimus's shoulder. Optimus stroked a hand down he second sparkling's back and said, _:Little one, you are safe.:_

_:Okay. Safe is _good_.: _Once again there was that strength of conviction. With it was also a deep emotional well, what he suspected would turn into a real spark gift for empathy, and a deep belief in fairness. After a brief conference with Elita to get her agreement he advised the child, _:Your name is Paladin, little one.:  
_  
_:Paladin. Okay.: _

He disconnected the data cable. "Ranger, thank you."

"It hurts less now, but it still hurts."

"I know it does, and I appreciate you waiting a few moments. Your ..." he revised his assumptions, "... sister is much calmer now. Her name is Paladin."

"Sister?" Elita said, aloud.

_:She's got a personality that will better translate as female, I think.: _He transmitted a file to Elita detailing his impressions of the sparkling. Then he stood up, dislodging Paladin, but scooping Ranger up. He was small enough for Optimus to hold in his arms, albeit a bit awkwardly. Ranger clung to his shoulder with one hand, the other palm still pressed over his injured eye.

"Where are we going?" Ranger said, sounding more worried than curious.

"To get your eye fixed, so that it stops hurting," Optimus said, smoothing his fingers over Ranger's armor. "And I want to introduce you to Ratchet, who's very eager to meet you, and will probably be very upset that you got hurt. Everyone here wants to protect you, and keep you safe. Your eye won't hurt for long, I promise."

Paladin instinctively followed Optimus, staying close to his knees, as they passed several mechs and a couple humans in the hall. Elita walked behind, smiling and keeping protectively near to Paladin. A murmur of excited chatter over the radio followed their passage through the ship.

_:Optimus, did you really wake them?: _Wheelie suddenly comm'd Optimus. He sounded giddy with happiness. _:When can I meet them?:_

_:Meet me in sick bay, little one,: _Optimus offered. _:Ranger has a cracked optic, and I'd bet Ratchet could use your help fixing it. It'll be fiddly work to get the new lense in place.:_

_:Really? You'd trust me with them?:_

_:I certainly would.:_

_:Heh. Bet the kid's pretty upset about his eye. That slagging _hurts_!: _Wheelie said, with real empathy in his words. _:I'd know!:_


	63. Chapter 63

Ratchet had seen a lot of eerie things in his life, but the mech seated at the end of the table topped most of them. He had tried fairly hard to make Ranger resemble neither Prowl nor Barricade. The child's posture alone undid every bit of his work. There was nothing -- _nothing _-- of Barricade's madness in that slim build. However, it was very easy to imagine that it was Prowl seated there, with his doorwings held at a precise angle behind him, back straight, head high. The difference in color and shape was easily explainable: perhaps the 2IC had been undercover, in a role that required lighter armor and fewer (no) weapons, rendering him slighter and slimmer, with a different faceplace.

Then the sparkling smiled cheerfully and said, "You're Ratchet!" in a tone that indicated he'd made a successful connection to data files. He sounded like a child, albeit a child much older than his actual operational time.

"And you have a cracked optic, kiddo," Ratchet responded, with a scowl that was aimed at his mentors. He couldn't see the damage as Ranger still had a hand over the injured eye, but Optimus had comm'd him with a description and video of the problem. Both Elita and Optimus had the grace to look embarassed. _:What did he do, run into something?:_

_:Paladin smacked him on accident. It happened much too fast for me to do anything.: _Optimus sounded slightly defensive.  
_  
:Good way to give a sparkling a complex. He's still in the imprinting phase.: _Ratchet scowled at them, displeased.

Optimus, who had Paladin tucked in one arm, shot him a dark look back. _:I am well aware of sparkling development. However, he has been engaging in true analytical thought since he came online.:_

_:Already?: _he said, startled.

_:Try him.:_

Ratchet lifted an optic ridge at Optimus, then rested a hand under the sparking's chin and said, "Can you move your hand? I need to see your optic to fix it."

Shakily, Ranger lowered his fingers, somewhat surprising Ratchet. It was pretty typical for injured sparklings to be a bit irrational. Ratchet hissed in annoyance when he saw the damage; the outer polarizing lense was cracked through. In response to the irritation, washer fluid ran down Ranger's face. "It hurts," the sparkling said, tensing when Ratchet moved a hand towards the damage. "Moving hurts."

"Yeah, that lense is cracked and loose, and it's pressing on a delicate sensor." Ratchet considered his options. Ranger was calm and coherent, and willingly listening to direction. Normally, he'd put a sparkling this young out cold for surgery this delicate, and there were quite a few adults he'd do the same for. However, Ranger was likely disoriented enough simply by the need to process all the world's brand new input. Adding forced stasis within a few hours of his first waking moments wouldn't help him orient himself, and it could set him up for some negative and undesirable processor routines. At the very least, sparklings this young didn't react well to datapads and he would see it as a betrayal no matter what they did.

"Wheelie," he said, as the small mech trotted through the door, "I'm going to need your help here. Optimus, you too."

Ranger whimpered as air blew across parts that were never meant to be exposed.

"I know, little one." Ratchet grabbed a rag and mopped away the fluid on the sparkling's face. "It hurts. And I'm going to hurt you more, in just a minute, and I'm sorry."

Ranger tried to put a hand back over his optic, protectively, and Ratchet caught his wrist. "Shh. It's okay. Optimus is going to hold you, kiddo, and we're going to fix your eye. It will hurt -- a lot -- when we take it apart, but it will be over very quickly and then you'll feel better."

The sparkling tried to pull away from Ratchet. "I don't want it to hurt more!"

Ratchet exchanged a look with Optimus. Reluctantly, he suggested, _:I can put him out. If you'll hold him I can jack in and knock him out as quick as possible. He won't like it, but it might be better than restraining him and poking fingers in his eye.:_

_:Forcibly taking him offline will be worse than fixing his eye, from a psychological standpoint. I've got one traumatized youngling. I'd prefer not to have two.: _Optimus disagreed, firmly. He crouched to be on eye level with Ranger, and rested a hand on Ranger's arm. "Ranger, it hurts. I know it does. When they open that optic up to remove the lense, it will hurt more, but it will be over very quickly, and then it won't hurt at all. Which would you prefer, pain like this for a long time, or a short burst of lots of pain, then for it to be all over?"

Ranger weighed Optimus's words, then said hesitantly, "How _much _more pain?"

_:Oh, he's got Prowl's spark, allright, Prime,: _Ratchet growled, recognizing that measuring, calculating intellect. He answered literally, not bothering to sugar-coat the response as he would have with any other sparkling. "Maybe twice as many errors, but Wheelie will work as quick as he can."

"I know how much damaged optics hurt," Wheelie said, helpfully. "I'll be quick."

Ratchet nodded, and said, "Wheelie's eye was burned very badly when he came here, several weeks ago. It was so bad he didn't even have sensors left in his eye, but I bet it hurt when it happened."

The young regarded Wheelie curiously. "Burn. Heat? How did that happen?"

Wheelie started to answer, but Optimus said smoothly, "Wheelie didn't have anyone to keep him safe, and he got hurt. Now he's with us, and we're keeping him safe." And to Wheelie, but including Ratchet in the comment,, he added, _:Ranger is a very intelligent sparkling, but he has no context to understand the world. If you tell him someone burned your eye deliberately, he may become fearful that others will hurt him. I don't want him establishing those thought patterns. Right now, we're just emphasizing he's safe and protected.:_

_:Wish someone had done that for me,: _Wheelie said, _:Fang was always telling me to be careful, that someone might kill me if I didn't look out.:_

_:And he probably had to do that so you _would _be cautious.: _Optimus sighed through his vents. _:Nobody on the base will hurt Ranger. It's best for him if he develops his intellect without fear. I'm upset enough that he got hurt.:_

_:Yeah, we don't need another Red Alert.: _Ratchet sounded serious when he said that.

To Ranger, Optimus said, "I think I understand what Ratchet's thinking. I'm going to hold you, and Wheelie will stand on the table behind me and work on your eye. You need to hold really still and not move even if it hurts, but I will help you hold still by holding your head, in case you flinch. Okay?"

Ranger nodded, and held his arms out to Optimus. With a grunt of effort, Optimus picked him up again, turned around, and crouched down with his back to the table. Ratchet scooped Wheelie up and set him on the table, then adjusted the height until Wheelie could easily lean across Optimus's shoulder and reach Ranger's optics. Ratchet held a tray of parts where Wheelie could reach it, and commented across the comm, _:I'm very glad I have a few people with little fingers around here. I had a pit-slagging hard time fixing your optic, Wheelie. Much easier to let you do this.:_

A small screwdriver, with a handle far too tiny for Ratchet, was the first thing Wheelie picked up from the tray. He examined it for a moment, then commented, "Human workmanship?"

"I picked up a few tools for you and Mikaela," Ratchet said, mildly. "I'll show you where they're stored later. Mikaela was using both hands on a wrench the other day, and I figured I could make our lives easier."

With gentle touch, Wheelie first clamped Ranger's optical shutters open, then began to loosen the screws around the lense. Optimus cradled a hand around Ranger's head, holding him still. The sparkling whined. Paladin curled against Optimus's leg and whimpered faintly, sounding worried. Optimus dropped a hand to her shoulders and said, "It's okay, Paladin. He's going to be fine."

"C'mere, kiddo," Elita picked her up.

When Wheelie pulled the broken lens element free, exposing glowing diodes to the air with nothing to even slow a draft, Ranger keened in startled pain. He tensed and tried to pull away, and Optimus held him fast. "It's almost over, Ranger."

Ranger cried louder, thrashing a bit.

Optimus said quietly, calmly, "Tell me in words how it feels."

"Hurts. It hurts! It hurts!" Ranger babbled, "Make it stop, make it, make it stop, oh make it stop!"

"I'm sorry, kiddo!" Wheelie said, as his fingers flew in rapid but efficient haste. Ratchet was impressed by the fact that Wheelie wasn't flustered by this. "Optimus, there's little bits of glass back in his optic chamber. I need to get them out or they'll irritate everything."

Ratchet pushed a bottle of canned air into Wheelie's hand. "He's not going to like this, but if Optimus will tilt his head downwards, that's the fastest way to get all the fragments out."

"Understood." Optimus hitched Ranger a bit higher and pressed his head downward with one hand. Ranger was still begging them to _stop_. Ratchet ignored that, and Wheelie took his cue from Ratchet. He swiftly blasted air into the cavity -- Ranger jumped in surprise -- and then inspected his work. "I think that's all the big pieces of glass."

"Good. Now swab it out with this," he handed Wheelie a lint-free cleaning cloth, "and make sure there's no particles of anything in there."

"Looks clean."

Ratchet passed him a new lense assembly, and Wheelie swiftly screwed it into place. The last step was to fill the now-sealed cavity with helium to provide an inert, non-irritating environment for Ranger's optical sensors. With Ratchet's supervision, Wheelie hooked a small cannister of the gas up to a valve and purged the air out with a steady flow of helium for a couple of minutes. When it was done, Ranger, whimpering, buried his face in Optimus's chestplates. Optimus said soothingly, "It's over, and you were good."

The whole repair had taken just a few minutes. Ratchet nodded, "Good job, Wheelie."

"Feel better, kid?" Wheelie asked.

His voice prompted Ranger to peer at the briefly. He nodded, and whispered, "It doesn't hurt anymore. Thank you."

"Ooh, manners. He's definitely yours, Optimus." Ratchet laughed. Ranger buried his face again, clearly having had enough of being social with anyone.

_:Or the reincarnation of Prowl. He's freaky.: _Elita voiced her opinion, even as she patted Paladin on the back. _:I'll be honest in saying I expected him to be a blank slate. He's very much like Prowl, unnervingly so, even though he's only hours old.:_

_:Hnh. Can you picture Prowl's reaction if Optimus had tried to cuddle him?: _Ratchet replied, unimpressed by her reaction. Yes, the kid was freaky, but he was definitely a child. The way he clung to Optimus now, and whimpered occasionally, was certain proof of that. Even a slightly older youngling would have been embarrassed to be publicly hugged and fussed over like this.

Optimus sent them a chuckle that was strictly over the comms. He probably didn't want Ranger to think he was laughing at him, though Ratchet wasn't sure Ranger entirely had the concept of humor down yet. That was a bit abstract even for the most prodigiously intelligent of sparklings. _:I do not believe he ever would have forgiven me the indignity.:_

"Ranger," Optimus asked, "Can I put you down?"

"No!" Ranger clung more fiercely to Optimus's armor.

_:He's a bit big to carry around like a dolly. Your joints have to be hurting, boss.: _Ratchet said, shaking his head in amusement. _:Here, let's see if I can distract him for a minute and get him interested in getting down. Elita, set Paladin down, will you?:_

Elita did, wondering what Ratchet had in mind. He had picked up the canister of helium from the med bay table, and he briefly stepped into the storeroom. When he emerged, he had a pair of large anti-static mylar pouches that were normally used to store static-sensitive parts such as cores and motor relay circuits. He quickly fashioned a pair of balloons with a bit of rubber cement to seal the open end, inflated them with the helium, and tied a cord to each.

"Here you go," he handed one to Paladin.

Paladin tugged on the string, fascinated by the floating balloon. "Bouncy!"

"Ranger, look," Optimus encouraged him to stop hiding his optics against his windshield. "Look what Paladin's got."

Ranger went very still, clearly fascinated. "What is it?"

"A balloon," Elita said.

"Balloon. A sack of gas-impermeable flexible material filled with a less-dense-than-atmospheric-norm gas. Atmospheric displacement pushes the gas upward." Ranger again proved he had excellent practical command of his language modules. He tilted his head, looking at the balloon. "Why is she pulling on the string like that?"

"Because it's fun," Elita said. "Do you want the other one?"

Ranger considered the question, giving it quite a long thought. Paladin, meanwhile, pulled her balloon down and batted at it, then looked at Optimus to gauge his reaction. Optimus smiled. Ratchet noted she had yet to stray more than a few feet from his heels. Finally, Ranger said, "I don't understand what I'm supposed to do with a balloon."

The other sparkling pulled her balloon all the way down to the ground, released it, then jumped and swatted it as it floated upwards. Ranger's optic ridges furrowed together as he watched her play.

"Do you want to join her?" Optimus asked.

"She hurt my eye." Ranger seemed to think that this would be an obvious reason _not _to play with her.

"Scraplet, it was an accident," Elita said, reaching out to stroke his arm. "She didn't mean to hurt you."

That just earned her a moment of silence, as he thought it over, then the simple statement, "She still hurt me."

Optimus put Ranger down over his protests, pulling his fingers free when he resisted, and setting him on his feet. He crouched down, which put him on eye level with Ranger, and said calmly, "Yes, she hurt you. She will likely hurt you again, too, by accident. But you know how you decided to let us fix your eye so the hurting would stop, because the pain was worth it? Accidents are going to happen, but that's not a reason not to play with your sister. The fun you'll have with her will be worth more than an occasional injury. You do want a balloon of your own, right?"

His eyes strayed to the balloon that Ratchet held out helpfully. Ranger frowned, eyebrows furrowing together. "I don't think so."

"You don't want the balloon?" Ratchet was honestly disappointed.

"What would I do with it?" The kid sounded truly puzzled.

_:I think I'll let him win this round. There will be time enough for him to learn to play later,: _Optimus said, wryly. He stroked Ranger's helm. "We'll try again tomorrow, I suppose."

_:I'm not sure I like the psychology I'm seeing here, Prime,: _Ratchet said, honestly. _:We know Prowl was very troubled when he was young. He grew out of it, and I assumed being bullied and misunderstood had something to do with that. Prowl certainly implied this was the case. Now I'm not so sure. If I had to guess, he has tremendous analytical ability and very little creativity.:_

_:Prowl did fine: _Optimus said, _:And did so without the advantages we can give him. Ranger will do well too.:_

* * *

Mikaela sat on the lowest step of the mobile home stairs, long legs trailing out in front of her. Sam had claimed the third step up, and leaned forward, hands folded between his knees, staring at the ship without even seeing it. When the Camaro pulled up, both of them glanced at Bee; Bumblebee, a soda in one hand, stepped out of his Camaro half and walked over to join them. Casually, he sat down next to Sam and trailed fingers over Mikaela's shoulder.

Sam wondered just when they'd gotten so comfortable with each other. Bee hadn't said a word; he'd just, simply, _joined _them. Had it been before the party or after? He still felt awkward and out of sorts around Bee when he thought about romance -- and he didn't think anything beyond the occasional kiss would happen any time soon -- but aside from that, there was just an _ease _with the way they fit together.

"Want some?" Bee offered Sam the soda.

"I can't believe my mother introduced you to the evils of Pepsi," Sam said, shaking his head. He took a sip from the soda and then handed it to Mikaela.

"It tastes good. I sent the file of the experience to Ratchet and I thought he was going to overload in front of me. You humans don't know how amazing your senses are until you've never had them before." Bee shrugged.

"It's empty calories. It might taste good, but it's not good _for _you," Mikaela objected. She frowned at it, then took a drink too, and passed it back to Bee.

"I've lost four pounds," Bee said, softly. "I think, at this point, Doc just wants me to get calories any way I can. He's got me on vitamins anyway. I'm still having a hard time swallowing things. It's not _natural_, to me."

"Are you done working for the day?" Sam asked him.

The ancient ruins holding so many dead and living drew Bee's eyes. He'd been hard at work for a twelve hour shift. "Yes, we're all taking a break, though I'm on the schedule first thing tomorrow morning for sparkling field repairs. Many of the sparklings have major issues with their fuel systems due to age and lack of maintenance, though. We're being pressed to work replacing seals and identifying failed components. Getting them operational will be a much, much larger undertaking. We're simply doing stopgap repairs right now so they don't lose spark containment or start a fire from leaked energon -- we're fixing what's actively leaking. _Every _seal and most parts replaced during routine maintenance, like filters and valves, needs to be replaced before the sparklings are brought online -- not just for fuel, but hydraulics, and coolant, and lubrication."

Bee wound down, and hunched his shoulders. To Sam's eyes, he looked stressed in whole new ways.

Mikaela held her own grease and soot stained fingers out. "I've never done so many oil changes in my life. I think I did four hundred in twelve hours. Wheelie and Epps and I had an assembly line thing going."

Bee said tiredly, "Yes, the lubricant for their power plants is very nearly tar. It hasn't been changed in a couple centuries, and even with our stabilizers, that's _bad_. Megatron was using petroleum products, which we do not usually do, either, but I suppose they were cheap and it wasn't as if the sparklings were awake to complain. Sam, we're supposed to show you how to do maintenance tomorrow, too."

"Me?" He held his hands up defensively, "I don't know the first thing about being a mechanic."

Bee, whose hands weren't much cleaner than Mikaela's, patted Sam's knee comfortingly. "It's easy. We're training every human on the base for this, and 'Jack is putting an ad in the paper for volunteers. They're also going to be sending us some military mechanics. Swapping out a power plant, or replacing the seals on a fuel pump, isn't all that different from replacing components on a car."

Mikaela murmured, "Maybe, but the stakes are as high as heart surgery on an infant."

"So this isn't top secret?" Sam said, surprised, in reaction to the idea of 'ads.' _And they want _me _to help? _

The Autobot stretched his legs out too, and leaned back on his elbows on the steps. "This isn't a secret we could keep, and the backlash if we tried and it was discovered wouldn't be worth it. No, we've already sent out a press release and invited the media to take photographs. They'll be here tomorrow."

"How are you going to explain who attacked them?" Mikaela asked. "You haven't even told _us_."

Somewhat to Sam's surprise, Bee gave them something of answer. "It's the Nebulans, unfortunately.. They were our close friends, our allies, once. We failed them and they have not forgiven us for it, apparently. This is the second time they've attacked without provocation. We expect it won't be the last, and are very afraid Earth itself may be a target. It's best that Earth's people be warned and be prepared." Bee hunched his shoulders. "I haven't talked to Prime about it, but before yesterday, if we thought our presence was causing a threat to Earth, we would have left. Now ..." his blue eyes studied the dark stains on the front of the building, marking where smoke had poured from cracks in the building. "We have hundreds of thousands of children to protect. I'd fight for them. Even against humans themselves."

He sounded deeply disturbed.

"Hopefully it won't come to that." Mikaela patted his knee. "Maybe the Nebulans will see the awesome that is the Autobots and decide it's not worth it."

If possible, he hunched further. "'Kaela, this world is wealthy, almost beyond belief. You've only scratched the surface of your natural resources. It's a rich, vibrant, beautiful world, and humanity's level of science and industry and your people's natural intelligence and hard working dispositions, coupled with a relatively high education level, make you ripe for conquest. Any species wanting an industrial colony would look favorably on Earth. You are smart enough, well educated enough, to be _useful _for manufacturing within a very few years of conquest. It's a lot easier to make useful workers out of a literate population that understands basic science versus trying to teach cave men to work an assembly line or operate mining equipment. Yet, you are not so advanced that you could readily defend yourself. You haven't yet -- quite -- figured out quantum mechanics to the point of practical use. You only have rudimentary intra-orbital and no insystem manned spaceflight. You are at a very vulnerable stage."

"So you think they might try to conquer us?"

"What we've gleaned from the dead Nebulan mechs isn't much -- there's a lot of encryption and many firewalls -- but it's possible. They're a warlike people, and there are a lot of them." He bit his lip for a second, then sighed and straightened up. "They worry me."

"Mechs?" Mikaela asked. "Is that what attacked Windy and the rest of them the other day? I assumed it was 'cons."

"Mechs. The Nebulans had a very strong partnership with us, and when we abandoned them, it appears they put their knowledge of Cybertronian science to good use. Apparently, we are no longer alone and unique as a species." Bee fell silent. "There's a lot I wish I could tell you you. I will as soon as I can, but I need to clear it with Optimus. You're right that the explanations to Earth's people are going to be difficult. Particularly in this case ... the Nebulans have good reason for hating us, and they are apparently not distinguishing between factions. I can't blame them for their anger, either, though it's been apparently passed down from generation to generation. They do not live even a fraction of the time we do. Our science is more advanced. We've solved some problems with nanyte mutation that they struggle with and that shortens their lives. Nebulos is a broken world, unable to support life, and the colony they settled is impoverished, with few hydrocarbons and fewer metals, if our theories are correct. It may be a very old world, with the heavier elements deeply buried in a cooling crust."

"That's where you're going, isn't it? Their homeworld?" Sam asked. "You're going to pretend to be one of them?"

Bee met Sam's gaze in response to his question, then nodded very slightly. "You shouldn't know that. Maybe I've said more than I should already. But ... my instincts are to confide in you two. It's very hard not to. It's what we _do _with our partners. We're hardcoded to confide in those we love, to be honest with them."

Impulsively, Sam leaned over and hugged Bee. Bee smelled of smoke and grease and sweat. He'd been working hard all day. Sam, by contrast, had been running errands for the 'bots since dawn, picking up last minute supplies and a month's worth of groceries and necessities for Kat and Emily. "Thank you for letting us know. I assumed it was important, but it's good to know for sure."

They sat without words for a few moments. Bee transformed his Camaro half, walked over, and sat down beside them. He was a looming shape in the moonlight, with pale armor and glowing blue optics. They sat in silence for a moment, then the Ark's hatch opened, and a four-legged shape stepped outside, followed by Ratchet's bulk. Mikaela asked, "That's the 'con leader, isn't it?"

Sam had only seen him once, briefly, but and the moonlight now wasn't very bright. However, there weren't any other mechs who walked on four legs at the base. Bee said quietly, "That's Fangface."

Fang broke into an easy run, feet making a metallic clatter on the pavement. He loped with the speed and supple grace of a tiger, back flexing and long legs reaching far before him.

"Escape attempt?" Sam tensed.

Bee didn't stir. "No, he's just stress-testing the repairs Ratchet did."

The predacon cat flung himself into a hard turn, back feet skidding across the pavement. He leaped high into the air and landed running in another direction. With what looked like real glee, he skidded to a hard stop, claws throwing sparks on the cement. Then he ran flat out down the runway, prompting Mikaela to ask how fast he was going.

"At least seventy miles an hour," Bee said. "I can drive circles around him in alt mode, but I wouldn't want to try to get away from him on two legs. He accelerates faster than any vehicle alive, too. Fang was designed to be an ambush killer: quick, deadly, and efficient. He hits top speed in about three strides if he has sufficient traction. He does zero to sixty in under a third of a second, he just can't go much faster than that."

Fangface loped back to Ratchet and dropped to a walk a few strides away. Ratchet seemed to be waiting for him, but his yell of surprise carried across the tarmack when Fang unexpected sprang. The cat transformed in mid-air into his protoform, caught Ratchet about the head with one arm, and toppled Ratchet onto his back with rather effective use of his limited weight. Ratchet's legs were flung into the air by the force of the assault.

Sam and Mikaela jumped to their feet. Bee said mildly, "Relax. They're just clowning around."

Ratchet struggled free and scrambled back up. His indignant cry of, "Fragger!" followed by a furious hiss-click-spit of Cybertronian curses carried to them.

Bee, much to Sam's surprise, laughed softly. "Sit down. Fang and Ratchet are friends. Fang won't hurt Ratchet. He might harass him into a spark attack, but he won't hurt him."

The predacon pounced again. This time, however, Ratchet was ready. The medic, in an impressively swift and agile move, caught Fangface's back leg, flung him up and over his own shoulder, and stepped on him, pinning him down, before he could get up.

"... Ooh, nice." Bee said, "And Ratchet wins!"

Ratchet stepped back and offered Fang a hand up, then clapped him with apparent affection on the back. The two engaged in a brief continuing moment of horseplay, with Ratchet cuffing Fang on the head, and Fang poking Ratchet between the seams of his armor and making him jump. Then Skywarp stepped out of the ship, and Fang pushed Ratchet hard one last time, then ran to the Decepticon seeker. Skywarp caught Fang when the predacon jumped into his arms, then he leaped aloft. There was a brief flare of light and a crack of displaced air, and he was gone.

The medic stood outside for a minute, staring up at the sky. Only after he'd walked inside did Bee say quietly, "I think Ratchet was more upset than any of us when Fang turned on us. All he ever said was that it was a waste, but he was in a horrible mood for a long time after that. I think he felt it was a personal betrayal. He really went to bat for Fang to get us to accept him as an Autobot."

Sam sat back down onto the steps, and asked curiously, "Bee, what do you think of Fang?"

"Fang damn near killed him," Mikaela said, resentment and anger in her voice.

Bee held up a hand. "Had my cooling system been in better repair, it would have been far less serious of an injury. He could have killed me so quickly I'd have lost spark containment before I hit the ground. If you've ever seen Fang rip through the armor of an enemy, you'd know that was not a serious attack."

"If you guys used to be friends, why'd he attack you at all?" Mikaela wasn't giving it a rest.

His shrug was slight. "He has an image to present to his soldiers, plus, I believe he didn't want us to think him weak."

Sam speculated, "Do you think he wanted to deny to himself you were friends once?"

"That's dysfunctional!" Mikaela threw her hands in the air. "Is he really that screwed up in the head that he'd hurt someone to prove a point to himself?"

For a moment, Bee didn't say anything. Then he nodded slowly. "That's a good guess, Sam. When Fang first came to us, he was bitter, angry, and mistrustful to the point of paranoia. Whenever anyone tried to do anything nice for him, he'd snap and snarl at them, and tell them he hated them. He also claim we hated him, and would try to provoke us into behavior proving it. Personally, I would have thrown him out on his aft after a few weeks of that, particularly since I was one of his favorite targets and I was the one who'd saved his life, but Prowl, Jazz and Ratchet saw something in him. They persisted, and did not give up on him."

Bee thought for a minute, then added, "Prowl saw right through him, I think. Fang must have felt like he had no friends in the world, and no one valued him or liked him. I can't imagine how dark things must have been for him then. His own side had abandoned him, and the enemies that he'd fought against for thousands of years were generous and kind enough to save his life ... his entire world was turned upside down, his very belief system challenged. He kept trying to prove his own beliefs right by trying to provoke us into anger or outright violence towards him. By accepting our friendship, by acknowledging we were the good guys, he had to admit to himself that he was wrong, that he had done evil. At his core, Fang _isn't _evil, not as I'd define it."

"Yet he did join the Autobot army?"

"Prowl understood him from the moment they met, and Ratchet and Jazz too. Ironhide and I were a lot less tolerant." Bee chuckled at some long-ago memory. "Prowl put him to _work_, and he gave him jobs that demonstrated some trust, and that were actually important. One of the first chores he gave him was cleaning weapons. I'll tell you, Ironhide about had a runaway fusion reaction in his processor when he found out Prowl had turned Fang loose in the base's armory with solvent and gun oil and a bucket of rags. And Ratchet ... Ratchet realized just how slagging smart that cat is, and figured out he knew something about repairs and engineering, and started using him as an emergency medic, whenever things got bad after a battle. Between the two of them, I think Fang felt needed and valued. And ..." Bee ran a hand over his helm, "... he earned our trust, and our friendship, and none of us ever thought he'd betray it. He was certainly my friend. Once he quit pushing my buottons, we got along great. I'm not so sure it was planned when he defected back to the 'cons. It might have just been a good opportunity presented itself, and he took it. We trusted him, but I don't think he ever fully trusted _us _-- there was always an edge of suspicion to him, a wariness, a quiet assumption that we didn't _like _him no matter what we did. I figured he'd eventually let his defenses down and really become part of the group, because he really was a good mech, but he defected back to the 'cons first. I tell you, that was the bitterest of betrayals."

The Autobot gave them a troubled look. "I wonder if he was just too damaged to _really _trust that he was secure with us, and he assumed that we'd betray him someday, just like the 'cons did. He might have betrayed us simply because he was looking out for his own aft."

The moon was half full, and nearly set. Bee studied it for a moment, then continued, "I think you might be right, Sam. When he saw us, he probably remembered he had friends once ... he _did _care for us. You know, I halfway expected him to ask Ratchet to 'face him, and I wouldn't have been much more surprised if Ratchet had agreed to it. Ratchet had so much faith in him ... I used to hope they'd end up partners, because they would have been good for each other, and I thought it might help Fang heal. Anyway, he probably attacked me to prove to _himself _he didn't care for us anymore, and perhaps to try to convince himself he never did."

"That's definitely twisted," Mikaela said.

It was nearly midnight. Sam yawned sleepily, trying and failing to conceal it behind his hand. Bee said, "Now Fang's back with us, and maybe our faith wasn't so displaced in him. He's different. Something's changed in him. I don't know if it's the Matrix, or if it's Deathwheel's influence, or if seeing his plans to take over the 'con army work had something to do with it, but Ratchet thinks he has far more self-respect than he ever did before, and a good bit more confidence in himself. He's still an impulsive, hyperactive fragger, but he's just healthier, emotionally. I will tell you, it is truly a remarkable thing for the Decepticons to have a leader we can trust to do the right thing. Fang's not always going to be our ally, but he's not the spawn of Unicron."

Then Bee tilted his head to one side, and vented an aggrieved sigh. "And .... Doc wants me to run into town. Somebody needs to pick a prescription up at the pharmacy for Kat."

"Want company?" Sam offered, standing back up. It was late, but not _that _late, and he was enjoying Bee's company. He wasn't so tired that his bed was more appealing than hanging out.

Bee's Camaro half transformed. "Sure. Mikaela? You coming?"

She waved a hand as she rose too. "I'm going to beg off. I've got to get up pretty early tomorrow. Andrew Gallardo is coming _here _to talk about a TV show with 'Jack, and he's specifically requesting my presence. His plane should arrive at seven AM."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Should I be worried?"

She leaned forward and kissed him. "Don't worry, Sam. The only guy I'd ever cheat on you with is this one." She poked Bee's human form in the arm with her finger as she said 'this one.'

"That," Sam said sturdily, "isn't cheating. We've agreed."

"We have." There was something odd in her eyes that he couldn't read. As if to prove a point, she caught Bee by the hands, pulled him towards her for a brief peck on the lips, and then released him and ran up the stairs.

Bee's humanoid form shrugged at Sam and climbed the steps after her. Sam froze in place for a moment, wondering what Bee and Mikaela would do in his absence. Behind him, Bee's mechanoid half transformed into a Camaro.

"You can stay behind if you want ..."

"... Just you and me, buddy, hmm? ..."

They spoke at the same time, man and Camaro. Sam started to open the passenger door even as Bee was popping open the driver's side. With a shake of his head, Sam ran around to the driver's side and sat down behind the wheel. "You want me to drive, eh?"

"Sam," Bee said, sounding suspiciously serious, "You're always welcome to drive me."

Sam let his forehead thunk against the steering wheel. "I walked right into that one."

"Yes," Bee agreed. And then he giggled, and Sam laughed with him.


	64. Chapter 64

Chapter 64

Author's notes: Not safe for work chapter is not safe for work.

(For those of who _don't _like the smut, just skip on to the next chapter when I post it later this week. This actually moves the plot with Sam/Bee/Mikaela forward, but is not integral to understanding the story. I'm deliberately putting _only _the smutty scene in this chapter because I totally understand and appreciate that not all my readers are here for the pr0n. On the other hand, 'tis fanservice, and I had fun writing this.)

* * *

By the time Bee and Sam got to the twenty-four hour pharmacy in downtown Tranquility, the moon had been obscured by clouds and it was starting to rain. It took a few minutes for the pharmacy to produce the meds. Doc couldn't write a prescription under US law, but Kat's oncologist was apparently cooperating with Doc with some enthusiasm, and had just faxed in a some new scripts for her trip. (Ratchet had noted earlier, in Sam's hearing, that many doctors, if given the opportunity to see a terminal patient live, would move heaven and earth. Or in this case, cooperate with aliens ... particularly since said aliens had provided the oncologist with, apparently, very good and very plausible details on how they were going to treat her. The oncologist had reportedly been nearly giddy with delight at the Autobot promises of a cure for Kat, and had begged to help Doc write a paper about his work when he got back.)

Sam, bag of prescriptions clutched in one hand and a bottled coffee in the other, ran through the rain to Bee. He flung himself into the driver's seat and said, "Damn, it _was _a nice night."

"I don't mind the rain," Bee said, as he pulled out of the parking space. Sam downed the coffee in two gulp, even as Bee was saying, "It actually feels pretty good when I get moving fast."

Sam carefully capped the empy bottle, put it in the cup holder for later disposal, and rested his hands lightly on the steering wheel. "You won't get cold?"

"Not from this. It's sixty degrees out, and I have internal heaters. Are _you _cold? I can adjust my cabin climate controls."

He trailed his hands over the steering wheel for a second. "I'm fine."

"I can think of plenty of ways to keep warm, actually ..." Bee's voice dropped an octave in register, teasingly.

He shook his head and couldn't help but laugh, even as he blushed. He didn't say anything, though, he just tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He honestly wasn't sure how to respond to Bee's new habit of teasing him; Sam was laughing, he saw the humor in it, but he didn't know what to say _back_. Bee's teasing was gentle, and he never had the sense Bee was poking fun at him; Bee was always laughing _with _him, at what had become a shared joke between them.

Maybe he didn't need to say anything back at all, he decided. Bee's radio had clicked, playing Bee's own music, a happy, fast-paced beat, almost like a rock and roll song. He could hear Bee's voice weaving among electronic notes. The volume increased, and he began to bounce to the beat, snapping his fingers and bobbing his head.

He wasn't really paying much attention to where Bee was headed. (And despite Bee's joking, Bee was driving.) It was dark, the music was good, the company was excellent. Bee played a mix of earth songs -- not all in English -- and a few Cybertronian tunes.

"This is one that Jazz and Prowl did. The composition's mine." Bee said, before playing another song. Two Cybertronian voices, one deep than the other, one sounding playful and the other very precise and serious, wove around each other and through the soaring musical notes.

"What's that about?" Sam asked, after the song had concluded.

"Friendship. I could translate it with some thought, but it'd take awhile to figure out how some of the concepts would relate to human culture." Bee sighed, suddenly sounding very serious. "_Pit _I miss both of them. Ranger brought all the memories back when I saw him earlier. I used to tease Prowl that I'd recognize him no matter what appearance he took, and I guess that was right. It hurts so bad, Sam, sometimes."

He didn't know what to say to that, either.

"At the same time, though ... it's good to see Ranger. It will be fun getting to know him and watching him grow up." Bee sighed. "It's a sentimental thing."

"I can't imagine losing all the friends you have, Bee," Sam said, finally, as he tried to picture a world where nearly everyone he'd ever known was dead, with only a few random individuals left alive.

It was Bee's turn to be silent, though true to form, he sounded fairly upbeat when he responded at last, "It's why I value the friends I have so much. Sam, I know you're not comfortable with the feelings between us. If it doesn't work out ... I still want to be friends. We're friends first, okay? Lovers, if it comes to that, later."

"Thanks," Sam murmured. "But ... _you _have needs. I know you do."

Bee responded quickly, "Sam, I'm older than human civilization and I've gotten this far without adult intimacy. I think I'll survive."

Sam hunched in the seat, folding his arms and knowing that was a comment that was begging for a response, that the subtext behind those words screamed that Bee was _hurting_, and he just wasn't sure what to say. Had he been dealing with Bee's humanoid form, he would have pulled him into a hug, even a kiss, in lieu of words. As a mech, however, Bee was a lot harder to cuddle. "Umm, uh, Bee, you maybe ..." he bit his lip, summoned his nerve, and said, "but I bet you want it."

"Sam, you can't interface with me." Bee sounded tolerant, almost amused, but Sam knew him too well.

"No," Sam said, "I can't. But, umm, human style sex. There's an emotional connection. You know. If we get intimate. Human style. I think even for you."

Abruptly, Bee swerved to the side of the road, wheels bumping over dirt. Sam jerked his head up and realized that they were at the overlook. Bee's suddenly driving left a lot to be desired, and Sam's heart started hammering in his chest. Were they under attack? However, Bee stopped once he found a flat spot to park. "Sorry Sam, Mikaela, uh, distracted me. I was ... ahh ... afraid I'd crash if I kept driving."

"What did she do?" He suspected he knew. It was why the subject had come up, after all.

He also expected an answer in words. Instead, an image appeared, floating above the passenger seat: Bee, standing in front of the kitchen sink, and Mikaela behind him, her arms wrapped around his middle, nuzzling Bee's neck. A _fierce _surge of unreasonable, irrational, jealousy hit him. Mikaela'd never done anything like that to him. As he stared in shock, she reached a hand up and ran a hand over Bee's damp hair. Bumblebee had clearly showered away the day's dirt.

"It's a holographic render, there's no actual camera," Bee explained. His words were clipped and an octave higher than normal. "Sam, do you want me to make her stop? I don't know what to do."

_He needs this, _Sam realized. _He needs to be accepted by us. He needs me to be okay with it, and Mikaela to _give _it. _

He was _incredibly _jealous. He hadn't been expecting to feel such a surge of anger and resentment. Mikaela was _his _girlfriend, and she'd just made a pass at another man, and it felt like he'd just been betrayed by her. It felt as if she didn't love him, and he wanted to snarl a furious _NO!_ at Bee in absolute denial of what he was seeing.

Bee said, voice _aching _with suddenly fraught emotions, "Sam, Sam, talk to me. Are you okay with this? I don't know what to do. If I push Mikaela away she's either going to take it as a rejection from me or she's going to be resentful of _you _if you say no, but I don't want you to be jealous, or hurt, or ..."

"It's okay."

Those two words were the hardest sentence he'd ever spoken. He felt weirdly like he was giving something up. His throat was tight, his eyes watering, but he managed to say, "Umm, kiss her. Okay? Kiss her for me."

_What if she prefers Bee to me? _He feared that was a very real possibility. _What if Bee prefers _her _to me?_

Oh, God, what if he ended up shut out?

In the image, what Bee described as the "render", he turned around and caught Mikaela up in a kiss. Sam's breath caught. His heart thundered in his chest. Bee repeated, "Sam, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Go ahead." He felt _miserable_.

"We could wait until you get home," Bee said, uncertainly.

"I'm ... I'm not ready." Joining them was even scarier than watching them. Not for what Mikaela might try to encourage if he walked in that door. Sam was intrigued by the idea, but definitely not ready to try it.

Bee's response was gentle, and not at all condescending. "I understand, Sam." Then Bee's voice -- his human voice, without the mechanical overtones -- came through the Camaro's speakers. "Mikaela, you should know Sam's watching us."

"Is he?" Mikaela replied, "Good."

Sam relaxed, a little. Her tone was teasing, amused.

Bee kissed Mikaela again, more thoroughly, bending over her and pulling her up against his chest. He was not overly tall, but Mikaela was a slender, small woman; she had to stretch up and Bee down just a little to make that kiss work. His arms slid tighter around her, and he turned her around and pressed her against the counter. Mikaela's hands slid up under Bee's shirt, and she groaned aloud and pulled back for just a moment. "Can't believe I can do this with you ... can't believe you _want _me ..."

Bee's human voice, echoed through the Camaro's speakers, "Mikaela, I don't know what to do, but yeah, I want you."

"Geeze, you're a _virgin_," she said, giggling. "Want to wait for Sam to get back?"

"We don't need to," Bee's response to her was somewhat muffled. "Sam's okay with just us. But he's watching a render I'm generating. We're at the overlook."

"That's _hot_," Mikaela reached up and kissed Bee again, arms sliding around his back. She ran a hand through his hair, the red of her fingernails a sharp contrast to Bee's blond hair.

Sam shifted in the seat in the Camaro, his pants suddenly feeling too tight. _Mikaela _was hot, Mikaela and Bee together was all sorts of smokin'. His blond hair, three shades darker because it was damp, was a sharp contrast to her brunette; his wiry frame, taller than her, obviously male without being macho, looked good against her curves. The bottom line was that it was Bee, and he was every bit as attracted to Bee as he was to Mikaela. He gave up even trying to deny it. Either were sexy; the image of the two making out was sexy cubed.

Now Mikaela was tugging at Bee's t-shirt, trying to get him to pull it off. Bumblebee obliged, baring skin that was pale and flawless and stretched tight over ribs and muscles. Bee was so flexible; Sam watched in fascination as, lithe and graceful, Bee separated from Mikaela briefly and bent to pull his boots off.

Mikaela made him jump by running a finger down the length of his spine, and then she giggled.

Bee left his boots sitting behind on the kitchen floor, and caught Mikaela's hands and towed her towards the bedroom. Sam squirmed uncomfortably, and Bee asked him, "Are you okay?"

He covered his face with both hands briefly, and said, "You guys look _good _together." However, he couldn't stop watching. He was fascinated, turned on, and he couldn't _stop_. Besides, they both knew he was looking, and neither objected. Bee clearly _wanted _him to know what was going on.

In the render, Bee was fumbling with the buttons of Mikaela's shirt. He wasn't very good with fine movements yet; after a moment, she reached up to help him. Sam could tell Bee was clumsy, and more than that, he was hesitant. Knowing Bee, Sam suspected he wasn't embarrassed by this new intimacy so much as afraid of causing offense, or overstepping his bounds, perhaps coupled with a sheer lack of knowledge. As Sam could tell Bee from personal experience, watching porn on the internet wasn't nearly as educational about the mechanics of making love as one would expect. The first time he'd gone all the way with Mikaela, he'd bent himself painfully with an awkwardly aimed entry, and he'd made Mikaela hiss at him in irritation a few times when he'd handled a the delicate bits of her anatomy too roughly.

Bee clearly wasn't sure what to do, even as they stood together in the bedroom. Mikaela's hands were tugging at his fly now, and he moved his hands to try to help her, and she arched against him when his fingers brushed her waist. Bee growled, and pulled her close, even as Sam suggested, "She likes her butt squeezed."

"Does she?" Bee's mechanical voice said. Then her pants slid around her ankles and Bee spread his fingers across her red silky panties (Sam _loved _those panties) and pulled her to him. Through the speakers he said in a low voice, "Do you like that, Mikaela?"

Mikaela groaned, and ground her stomach against his crotch. Bee was clothed in a pair of fatigues, still; Sam was fascinated by the play of red fabric and bare olive skin against rough, military green fabric. 'Kaela, however, seemed interested by something else because she said in a low, urgent voice, "Bee, you're so _hard_."

_Sam _twitched at that, and reached down to adjust himself. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the spectacle as Mikaela tugged Bee's fly open and Bee somewhat shakily pushed his pants and boxers down. He sprang erect; he was definitely the picture of an aroused male. Sam suggested to him, voice going higher in pitch even as Bee's tones tended to get lower when he was excited, "Get ... get her to straddle your lap. She likes that. And it feels pretty d-damn good."

Bee stumbled backwards towards the bed, sat down, and pulled Mikaela down so that she sat astride his legs. She draped her arms around his neck and ground herself into his crotch, red underwear nearly the same color as her nails sliding over his erection. Bee hissed in pleasure, and leaned back, hands bracing himself behind him. Mikaela murmured, "I can't believe we're doing this ..."

His hands reached up to touch her bra, then slid beneath it. Sam cautioned, "Be careful. She's got sensitive nipples ..."

"Wait ..." Bee suddenly gasped, sitting up and pulling her close to him. His interest was replaced with minor alarm. "Bad line of code. Found it. Need to fix it."

Bee slumped back onto the bed, and the lights on the Camaro's dash fell dark. In concern, Sam said, "You okay?"

"I'm fine, I think ..." Bee started moving again under Mikaela, then he froze for a second time. "No. Damn."

Mikaela murmured, reaching up to stroke his hair. "Take your time. We've got all night."

It took Bee a good five minutes before he could return to the fun. Mikaela snuggled against him. While they waited,Sam reached down several times to adjust himself. He also stroked the steering wheel soothingly, knowing Bee was probably pretty upset at the delay. Rain pattered down on the Camaro's roof. "Take your time," Sam echoed Mikaela. "Don't hurt yourself. This ... nobody should get hurt, okay? Especially _you_."

After a moment longer, Bee grunted, "_Now _I think I have it fixed. I had to ask Ratchet, blast it, for help. Mikaela, your touches feel so amazing they damn near off-lined me. Take that as a compliment."

He rolled them over, and tugged at her underwear. The red panties landed on the floor with the rest of their clothes. Bee felt her, fingers sliding beneath her legs, then moved to kneel between them. He murmured with some concern, "Let me know if I hurt you ..."

"If you don't take me _right now_," Mikaela growled, "I will hurt _you_."

"Better do as she says," Sam laughed. Mikaela'd never spoken to him in precisely that tone, but he wasn't going to take that personally. At the moment, _he _was ready to growl at Bee if Bee didn't finish this.

With something that sounded very much like a snarl, Bee thrust into her. The render disappeared with a burst of static. "Sorry, I don't kssshhhht! the p-p-processor to spare ..." his Camaro half said, sounding strangled. Sam could still hear the audio, albeit a bit scrambled and full of bursts of noise. Mikaela was grunting. Bee was growling what sounded like Cybertronian swear words through a humanoid larynx. He could tell when they climaxed by the noises they made: a shout from Mikaela and a scream from Bee.

Sam sat alone then, quite physically uncomfortable. He was the hardest he'd ever been in his life without an imminent source of relief. Had he been alone, or had a bathroom been handy, he definitely would have whacked off. He figured it would take about three strokes to do it. Had it not been raining cats and dogs outside, he might have found a bush to hide behind. He wasn't comfortable with doing it in the Camaro, however; touching himself in front of Bee was possibly scarier than _doing _it with Bee. (Though some insanely snarky part of his brain suggested it would serve Bee right if Sam left him with a sticky spot on his upholstery.)

Bee was silent. Sam wondered if the Autobot had slipped into recharge, or fragged himself offline. Concern about the latter made him ask softly, "You okay?"

"_Primus_," Bee groaned. "That was so much better than with Windy. And, uh, Mikaela fell asleep. That's good, right?"

"Yeah, take that as a compliment." Sam shifted again.

"You're aroused," Bee noted. He sounded intrigued. Sam fought a sudden urge to cup both hands over his crotch.

"No shit."

"From watching us?"

"Yeah." He told himself to relax. If Bee hadn't expected that to happen, he needed to study human behavior more.

Bee hmmed for a moment, a curious sound that was probably intended to be sympathetic. "Do you want to, uh, take care of ...?"

"No." He tried to think of something completely unsexy, say taking out the garbage or doing his homework, and his mind refused to cooperate. He kept seeing images of Mikaela, red panties and red fingernails, sitting on Bee's lap and kissing him, while Bee arched his back in ecstasy.

"I could play music ..." Bee suggested tentatively. "It's dark in the cab ... I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Sorry, Bee. I don't think I can do that." The thought that Bee was worried about Sam's condition actually made Sam's arousal diminish a bit. He was far too nervous about the idea of masturbating in front of _anyone_ to be turned on now. "Let's go home."

"Hmm. You'd better drive, then." The Camaro's engine fired up. "Are you up to it?"

His arousal flagged a little more, leaving him with an ache that was _probably _entirely psychosomatic. "Umm, yeah. I can do that."

"Good. My other half's already recharging. I'm ... turning control over to you. I can't stay coherent. I'm sorry, Sam. It's not errors, I'm not having problems, it's just a desperate need to defrag now ... it's been a long few days and I think this pushed me over the edge ..."

Something changed in the atmosphere in the car, a certain electricity and sense of _life _fading. He realized that Bee had left the building, or at least his consciousness had left the Camaro, as he fell asleep. Sam, stunned, honored, disbelieving, put the Camaro in first gear, snapped on the headlights with a manual flick of the switch, and headed back up to the road. Bee _trusted _him to _drive _while he recharged. Somehow, he knew that this level of sheer trust was exactly the sort of thing partners engaged in. Bee had no doubt that Sam would get him home safe, and no concern about turning control over to Sam for a bit.

He drove more carefully than he ever had in his life. He stayed ten miles under the speed limit, mindful of the pouring rain. He signaled lane changes even when there wasn't another car in sight. He stopped at a yellow light that he could easily have sped through, and he drove around puddles rather than splashing cheerfully through them. Would a hard spray of water against Bee's undercarriage wake him? He didn't know, and didn't want to find out.

As far as he could tell, Bee remained deeply asleep all the way to the Ark. He drove up the ramp to the main hold, and opened the door. Doc was waiting, and he lifted an optic ridge at Bee's silent form, then shot Sam a penetrating look. "He's recharging?"

"He wore himself out," Sam shrugged.

Doc took the little bag of pills, peered inside to verify it was what he needed, then looked from Sam to Bee and back. "Better get yourself home, too," Doc said, with a smile that touched his eyes. "You both have an early morning tomorrow."

"Yeah." Sam was pretty Doc had come to a few reasonably accurate conclusions. He might not know the specifics, but his looks had been knowing, very amused, and rather fond.

_My parents may be less than thrilled, but the 'bots are simply happy to see us happy, _Sam realized. Doc's easy acceptance of the evidence of their relationship made something in Sam's heart ease. It helped to know there were people in the world who approved of them. He backed the Camaro down the ramp cautiously, then parked and locked Bee's vehicle half in front of their mobile home. After a fond brush of his hands over the wheel one last time, Sam ran through the rain to the front door.

He expected Mikaela to be as sound asleep as Bee was, but to his surprise she softly called his name out when he entered. "Sam?"

"'Kaela?" He pushed the bedroom door open a crack and peered inside. There was a candle lit on the bedside table, casting dim light through the room. Mikaela must have woken and lit it after Bee had passed out; she had probably been waiting up for him. The thought was warming, and it eased a few unspoken fears he'd had.

Bee was sprawled like a blond god in the bed, loose hair tumbling around his shoulders, face buried in a pillow, long, slim legs uncovered, and a corner of the covers over his ass. Mikaela, however, sat up and said softly, "I don't think the end of the world would wake him. He's _out_."

"He said it wasn't an error state before he passed out. He had me drive him home. I think you just wore him out." He leaned against the door jam and smirked for a moment. "That was _hot_."

"He said you were watching." She looked a little embarrassed now. "You're not mad?"

"I saw everything but the last few moments in three dimensions. Damn, 'Kaela. No, I'm not angry. I might have been if he hadn't shared that with me ..."

He realized Bee had probably shown in the render deliberately. He wanted them to be equal partners, and he had not wanted Sam to be left out. Sam _had _felt left out -- and horribly aroused with no outlet -- but he hadn't felt _neglected_. He wasn't entirely a hundred percent happy, but he wasn't mad or too hurt by it,either. It was safe to say his feelings were mixed, but overall, he was glad they'd enjoyed themselves. The fact that Mikaela had waited for him to come home, and Bee had trusted him to drive his Camaro half while he recharged had a surprisingly powerful affect on his mood.

He smiled. Things were going to be okay. He said calmly, "I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

_And probably jerk off in the bathroom before I do. _

Mikaela let the blanket drop down her chest, revealing a figure every bit as gorgeous as Bee's. "You don't _have _to sleep on the couch."

The bed was big enough for the three of them. He frowned for a second, then with a mental 'what the hell' response, he undressed and crawled onto the mattress between them. It wasn't until she turned to him, however, and kissed him, that he realized she had other things in mind than just sharing a bed. He almost protested, for reasons he couldn't begin to define (and the soundly recharging Autobot next to them was not one of them) but a resurgeance of the arousal and lust he'd felt earlier swiftly changed his mind.

"I'm so glad you're okay with this," she murmured.

"You were the one who freaked initially," he said, somewhat awkwardly, though he hadn't been okay with it for a few scary moments. Now he thought he was ... particularly when Mikaela greeted him with open arms and a relaxed smile.

"I thought you were going to reject me in favor of Bee," she murmured, "and that Bee wanted you and not me."

He thought he knew better than to take her then and there. Foreplay was required, right? He was every bit as hard as earlier, but he tried to hold off for her sake, to be polite. In a low voice, while sliding his hands up her sides, he said, "I'm afraid of the same thing. He's ... he's amazing. It's hard to believe he wants me. He wants _us_."

She arched in response to his touch. "Yeah. Make love to me, Sam. Just ... go. Now. _Please._ You don't need to be gentle. I want you _now_."

He didn't have many objections to that demand. He was gratified when she cried out before he did, because it didn't take him long at all to climax. He slumped atop her for a moment, murmuring an, "I love you ..." that she returned sleepily. He slid off to one side, too tired to even try to clean up. He snuggled between them, one arm around Mikaela and Bee's shoulder pressing against his back and Bee's knees brushing the back of his thighs.

_I'm where I belong, _he thought, fondly, warmly, and then relaxed utterly. His last conscious awareness was of Bee shiftly slightly, pressing closer to him, and wrapping an arm around his waist.


	65. Chapter 65

Chapter 65

Author's note: I know in canon that Jetfire and Skyfire are interchangeable designations. Pbbb! I didn't like the movieverse version of Jetfire. Actually, I thought the movieverse version of Jetfire was practically sacriligious, and it was an example of really, really, _really _bad storytelling. They missed so much opportunity for real character building with Jetfire/Skyfire and his connection to Starscream and his defection to the Autobots. Instead of a noble hero who stuck to his ideals, they made him a character that farted parachutes and doddered around like a fool.

So. In my personal 'verse, there's 'Jetfire', a half senile old seeker assigned to the lost Primes, and there's Skyfire, the scientist and Starscream's friend, who went missing on an exploration mission. They are not the same.

* * *

On Fang's direction, Skywarp didn't take Fang directly back to the base. Before speaking to the officers, Fang wanted to meet with the two seekers. He'd selected a location in the middle of nowhere, where they were unlikely to be disturbed or observed. Said 'middle of nowhere' was a mountaintop above the clouds in the Himalayas; Thundercracker recommended it.

Cold air whistled around them as Skywarp neatly dropped fifty feet to the ridge line and then carefully set Fangface down. He didn't need the cautious handling now -- the hard run a few moments earlier had worked the last of the pain from his newly reconstructed struts and the repaired hip -- but he sensed the care that 'Warp had just shown him was as much about respect as it was concern for Fang's injuries. Skywarp had come a long way from the mech who'd tried to kill him, more than once.

"Thank you," he said, to 'Warp.

"That was hilarious when you tackled Ratchet. Can I show the video to everyone?"

"Primus, _No_!" he shot back, alarmed. "Geeze, you want to make Ratchet a target for anyone who wants to hurt me?"

Skywarp said slowly, "You're the Decepticon Prime. Who would want to hurt _you_?"

It really was true that 'Warp was among the dumbest of the seekers. Fangface shook his head, wondering, not for the first time, if it was a spark-flaw or a hardware or software problem. He could check, he supposed, but if it was a spark-flaw, 'Warp probably wouldn't appreciate the implication that he needed to be fixed. He was dumb, but not _that _dumb. Maybe he'd get 'Warp into a lab for a quick scan of his circuits and coding under other pretenses, however. However, that would have to wait until things were less crazy. Fangface tried to give Skywarp a simple explanation, "Just because I'm a Prime doesn't mean everything will be love and roses and sparkly hearts, Skywarp. I have enemies, and some of them might try to hurt my friends if they can't hurt me."

'Warp shrugged. Proving he wasn't entirely dumb, the seeker said, "The Autobot medics are targets anyway."

Fang gritted his teeth for a second. "The entire Autobot medical staff is off limits. I'll slag any mech who touches them. The sparklings need their knowledge. I don't think there's more than fifty qualified medics between our two factions, and there's half a million sparkings. Do the math."

"Fifty's a lot."

Fang was saved from beating his head against the closest handy rock as an expression of frustration by the arrival of Deathwarp and Thundercracker. TC landed lightly despite the fact that Death weighed twice what he did -- his thrusters were just that powerful -- and he was looking cheerful. Death had his dumb-thug mask on his face, but that only lasted until TC let go of him and Fang launched himself airborn into Death's arms. Not minding the fact that the seekers were watching, Fang declared, "I was worried about you!"

Death gave an amused rumble and pulled him into a close, protective embrace. "I'm fine. I told Bloodshine to prepare to abandon the base. I also told them you were injured and then repaired by the Autobots, and that they said they were going to let you go."

For a moment, he just basked in the warmth and the safety of Death's grip. "What was their reaction to me being injured?"

"Some mockery from the Coneheads," Death said, candidly. "You need to deal with them. They don't have much seeker support, but they're saying unpleasant things about you behind your back, even to me. Bloodshine didn't say much himself, except to ask me how I was doing, and how bad your injuries were. I understated your damage, by the way. TC agrees with me -- it's best they don't know how badly you were injured. You have a reputation to keep."

A reputation that would be blown to the pit if anyone saw Death cuddling him like a sparkling. Reluctantly, Fangface stiffened a little and Deathwheels caught the cue and set him down. He shot a challenging look at the two seekers. "You didn't see anything."

TC held his hands up defensively. "Hey, I'd like to keep my spark inside my chassis." He turned to his partner and added, in a softer tone of voice, "'Warp, he means not to tell anyone about their partnership. Don't mention that you've seen them hugging, or that they're partners, or that they even like each other, okay? Don't discuss their relationship at all, with anyone. No jokes, no pranks at them, nothing. Pretend you don't know they're partners ..."

"I get it," Skywarp said, sounding a little sullen despite the fact that TC's tone was more 'thoroughly explaining' than 'condescending.' Fang had noticed that Thundercracker always took time to make sure his partner completely understood an issue; Warp sometimes seemed to resent this, but it was probably necessary.

_If not for TC, he probably would have been cannon fodder a long time ago._

"I know, 'Warp," TC said, and after a surprisingly shy glance at Deathwheels and Fangface, he touched Warp's arm briefly. "I just worry because you _don't _always get it. You try, you mean well, but I want to make sure you understand. This is too important to all of us to frag up."

"It's not my fault I miss the point sometimes," Skywarp huffed, sounding irritated.

"I know it's not, and I don't blame you. I'm just being realistic." Thundercracker pressed his forehead to 'Warp's. Fang thought he was seeing a startlingly intimate moment, and TC's words held the weight of something that had been repeated over and over. Yet it was clearly also something TC wanted them to be aware of. "You know I promised I'd be with you no matter what Megatron did to you. I will remind you of this as often as I have to. It's _not _your fault, I don't hold it against you, and I love you. No matter what."

Death said softly, "What happened to Skywarp?"

The two seekers both looked up at him. Skywarp's face twisted into a dark expression. "Megatron."

"I figured," Death shrugged. "You had a pretty amazing record at Iacon for a blithering idiot. All four of you did."

_:He went to Iacon? Four of them?:_

:Yeah. They were all in the same class.:  
  
_:How in the Pit did you get records from Iacon? I can't imagine anyone found those important enough to save!:_

:I asked Optimus what he knew about it just ten minutes ago. I knew he reviewed grade reports, papers, projects, and placement testing results in their entirety every year.: Death's shrug spoke volumes. _:He seemed surprised I'd be interested until I explained I was looking for survivors who were trained at the academy among our troops. The data on our favorite trine was incidental. 'Warp majored in quantum physics, TC in xenopolitics, and Starscream in engineering. There was a fourth mech, Skyfire, who was part of what was originally a quartet of partners. He studied xenobiology. Skyfire went missing long before the war began, however -- he was looking for the missing Primes, actually. That spread of studies was probably deliberate. It was a nice quartet of skills for a group of partners that wanted to stick together and be assigned to an exploration ship.:_

:War put a stop to those plans ... wait, quantum _physics? Quantum physics -- as in the school of study that makes my processor fritz every time I try to understand it?: _Fang said, then shot Skywarp a sharp look. _:Software or hardware glitch, do you think?:_

"TC, what did Megatron do to 'Warp?" Deathwheels asked, voice very gentle.

"Can we fix him?" Fangface said, right on the heels of Death's comment. "We could sure use another scientist."

An amazing expression of hope blossomed on Thundercracker's face, even as Skywarp's expression went very still. TC let go of 'Warp and dropped to one knee in front of Fang, putting him only a head taller than Fangface. Then he dropped farther foreward, resting his weight on the knuckles of one hand, bowing his head, and saying softly, "You would have my absolute and utter allegience unto death."

"Even though I killed Starscream." Fang's words were challenging, and cold. He didn't like TC's reaction. The fact that he'd killed their partner had been, to borrow a human expression that he'd been amused by, the elephant in the room that everyone was trying to ignore.

TC rocked back on his heels, then slumped onto his aft on the rocks. He dropped his head down into his hands, and didn't say a word. Skywarp crouched beside him and said in irritation at Fang, "Why did you have to bring that up? It hurts so bad. Starscream would have yielded to you."

Deathwheels rumbled, "We need to know. Can you work past that? Both of you?"

"You're the Decepticon Prime." It wasn't an answer, precisely. TC's words were full of emotional static. "It's Primus's will that we bow to you. You were chosen by a Matrix. The Order of the Primes speaks to you. The Order, or perhaps Primus himself, _touched us _and helped us when we were following your lead."

Death grunted. "It might be Primus's will, but is it yours?"

TC was silent, still, almost frozen into place.

Fangface sighed. TC's lack of further comment spoke volumes. He said quietly, "I don't want an oath of blind allegiance that ignores your own feelings, Thundercracker, and I think that's what you're offering. If you think you will convince me to fix Skywarp simply by promising to be what, my slave, for the rest of your life? You are very wrong."

"It is an oath honestly offered," TC said, stiffly, sounding almost annoyed.

"TC," Fangface bowed his own head. "I swore a similar oath, once, to Optimus. I felt I owed the Autobots my life. They extended a hand of friendship to me when I thought I didn't deserve it. They showed me kindness, love, care, a better life, and I swore allegience to Optimus out of a sense of obligation and guilt, but not _loyalty_. I didn't love them back, not to the degree I needed to in order to honor that oath. Not then. Now ..."

He glanced skyward, for a moment, automatically seeking Cybertron's location even though the sky was blue and the star not visible even at night. "And I didn't have the personal honor to hold to an oath when it became personally difficult. I should have kept my word, but perhaps it turned out for the best in the end."

Fang's second sigh was longer, flowing out his olfactory sensors. "There are two types of mechs I expect to keep an oath to me. Those with great personal honor, and those who truly love me. There aren't many mechs in the Decepticon army who fall into the former category ..."

_:Counterpunch,: _Deathwheels suggested.

_:Yes, but his oath isn't to _me_,: _Fang shot back, amused. He had a suspicion his 'Autobot liason' was going to be very busy. Aloud, to TC, Fangface continued, "... and there are fewer who love me."

_:I do.: _Deathwheels was even more amused.  
_  
:I don't need a personal oath from you.: _Fangface looked over his shoulder with a smile at Death. _:I _know _you're loyal.:  
_  
TC looked up at Fangface, and Fang said seriously, "I am not going to ask you to swear an oath that you would be tempted to break, TC. If you feel you can honestly swear that sort of allegiance to me, above and beyond your oath to the Decepticon cause, I would be a fool to turn it down, but I don't want to to feel pressured into an oath that you might break someday. At this stage, oath or not, I wouldn't completely trust you, and it wouldn't be good for you to be bound to something you didn't believe in."

Thundercracker slumped, burying his face in his knees. 'Warp ran a hand over TC's helm, and said, "You tried, TC. And hey! I make everyone else happy like this!"

It sounded like an old injoke, a guess that was proven when Thundercracker muttered, "Because they're laughing at you."

Skywarp laughed uproariously at the dark humor, then assured him, "I'll be fine, TC."

Fang scratched a tooth for a moment, then asked, "What, precisely, is wrong with Skywarp?"

Thundercracker sighed. "It's code, severely underclocking his processor, limiting the amount of parallel processing he can do. It's been in place for almost a hundred thousand years. I've tried to unlock it, but it's beyond anything I can crack."

"Deathwheels?" Fang said, raising an optic ridge at him.

_:I can look at him, Fang, but I'll have to interface with him to do it.:_

:No!: Instant reaction. Jealous, possessive, _mine_ reaction. Fang felt shallow and small even as he shot that violently quick denial at Death, and he swiftly averted his gaze.

_:Figured you'd react that way. It's why I wasn't going to suggest it.: _Death shrugged. _:He's been that way for a long time. I don't think he's unhappy. His quality of life is decent. He's just ... slow. Dimwitted. Not unhappy, but not living up to his potential. I suspect it bothers TC more than it bothers 'Warp, at this point.:_

:He was really a quantum physicist?:

:He worked on the same project that created you, though before you were sparked.:

:Frag.: Fang nibbled at his claws for a good long minute before finally deciding, "TC, I'll have Deathwheels look at him, if you'll both trust us to do it. Death is brilliant at code."

Deathwheels grunted, _:Are you sure?:_

:I'm not happy, but we can use another scientist, that's for sure. If he's at all salvageable ... I'd be a fool to let my personal feelings stop this. Besides, we owe them both. They're heroes.:

"You would do this without ... payment ... from me?" TC said, quietly. "Or from 'Warp? You _do _know why Megatron hacked him, right?"

"I'm guessing you fragged Megatron off somehow." Fang sat on his haunches. "Do I need to know the details?"

Thundercracker looked troubled, for a long moment, then said quietly, "You should. Skywarp, Starscream, and I were conspiring against Megatron, Fang. We wanted to take him out, with Starscream to rule."

The snort from Deathwheels was very loud and expressive. "That's not anything new."

TC held a hand up. "Oh, Starscream regularly plotted against Megatron, but this was different. This was the three of us working together, and we were serious about it. We got caught. Megatron nearly killed me, and had me rebuilt with an undersized power plant and underpowered weapons, so I could never outrun the other seekers. He took Skywarp's intelligence, because 'Warp was the smartest of us. And from Starscream ... well, have you ever wondered why he got away with openly challenging Megatron for so long?"

Fangface lifted an eyebrow in wordless inquiry.

"Because Megatron got _off _on it. And I mean that literally. He'd beat Starscream to slag and then interface with him." Thundercracker shivered visibly. "Hack him, really, because Starscream fought him every single step of the way, every time. Megatron got _off _on it. He enjoyed Starscream's rage, and he would climax in response to conquering that rage, to physically and mentally beating him into submission. Starscream hated Megatron with a passion, but Megatron wouldn't get rid of him, because there aren't that many mechs who will pick themselves up and fight _again_ after being beaten to slag and hacked. Starscream wouldn't back down for long. And you know _why _he wouldn't back down?"

Fang made a wild stab-in-the-dark guess, based more on his knowledge of Megatron's behavior than anything else. "Starscream was protecting you two?"

"Bingo." Thundercracker sounded just tired, despite a brief spurt of energy with that single word. He stared out over the landscape; their high vantage point gave them a view that stretched for hundreds of miles over a carpet of clouds and the occasional outcrop of dark mountains. "He'd summon the courage to fight Megatron one more time, so that Megatron would not come after the two of us, or the others under Starscream's command. He drew the fire to himself. He knew that as long as he drew Megatron's fire, we wouldn't get forcibly hacked."

"Primus." Fangface ran a hand over his face. He'd known Megatron was evil, but had not been aware of _this_. "Starscream kidnapped my sparkling, TC, and sent him on a mission that could have meant his death. The Autobots have not been shy about fragging our side for a long, long time, and if one of the 'bots rather than Mikaela had caught Wheelie, he probably would have been terminated without a second thought. He even lied to me about having him. I found him again by dumb luck."

TC shrugged, a bit jerkily. "Get beat up and mind-raped by a sociopath madman long enough, you become a bit like him. Taking Wheelie is far from the only evil thing Stascream ever did. I stopped letting Starscream interface with _me _many tens of thousands of years ago. What I saw in his mind terrified me. I wish I could have saved him. I wish you hadn't killed him. But I have no illusions about what he became. In his own way, he was almost as bad as Megatron." TC picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it off the mountain with a lazy overhand move.

Skywarp added, "He was a good mech once, though. We loved him."

"Yeah," Thundercracker agreed. "He'd become something dark and twisted and almost unrecognizable, but he never stopped caring about _us_."

_:Primus. I could have been a target for Megatron.: _Fangface shot Deathwheels a troubled look.

Death snorted. _:I doubt Megatron would have been interested in you. You don't have the right kind of fight in you.:_

:What's that supposed to mean?:

:All Megatron had to do, several thousand years ago, was go 'boogity boogity boo!' at you and you broke your oath with the Autobots. You went belly-up and submitted in a heartbeat to avoid being damaged. Then you waited until the time was right, saved up your anger over every slight and every offense Megatron -- and Starscream -- did, carefully and craftily plotted a revenge by earning the affection and trust of his underlings, and then striking when the time was right to take command. Megatron probably never saw beyond the apparent cowardice.:

:I'm not a coward.:

:No,: Death replied, _:I didn't say that. I said Megatron thought you were a coward.:_

He wondered if Deathwheels thought he'd been a coward.

_:And you've changed a lot,: _Death added, in a tone that sounded a bit placating.

Fangface hesitated for a moment, fighting the urge to chew on his nails, or to scratch at his teeth, then managed to keep a dignified air and said, "Anyway. 'Warp, if you're willing, I can have Deathwheels check your code and see if there's anything he can fix. He's good."

Skywarp stared at them for a long moment then said, "Yeah, sure."

TC blew out a long sigh through all his vents. "You would have my gratitude, sir."

Death offered Thundercracker a hand up. "Your help would be more useful."

"You've got that," TC said, with a smile, as Death pulled him to his feet.

Warp blurted out, "I'm sorry I attacked you, Fang."

He snorted. Skywarp's two attempts to take him out had been fueled by blind rage and grief. The anger was no longer directed at him. The grief would fade. 'Warp wasn't the type who hid his feelings. A lack of smarts led to a rather straightforward mech. "Just don't do it again or I will offline you. That threat stands."

To his surprise, his serious words prompted a smile from Skywarp. "Yes sir. _That _I understand."

Thundercracker laughed.

He gave the two of them a funny look, then said, "Annnnnyway. The reason I wanted to meet with you two before we meet the officers is that I've struck a deal wth the Autobots. We're going to share guardianship of the sparklings with the Autobots."

TC nodded. "I expected as much. It's probably the only way we can make things work."

* * *

The base was a hive of activity when they arrived. Fang dropped down out of Thundercracker's grasp, landed lightly (and thought happy thoughts in Ratchet's direction for the much-needed repairs) and regarded the base for a long moment, looking for anything out of place. Everything seemed to be in order.

Most of the buildings had been slagged in his absence; either blown up or flattened by the constructicons. Starscream's lab was one of the few buildings still standing, as the door was locked and it contained a substantial amount of equipment. Fangface intended to supervise the dismantling and packing up of the lab. Starscream had quite a few projects and devices in it that Fang didn't recognize and didn't want to risk falling into the wrong hands. Screamer's talent for weapons design had been notorious, and he figured some of the items were either weapons or related to weapons manufacturing, but there was also scientific equipment and a few odd parts that he just plain couldn't identify.

In the meantime, he could use the lab's spacious and shielded interior for other things._ :Death, have the officers meet me in Starscream's lab. It's big enough to hold everyone. Make sure your power cells are fully charged and top off your energon before ..:_

:I know, Fang. This isn't going to be pretty.:

He switched to a less encrypted transmission and included the two seekers in his next comment, _:Skywarp, go recharge for three hours. You haven't had a nap since the Autobots repaired you. Meet me at the lab tonight. I'm going to need help packing stuff up. And completely top your energon off too, in case you need to do any long teleports again.:_

:What would you like me to do?: Thundercracker asked politely.

_:You know the nine mechs that are glitchheads?:_

:Yeah, I think so.:

He listed their designations to be sure. _:I want you to get some help -- I don't care who, as long as you think you can trust them -- and get the lot of them in the Nemesis's brig. If you have to damage them to do it that is fine, just don't get hurt yourself.:_

:Eh ... why?:

:Don't ask. You don't want to know.:

:Six of them are former Autobots,: Thundercracker observed.

_:And do you _really _want to continue that line of thought?: _Fang asked, wryly.

_:I take it I shouldn't question where they went when they go missing.: _Thundercracker seemed blackly amused.  
_  
:Thank you, TC. You're dismissed.: _

The seeker nodded. His gaze lingered on Fangface for a moment, and Fang thought he was going to say something more, but he simply turned to go.

_:And be careful!: _Fang impulsively added.

Thundercracker turned halfway back to look at Fang. He smiled briefly, and nodded again, then hurried off.

* * *

"Okay, the officers will be here in fifteen minutes. I asked Punch to come, as well." Fang padded through the lab doorway, activating the privacy shield by habit. Death had already started packing everything up while he'd made his presence and good health known with a quick tour of the Nemesis and the base.

Deathwheels held up a pair of stasis cuffs that he'd apparently found in in Starscream's lab. They were covered in glyphs that implied erotic use, plus had Megatron's name on them. He lifted an eyebrow at Fang, leering. Fang snorted and grabbed the cuffs from him and threw them in a box marked "trash."

"Awww, waste of a useful pair of cuffs," Deathwheels said, teasingly. "I could have scoured off the name."

"Ewwwwww. They were Megatron's. I don't even want to know what he did with them." Especially given TC's revelations about Megatron's 'facing habits. Fang considered the idea of a little bondage play for a moment, then added cheerfully, "I might get a pair of my own, though."

"You'd love it if I used 'em on you," Death said, playfully grabbing Fang and scooping him up off the ground. "You know you would!"

"I was more thinking of using them on you! And if you don't put me down right now, I swear I'm going to bite you!" Fang protested Death's manhandling, adding a nonverbal hiss of static.

Death reacted by flipping Fang onto his back and cradling him to his chest. "Awww. Is the little kitty upset? He's sooooo cute when he's mad!"

"Death, I swear ..." He found he wasn't nearly as annoyed as he should have been.

Death _tickled _him, fingers dancing over Fang's armor. Fang shrieked and thrashed, laughing but indignant at the same time. "Put me _down _you fragger, or you _will _be wearing a set of cuffs!"

"Oh, the cuffs will _entirely _be for you," Death promised, flicking Fang's ear and then setting him down. Fang gathered himself to launch a playful attack at Death -- he was about to find out if Death was ticklish -- and Deathwheels held a cautioning hand up. "Strika's coming."

"Blast it!" Fangface groaned, letting his shoulders sag. Belatedly, he felt the vibrations of her footfalls through the floor. She was a very large mech, and heavier even than her appearance would suggest.

His partner rested a consoling hand across his shoulders. "We'll pick this up later, I _promise_."

As Strika pinged them, Fang sent a code burst at the door to open it. She stepped through, a hulking mountain of a transformer whose alt mode was a tank. Mass wise, she significantly heavier than Deathwheels, though he was still a few feet taller. "Good afternoon, Sir," she said, her voice deeper than he'd ever expect a human female possess. "I'm pleased to see the Autobots didn't deactivate you, Fang. How did you escape?"

"We'll cover all that as soon as everyone else is here." He hitched himself up onto one of the tall lab benches and sat with his legs dangling over the edge. That put his head at shoulder level with the Strika and Death.

"We?" she said, curiously.

Belatedly, he remembered that Death basically blended in with the bulkheads by intention. As Strika had entered, he'd withdrawn to stand at polite, and dull, attention. Fang lifted a lip up in half a smile. "I'll cover it. TC and Skywarp did very well, however. I'm coming to appreciate their help."

Strika grunted. "TC's too smart and I don't trust him. 'Warp's loyal, but he's dumb as a _post_. Useful if you need transportation or muscle, though."

Fang nodded agreement. "For the moment, I trust TC to follow my orders." Casually, he rested his hands between his knees because he wanted to avoid chewing on his nails, which always telegraphed to the entire pit-slagging world when he was feeling uncertain. He leaned a little forward, trying to look relaxed. He hadn't talked to Strika much, ever, though by reputation she was a fierce warrior and a brilliant tactician. Well, he figured he could see how she reacted to various leading questions while waiting for the others to arrive. "Strika, what's your assessment of our situation here?"

She grunted, and leaned back against a table. "If it were me, I'd be striking a deal with the Russians or the Chinese and staying. I don't understand why you want us to leave, unless you know something we don't."

That was not, quite, an open challenge. He'd verified her support before taking out the Decepticon leadership, but that didn't mean she still wanted to follow him. He was wary, and glad for Death's support and reinforcement.

She continued, "We couldn't conquer a combined defense of all of Earth's governments plus the Autobots, but the Autobots have allied with America. America's traditional enemies are powerful in their own right, and America and the Autobots would not wish to fight _them _and us. I suspect if we could make a deal with the Russians, the Chinese, and perhaps a few other countries, it would be a stalemate against America and her allies. This is a wealthy world. I do not understand your motive for simply turning tail and leaving."

He quirked an optic ridge upwards. "The Russians are eager to see us gone. I believe the specific term they used was, 'or be annihilated'.They're not happy about Megatron's stunt with the ballistic missiles aimed at American soil, and the only reason they haven't taken us out now is that there are countries downwind that would object to a tactical nuclear strike, and that we've let them know we would hit back with a high-altitude airburst over Moscow."

The large tactician nodded briefly. "Though my assessment of the political scene and culture of the Russian power players is that they would be very willing to overlook that, given that you _killed _Megatron, in exchange for information about our technology. Plus the threat of an airburst _does _give them pause. Combine the threat with a promise of weapons tech for their cooperation and alliance and they _will _deal."

"We couldn't trust them." Fang lifted a hand halfway to his mouth before he realized what he was doing. He also narrowly avoided the impulse to sit on his fingers in an effort to avoid chewing on his talons. He settled for folding both arms over his chest. "A carrot and a stick approach, as the humans would term it, tends to result in an ally with no loyalty."

"As if any humans will _every _be loyal to us," she scoffed. "But we could buy ourselves a few years before we would have to conquer them wholesale. That would give us time to divide and conquer against the Autobots. It would be fairly easy to make the American public deeply suspicious of the Autobots. A few strategic, staged, incidents to frame the 'bots, perhaps some deliberate provocation of certain easily angered Autobots ... Optimus is very predictable. If they ask him to leave, he would. That would leave this world to us, and in time, we could conquer it. I do _not _understand _your _decisions. We have done similar, time and time again, on other worlds."

He did chew on his nail for a second, then slapped his palm down on the bench in frustration. Strika jumped. Death, behind him, didn't twitch a muscle. "Well, I'll tell you this: we're moving the base, but we're not leaving."

"Ah?"

"If I told you I've spoken to John Keller, America's Secretary of Defense, and we're working with the Americans, what would you say?"

"I'd say the Russians will be extremely pissed." She smirked. "And the Autobots, too. What deal did you offer them?"

He just grinned a very toothy grin. "You're ice cold. You're thinking I bribed them with technology. That's far too easy, and far too short term."

Her grin faded. "What did you _do_, sir?"

He examined his claws without nibbling at them, then pointed one finger at her. "What would it take to convince you to work with the Autobots, rather than try to kill them?"

Strika fell silent, her expression very still. "Primus's direct orders and nothing less," she said, finally, a bit sarcastically.

Deathwheels snorted a laugh, briefly and probably deliberately breaking his cover. Strika shot him a suspicious look. "What's his glitch?"

"Who, Death?" Fangface said innocently, "He thinks you just got a lot warmer."

At that moment, Bloodshine, Starcatcher, Aquaregia, and Obsidian all stepped through the door, completing the quintet of the Nemesis's brass. Death straightened up a little bit, looking a lot more alert and wary. He and Fang were outnumbered and outgunned if trouble happened. Fang, for his part, regarded them thoughtfully, wondering how this would play out. He was going to wing it. _If I can't convince five reasonably intelligent and moderate mechs of the feasibility of my plans, there's no _way _I can command the rest of the army. _He saw this as, truly, a test.

And it took every ounce of stubbornness he possessed not to chew his talons with such intensity that the metal sparked.

Captain Bloodshine was _probably _loyal, though Fang wasn't ready to test that. Shiner had known in advance what Fang was planning; Fangface had known Shiner wasn't fond of Megatron. Shiner had cooperated in the coup, and had suppported him so far. It was an open question if the captain would continue to follow Fang, however.

Starcatcher was the ship's CMO. As medics went, he wasn't much, and scarily, he led a team that knew even less than he did. He was a slight, slim, and _timid _mech; Fang's general impression of him was that he was in over his head. The rank and file soldiers walked all over him, and Ratchet would eat him for lunch. They'd simply lost so many valuable and skilled medics that Starcatcher was the best the army had to offer, and that wasn't saying much. His actual training was as propulsion systems designer.

He _was _impressed by Aquaregia. The chemist was fourth in command, behind Obsidian, Strika, and Starcatcher. He was also the ship's navigator and gunner. The sane half of Nemesis's crew tended to have multiple skills out of necessity.

Obsidian was the ship's weapons master and chief engineer. He was a mech of few words, but Fang had pulled him aside a few weeks before the coup to have a brief talk with him in an attempt to figure him out. He still didn't know much about him, but Obsidian had _thanked _him for killing Megatron. "About time we had someone who _cares _about us," Obsidian had said. "And you do. Yeah, you've got my support. If you can take Megatron out without getting slagged you've got the ball bearings for the job of leading us."

They were all staring at him now. Strika finally said, "Our glorious leader was just explaining that he's been dealing with the humans, and that we're going to stay on this world. I'd _love _to know the details."

_Err_.

Now that he was facing the five of them, Fang's plans for a grand and glorious speech evaporated. He honestly didn't even know where to begin.

_Hi! I'm a Prime! I'm going to make peace with the Autobots now that victory is within our grasp, and work with them and the fleshies to save half a million sparklings._

Oh, this was going to go over _so _well. _Primus, if you ever wanted to throw me another miracle, now would be another time. I'm going to need it to get through this without them tearing me apart alive ..._

:Ask and ye shall receive, Decepticon Prime,: the voice from his Matrix nearly made him bite his own tongue. His teeth clicked together in shock, and he stiffened.

"Details. Uh, yeah." He stalled for time. _What are you going to do?_

:Hold your hands out.:

Too startled to question further, he held both hands out before him, palms up, in a gesture that should have been 'I have no options left' ... were it not for the swirl of grains like sand that suddenly rose from his chassis and flowed smoothly down both arms.

_"Primus!" _Aquaregia was the only one who seemed to know what he was seeing. He backed up two strides and then dropped to one knee, bowing his head.

"What the _slag_?" Bloodshine demanded.

The grains glowed faintly as the traveled in a fluid rivulets, and began to gather in his outstretched palms.

"Captain, that's a _Matrix_," Aquaregia hissed.

"Huh ... what?" Bloodshine stared dumbly at him.

Two halves of the Matrix coalesced in his hands. He brought them together with a click, and then ornate metal and glowing crystal lay in his hands.

"It's a fake," Bloodshine said, flatly. "Very funny, Fang."

"That ... that's no fake." Aquaregia shook his head in disbelief. "I've seen one before, when Optimus succeeded Vector. Can't you _sense _it?"

The air was electric with energy, Fang realized, and _presence. _He nodded. "I believe the Order of the Prime is watching over us. Not just me, but all of us. At long last, after so much suffering and hardship, we have a chance to regain Primus's grace."

Bloodshine made a rude noise. "You're insane. Primus's grace? The Autobots were the ones who did not follow his teachings!"

Which, at least to some extent, was true in the beginning. Optimus had meant well, but his actions had caused suffering both among the civilians and among soldiers who had needlessly lost their lives due to budget cuts. Fang held the Matrix in one hand and ran a hand over his face with the other. "Bloodshine, are you seriously claiming that the Decepticon army adheres to the teachings of Primus?"

"Kinda hard to do that in a _war_," he said, scornfully. "What was that, sacriligious use of holomatter?"

The Matrix flowed smoothly over Fang's arm and down through the cracks between his armor. He felt it take up a warm, comforting presence within his chassis again, linking back into his neural network with unstoppable ease. Fang said calmly, "If you seriously think that was a holomatter, I'm not sure what else to say to you. I'm a Prime. I'm a Prime, and I'm a Decepticon, and I've been tasked with creating a future for our sparklings."

"_What _sparklings?" Strika said, voice suddenly hoarse and low and angry. "Optimus's little fleshie pet destroyed the Allspark! I'd like to see him _dead _for that! Both of them! Dead, painfully, and permanently! What sparklings, Fang? Our species is _dead_! We're going to die out ..."

Aquaregia said softly, with a ghost of the confidence and snark Fang had noted in him before, "Fang, do you have the information we need for a new Allspark in that ancient relic?"

"Yes, I do." Fang's smile was genuine. He had at least one ally in this room.

"A Decepticon Prime. We will_ win_, then." Aquaregia's optics shone with hope.

Fang realized he was chewing on a nail. He hadn't even noticed that he'd lifted a hand to his mouth. He pointed at Aquaregia. "We've got bigger trouble than the Autobots."

"Slag." The swear word slipped out, then Aquaregia visibly winced.

_That _prompted Fang to laugh with nervous relief, and the chemist flashed him a brief, startled, smile in reaction to Fang's amusement. Aquaregia was clearly the only one to believe him. _:Deathwheels, what's Aquaregia's history in regards to Primes? Do you know?:_

:Check your Matrix.:

:Ah ... duh.: He queried it. The response was swift and telling. There were years worth of memories of Aquaregia and one of the previous bearers of this Matrix. Illumination Prime had been Aquaregia's close friend, confidant, and sponsor, from before the mech had been chosen by his Matrix. Illumination Prime was Fang's direct predecessor.

_:Is that in his personnel record?: _Fang asked Deathwheels.

_:No. It appears he was rather circumspect with his resume when he signed on.: _Death said, after a minute of checking the files he'd collected.

"Aquaregia, stand up."

"Sir?" The mech rose.

"Light was quite fond of you. It's his Matrix I bear." Fang tucked a knee to his chest and rested is chin on it. "He used to miss you badly when he sent you on missions."

"Sir." Aquaregia blinked. "Nobody called him Light but his family and his sparklings, and then only in private."

"Your mentors were twins."

"Yes sir. We grew up together in the same household, as close as brothers. Our mentors were twins and partners."

"Why did you join the Decepticons?" Fang asked, honestly curious. Someone with a background like that was almost certain to become an Autobot.

Aquaregia's face twisted into a scowl. "Optimus cut the budget for repairs. I had an arc-out. Light was missing, his partner with him. The only way to get the repairs I needed to continue to work as anything other than a slagging drone was to join the military."

The chemist met Fangface's gaze and said softly, "I swore alllegiance to Megatron, and I have upheld my word unto his death, and still I am bound to this army."

"Ah," Fangface nodded comprehension. There were those who had joined because of their ideals, those who joined because they wanted to frag things, mechs like Fang himself who'd known no other life from the time they were sparked, and then a small but not insubstantial percentage who had signed up for reasons like Aquaregia's. Either they had needed repairs or wanted upgrades that the military would provide, or had no other option for employment. Quite a few of the first and last categories had gone AWOL during the early years of the war, but apparently Aquaregia's honor had bound him to his word.

_Oh, yes, I want you on my side, _Fang thought. Here was a mech whose oath of allegiance he would accept, gladly.

Aquaregia added, "It was my own flaws that led me to make such an ill-advised oath, and I was honorbound to follow it. Some of us do remember the meaning of the word _honor_, sir, and would rather die than break their word."

_Ahhh ... slag. _That was a direct comment at Fang's own history. He met Aquaregia's gaze evenly and said, wryly, "Some of us take longer than others to learn the value of integrity, Regia."

Aquaregia nodded curtly. "I would imagine so. It's possible for a Prime to betray his people and turn his back on the teachings of Primus, but it has only happened once."

_Ouch._

However, a small smile touched Aquaregia's lips. "I don't believe that you'll ever fall, Fang. The Fallen was a harsh, black-and-white thinker with little empathy and a firm belief that organic life did not matter. You, by contrast, have a very different temperament. You have also had my allegiance since that day with the little medic."

"Rivet." Fang felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders.

The chemist shrugged expressively. "Megatron would have slagged him where he stood and kept walking. Instead, you showed compassion, and a high degree of pragmatism. As you observed, we need medics. Slagging yet another medic would have been stupid, foolish, and short-sighted. We need a pragmatic leader to salvage the last vestiges of our civilization."

"Regia, you can't _seriously _think that Fang is a Prime ..." Bloodshine finally burst out.

Regia spun about and regarded his captain with an expression of honest anger. "Captain Bloodshine, I can and I _do_. You saw."

Shiner snorted. "Fang. I said I'd support you if you could take out Megatron, but ... this? It's like you're claiming to be an imposter Autobot!"

He snorted and tapped his talons pointedly against the armor covering his femoral strut. "I'm the _Decepticon _Prime. Do I need to _prove _to you how much of a Decepticon I am?"

Strika said, "Do the Autobots know?"

"Yes." He ran a hand over his face, and decided he needed to be candid with them. He'd been dancing around the subject, evasive and wary, well aware that Shiner and Strika might have agreed to support his coup, but they didn't _trust _him, and he'd just asked them to accept a planet-sized load of hot slag. He might as well tell them the truth and get it over with. He rose from his seat on the edge of the bench, drummed the claws on one foot on the metal work surface for a second in a nervouse tic, then threw his hands in the air. "We can't keep following the same Unmaker-inspired path we've pursued for longer than I've been alive. Here's the deal. Starscream brought me -- and my assistant Deathwheels -- to Earth to manage the minimechs, the drones, and the insecticons. I'm good at that sort of thing -- real good -- and he had a slagload of really young, small, inexperienced mechs on this world.

"I didn't know _why _at the time there were so many of them. I thought that he'd had them in stasis somewhere, which turned out to be true, though the scope of that storage facility, and the _evil _he perpetrated there with the Fallen and Megatron's cooperation, was something I had no intimation of." He moved restlessly, walking the length of the bench and summoning his thoughts. It was four strides from one end of the bench to the other and he paced it twice before continuing. "There were some surveillance mechs left behind in Egypt, and I went personally to help retrieve them. I don't like leaving any mech behind, and the little ones are so defenseless ..."

Strika said softly, "They are that. And few survive more than a handful of battles."

"They're defenseless until they frag you in the back when you're not looking," Shiner snapped. "Small doesn't mean defenseless."

Fang inspected his claws for a second, this time a gesture intended to draw attention to them rather than nerves making him want to nibble, "I can certainly attest to that, Captain."

The Captain had the good grace to go very still and avert his crimson optics from the challenging gaze that Fangface shot him over his fingers.

"Thank you so much for allowing me to finish," Fang growled at both of them. "... I'm pretty good at sneaking, if I do say so myself. So I slipped into the field of battle, right under the noses of the human soldiers, and retrieved our little mechs from their hiding place. Then I snuck back, later, on my own time, and found the Cave of the Primes. I intended to bring all six Matrixes back with me, but the first one I touched ... _claimed _me." He stared at them hard, daring them to refute his words. "I never intended to be a Prime. Actually, I intended to hack the damn Matrix and try to extract data from it. It shook me to my core when it said I was a suitable Prime, and the damn thing hacked _me _on the spot, did the flowing-sand thing, and took up residence in my body. It seamless merged with my systems, making me stronger, faster, smarter, and more ... more _Prime_.

"It shook me to my _core_s." Fang sighed, and folded his arms over his chest.

"I'll _bet _it shook you up," Aquaregia murmured.

"So I didn't want to be a Prime, but fate chose me. And then fate gave me an opprtunity to finally take out Starscream and Megatron. Well, the 'bots helped with Megatron ..."

"Did you plan that with the Autobots?" Bloodshine asked, arms folded.

"What?" Fang said, incredulously. How could Shiner even think that? Well ... he saw, in retrospect, how the Captain could think that might be a possibility. And that was a rumor he wanted to stop _now_. (And Primus forbid that anyone ever learn he had sent Grimlock back to the Autobots!) "Frag, no. That was just lucky. I took advantage of an opportunity that presented itself. The 'bots were winning, and I helped them out a bit, then bluffed them off. I suspect the reason that Optimus didn't annihilate the whole base, however, is that he _does _know me."

Aquaregia grunted. "You betrayed him."

"Yes, I did." Fang agreed. "Like I said, some of us take longer to develop a real moral code. It was betray Optimus and my team, or die. I chose to live. Damn good thing I did, too, apparently, so maybe it was for the best."

"Hnnh."

"Here's the deal -- and by 'deal' I mean a literal deal that will secure the future of our race, and you five are important to that future. You're the officers of the Nemesis and the Nemesis will play a tremendously important role in our future. Two days ago, Deathwheels brought a curious fact to my attention. How many of you were aware that we had two Omega class tanker ships running a perpetual round trip between Nieryl Six and a base on Mars? That base was using thirty-seven percent of the entire energon expenditure of the Decepticon army."

Strika grunted. "Obsidian served for a bit on one of the tankers in question. Both were destroyed during the initial attack on Nieryl Six. Starscream was _stupid _to allow both of them in the same sector of space at the same time. I'd warned him about that a couple of times. They were both in dock, and we lost them both."

Fang turned to the weapons master. "Were you aware of what was at the base?"

"It's a manufacturing facility, sir. We would drop off fuel and pick up parts." Obsidian spoke for the first time. "I presume with the loss of the last of our tankers, it became nonviable to operate. It must never have been all that efficient to start with, given the amount of fuel it required to operate, but it was our last source for parts. I don't know what we'll do without it. There's a few factories left on Cybertron, but they're in solidly Autobot owned territory. Conquer them, I guess, before we die of attrition."

"Parts," Fang rubbed his forehead with two fingers, "are actually not going to be that much of a problem, though we'll be cannibalizing unoccupied protoforms for the next few thousand years. Obsidian, did anything about that base ever strike you as strange?"

"It was staffed almost entirely by drones, sir. We were not allowed to leave the tanker." Obsidian's optics flickered from Fang to Strika and back, and he caught a quick burst of an encrypted communication between them. It was short enough that Fang figured it was probably just a _what's he talking about? _question. Strika shot him a look and shrugged faintly.

Fangface said dryly, "Well, I've been in it. Did you know, given enough time and an infusion of the appropriate raw materials, that repair nanytes will replace entire limbs or missing internals?"

"Prisoners?" Strika guessed, lipplates twisting into an unhappy scowl. "It would be typical. What did he do, offline them and let 'em grow new parts? Practical, if a bit icky. We've got to get new parts somehow."

Fangface snorted. "Try even ickier. Most of you are aware that Megatron had a program established where he would spark military protoforms and raise them with combat in mind. I'm a new prototype from that program. So are most of the crazier fraggers in this army. Optimus cut the funding at a point after Megatron had sparked a bunch of soldiers, but before he could online and train them. I'm betting the training was the most expensive and most labor intensive part of it. He wanted his soldiers sociopathic and vicious, but they needed _some _education and care in order to be at all useable."

Aquaregia, Strika, and Obsidian all looked stunned. Bloodshine looked confused. Starcatcher looked _angry_. Fang said, "Yeah. The parts from that base were coming from stasis-lock'd sparklings."

"That's a pitload of energon for a few sparklings," Bloodshine snorted.

"Because it wasn't a few. The total number were slightly under a million, though in the last few years a significant portion died from energon starvation. At best count, there's half a million remaining alive."

Bloodshine laughed aloud. "If you're not feeding me a critical mass of lies, Fang, we've got this war _won_."

_That's it. He's enough of a dumbaft that I need to replace him at first opportunity, _Fang thought, darkly. The Captain was an effective fighter, and had probably followed Megatron's orders well, but he just didn't _think _enough.

"And how would you suggest that we fuel half a million sparklings?" Fang demanded.

Shiner shrugged. "We don't need to. Ten, fifteen thousand good sized mechs, and we can slaughter the Autobots. Start with conquering Earth, get the humans to build the supplies we need, and go from there."

"What of the remaining sparklings?" Fang's voice dropped to to an icy-cold pitch that made everyone but Bloodshine flinch.

"Lord Fangface, how many have died so far? I can't get worked up over a few mechs who've never even lived when victor is _finally _in our grasp." Bloodshine waved a hand loosely in the air. "We can do it. Wake enough to double our numbers, use the rest for parts, and eliminate every last Autobot we can find. That would end the war. You promised you would defeat the Autobots and I believed you, Fang. You've got a fantastic record of victories in battle, sometimes when nobody expected you to win."

"There's a slight problem with that plan." Fangface let a growl touch his words. Strika actually took a step back. Aquaregia had already moved away. He wondered if Bloodshine realized that his officers were literally putting distance between themselves and their captain. "And that is, what's left when we win? What _point _is victory if it as such a high cost? Who will renew our people?"

Bloodshine scowled. "And what alternative do we have?"

Fang sat on his haunches. "I've already spoken to Optimus and to John Keller. Together, using the Ark, the Nemesis, and a couple of our other ships, we can get enough energon to the sparklings to keep them alive. From the sparklings once slated for war we will bring peace."

The Captain's eyes lit with rage. "With _Optimus_? You would deal with _Optimus_? I followed you to see the defeat of the Autobots, not some weak _treaty _with the damned Autobots! We don't need to deal with them when we can conquer them. Do the sacrifices of so many soldiers mean nothing to you?"

Calmly, firmy, Fang said, "I _will _be leading us to an end to the war. You may or may not chose to follow in my tracks."

A click, a whine of capacitors, and Bloodshine swung his pulse cannon up towards Fang. Before he could even complete the motion, Fang sprang, going from a casual seat on the bench to airborn in one instant. He transformed in mid air, caught his teeth on Shiner's shoulder, and kicked his talons into Shiner's chest plating. The amor tore off with a screech, even as Bloodshine tried to bring his hands up to shove Fang off or shoot him. For a nanoclick, Fang considered letting him live, then he decisively drove his hind claws into Bloodshine's internals. He found the mech's spark chamber, hooked it with his talons, flexed his powerful back and hind legs, and ripped through it. His feet skidded across the containment forcefield, static discharge making his optics sparkle and his sensors screech. Bloodshine _screamed _and lashed at Fang with his hands, but Fang caught each wrist with his clawed fingers, clung tight with his teeth, and kicked one last time. He found the mech's powerplant and power cells and shredded them with a double-barreled strike from both back legs.

Shiner was dead before he hit the floor. It had all taken less than a second. Fang landed on top of him, pushed free of the corpse, bounded a couple feet away, and looked for other threats. Deathwheels had his enormous pulse cannons aimed at the other officers, each arm fully extended and covering two of them.

"Anyone else want to forget I can kill before you can charge your weapons capacitors?" Fang demanded, coldly, as battle routines raced through his processor. When Obsidian moved, he very nearly attacked the weapons master next.

However, the small dark mech simply dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "Decepticon Prime, you have my allegiance."

"And mine, of course." Aquaregia knelt again.

Starcatcher practically prostrated himself. "My allegiance also."

Strika, however, hesitated. The tactician scowled intensely for a moment. He wondered if he was going to have to take another down. _:Deathwheels, if she tries to jump me, let me take her. It's important that I personally assert myself:_

"What are the terms of the agreement you made?" Strika said, finally, coolly, as if her captain hadn't just been killed. As if she herself didn't have a glowing pulse cannon big enough to arm a small battle cruiser aimed at her spark chamber. As if Fang wasn't staring at her with dilated optics and screaming cooling fans.

He took a moment to deactive a few battle routines so that he could think about something besides _threat assessment _and _defense _and _offense. _She waited patiently, certainly well aware of the sort of code that Fangface ran. He didn't think very well when he was actively fighting, beyond tactical assessments.

"We will share joint control of the sparklings with the Autobots and the humans. Optimus needs us, so he's willing to deal. They need our ships to bring sufficient energon to keep them alive. Additionally, we will be allowed to activate as many sparklings as we have suitable mentors, a limit of two at a time per mentor, and with energon supplies permitting. We will begin activating sparklings immediately, as soon as tomorrow, for those mechs who I feel have a suitable temperment. I will _personally _offline anyone who harms a sparkling, and Thundercracker is currently rounding up the glitchheads, who are the mechs most likely to hurt them."

He prayed to Primus that the sparklings would be okay on the ship. However, keeping the sparklings safe was his excuse for getting rid of all of the known sociopathic, virus-addled killers preemptively.

She lifted an optic ridge. "The Autobots agreed to this."

"The Autobots trust me. And for the most part, I trust them." Fang, still in alt mode, hopped back up onto the work bench. "Strika, your're a tactician. I want you to run two scenarios through that processor of yours. Pick a point a thousand years from now. In the first scenario, we defeat the Autobots, we conquer Earth, and we save ten thousand sparklings. In the second scenario, we work with the Autobots, we earn the trust of the humans, and we save five hundred thousand sparklings. Calculate the odds of us recreating the Allspark, our standard of living, and the likelihood of any single individual in either army being alive versus killed in combat."

She blinked her optics at him, and then nodded briefly. "I understand your viewpoint and your goals, Fang, but how will we stop the Decepticons from continuing to fight regardless of your orders? Not everyone has the analytical skills I do."

He grimaced. "The glitchheads are dead. They're our biggest problem. I don't have time nor need for them, and it will be a mercy to them to end their existence. Optimus can have his virus-glitched troops back. He's already said he wants them. Ours, I'm just going to reformat and treat them like sparklings. That leaves the crazy-ass fraggers who aren't actually glitched." Fang sighed. "What would you figure the percentage of those troops are that won't ever accept peace, Strika?"

"Not as many as you'd expect. It will be hard, for awhile, but I'm certain we can find suitable occupations for the ones who just can't accept peace. Hiring them out as galactic mercenaries comes to mind, the farther from the sparklings the better." Her lips twisted up in a smile. Then she, too, dropped to her knee. "Decepticon Prime, if what you tell us is true, then you have my allegiance as well."

"Get up," he said, not unkindly, to the four of them. He glanced at the dead body on the lab floor. "A shame. I could have used him. Anyway. The thing I have not told you until now is that we have a new enemy ..."

He told them about the Nebulans, watching as their expressions turned dark and troubled. "My hope," he concluded, "is that the Nebulans are not here yet in numbers large enough to conquer Earth, if that is, indeed, their goal. However, the very survival of our species may depend on our cooperation with the humans and the Autobots."

Strika was the first to speak, when he wound down. "We should start calling in outlying troops. Astrotrain's team is closest; he's about five days away. I'll summon him now. He has the Predaking combiner team with him, too."

_Primus, that'll be fun. _Fang got along with the other predacons about as well as oil mixed with water. He'd commanded them a few times. He'd also worked with Astrotrain a few times. He'd needed to beat the crap out of Astrotrain to get Astrotrain to follow his lead. The problem with Astrotrain wasn't that he was an aft, Fang could deal with afts. It was that he was a _smart _aft and had never been convinced of Fang's superiority. _And unfortunately, I can't just slag him and be done with it. He has interstellar flight capability. We need him._

"Who's going to captain the Nemesis?" Obsidian asked, with a quick glance, swiftly averted, at the late Bloodshine. That effectively distracted Fang from his displeasure at the mention of the triplechanger.

"Strika? You've got it." He nodded at her.

Her expression -- and Obsidian's -- held frank surprise. "I questioned you. Yet you offer me a Captain's post."

"Mm." Fangface traded a glance with Deathwheels. His other option had been to put Death in charge, and he'd briefly considered it. However, that would mean separation for weeks at a time, as Fang had no intention of leaving Earth and the children. Death could certainly captain the Nemesis, and do so very well. Howeer, he dismissed the idea out of hand. He couldn't bear to be separated from him. And Strika seemed like a reasonable choice. In fact, he rather liked the fact that she hadn't simply groveled at his feet and sworn a cowardly oath of allegiance after he'd killed Bloodshine.

He told her, "Quite honestly, Strika, I don't want blind obediance. I need offficers who will tell me the truth, who will think for themselves when the situation demands it, and who will help me reach my goals."

"And those goals are?" Her optics were narrowed again.

"I've stated them."

"Not explicitly."

He vented a sharp sigh, annoyed at being forced into stating what he thought was obvious now. "Alliance with the Autobots and the humans for mutual defense of the sparklings. Creating a home here on Earth. An end to the war."

She grunted. "So now I know what your goals are _exactly_. I'll need more information to figure out if this is _really _feasible. You want me as an advisor? You want me to captain your ship? Fine. You let me _in_. I've been in this army a long time. We've watched each other for a long time. I know you're slagging good at getting people to follow your lead, to inspire them, and to get them fighting as a coherent whole. You're a good field commander and you're better than almost anyone at improvisation. You also know I'm good at tactics, at organization, and at analaysis. Most of the other officers in the fleet know me, and I've served under about half of them. They trust my judgment. You know I've won far more battles than I've lost. Bloodshine was a fool, but I'm not."

Strika pointed at him, "You just slagging blindsided me out of nowhere with a brand new situation that I have very little information about. That's not a good thing, We should have known about the Nebulans as soon as you did, sir, so we could start preparing defenses. You also spent two days with the Autobots and we didn't know where you were and you didn't bother to comm us, you just sent a slagging _seeker _and that nimwit of a bodyguard of yours to tell us you were okay. For all we knew, they'd betrayed you. The fleet needs to know about the Nebulans and in the future, you need to communicate with us _much _better. Also, if you are a Prime, if you are as important as you seem to think you are, you should _not _be risking your life leaping into unknown situations, either. That was stupid. Sir."

He grinned. "I think I love you."

"I _have _a partner," she informed him, archly.

"Oh, well, so do I, but love's not finite." He grinned at her.

Her optic ridges rose. "That's something else your officers need to know about."

"My partner? Oh, no." He'd spoken impulsively. He'd relaxed a bit, and he'd let his defenses down. He'd spoken to her like he might to Ratchet or Deathwheels himself. "That's not relevant."

"Slag it's not." She frowned at him. "We need to know who he is to make sure that he's never compromised. If he's 'facing with you ... the last thing we need is a Prime with a virus, or something of that nature."

"I could say the same thing about you," he lifted his optic ridge at her, challengingly. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

There was a brief transmission between her and Obsidian, then Obsidian held his hand up. "Her partner would be me."

Oh. Fang ran a hand over his face, feeling a little be deflated. He was still trying to figure out if he _really _wanted anyone on his side to know about Deathwheels when Death took matters into his own hands. "And I'm Fang's partner."

All four officers stared dumbly at Death. Death shrugged.

Fangface huffed a sigh. "And anyone lays a finger on Death, and they will face _my _wrath."

"Yes sir." Strika seemed more than a little surprise. "I knew he was smarter than he let on, but I always thought you guys were joking."

"No." Fangface grinned at Death, and was rewarded by a bright smile from his partner. "And he's considerably smarter than he let on. Strika, actually, I'll have you get with Death and he'll fill you in on the situation. I assume this means you have no problem with Obsidian as your 2IC?"

"None."

He didn't think Starcatcher had the guts needed to function as third in command on the ship, and he needed to keep Aquaregia on Earth. "Any objection to Thundercracker as your third?"

Aquaregia made a small noise of protest. He outranked TC. Starcatcher just looked downcast. Strika shook her head, however, and didn't address their reactions. "I can work with TC, though I'd suggest you keep Skywarp. You made need his talents."

"That works for me." Fang made another snap decision. "Aquaregia, I'm going to put you in charge of coordinating the sparkling guards. Death's my 2IC. You're my 3IC until further notice."

"Me, sir?"

"You." Fang folded his arms. "Play nice with the Autobots or I'll have your bolts."

"Yes _sir._" Aquaregia's smile was brilliant.

Fang relaxed completely, a genuine grin of his own on his face. "I'll send all of you a file with the details you need to know. We'll launch the Nemesis tomorrow. Everyone's dismissed -- Death, will you deal with that?" he waved disdainfully at the corpse on the ground.

* * *

_He worked with the mech for years and barely blinked at killing him._

Death wiped spilled energon and coolant from his fingers with a chamois after depositing Bloodshine's corpse in the ship's to a dozen others like it, including Starscream's. It said something about Decepticon expectations when Bloodshine's death had been greeted with little drama, and some relief that the succession of Strika to command appeared to be already established.

Shaking his head at Fang's temperment, Death headed up the ramp from the hold to the second-level crew quarters. Fitting his rank, Fang had claimed the admiral's cabin, and it was there that Deathwheels headed. He wondered if Fang was really as nonchalant about killing Bloodshine as he seemed.

The door to Fang's quarters slid open in reaction to his ping. Fang was seated on the berth, one foot propped on on it, and a file in one hand. "Dulled my talons," he griped.

"Here, let me see." Death sat down next to Fang and pulled his foot into his lap. Fang willingly handed over the file, and laid back on the berth. "You did good," he said, because Fang had. Fang had done a very good job of persuading the Nemesis's officers not just to follow him, but have _hope_. He strongly suspected that the four of them were all following Fangface now because they saw him as the light at the end of the tunnel. He began to sharpen Fang's talons for him, fingers expertly and nimbly doing the chore.

"Thank you," Fang said slowly. He sounded tired.

Death finished his feet after a few minutes and then crawled up the berth to lie next to Fang. He reached for one of Fang's hands, inspected his claws, then fixed a few dull spots with the file. Fang lay very still, optics half shuttered, relaxed and trusting. He figured Fangface would want to recharge, and was a little surprised when, after subspaced the file, Fang traced a finger along Deathwheel's dataport. "I want your cable in me," he murmured.

"Ask and ye shall receive," Death produced the cord and linked them together.

He was a bit surprised by Fang's mood. There was nothing frantic, fearful, or frenetic about Fang at the moment. He lost himself, for a moment, in that unexpectedly pleasant sense of calm pleasure and confidence. _:I did it. __I really did it.:_

:I'm proud of you,: he assured Fangface as he linked their systems closer together and sent pulses of pleasure across the interface. Fang felt happy, and more than that, it was an unexpected happiness with _himself._

Echoing Death's thoughts, Fang said as if in wonder, _:I am happy with myself too. Everything's coming together. I don't have to defeat them. I just have to work with them. That'll end the war. That's _better _than defeating them.: _Fang curled into Death's arms. He was very close to recharge, and his processor was wide open to Death's mind.

_:You were pretty ruthless ...: _Deathwheels risked the question to see what Fang's response would be.  
_  
:Over Bloodshine? Fragger never liked me, he was just using me to get rid of Megatron. I'm not sorry he's dead.: _Fang said, but his emotional response was very different. Deeply buried there _was _a flash of grief, small but significant, and quite a bit of anger and resentment. No remorse or regret, but at least he had been a little affected. In response to Deathwheel's thoughts, Fangface added defensively, _:Fragger didn't have to die! All he had to do was work with me!:_  
_  
:Fangface, I love you,: _Deathwheels said, tightening his grip on his partner. _:I'm sorry for doubting you.:_

:I don't understand why you're even bothered by Bloodshine's death.:

:I'm not, precisely. I am a little upset because I knew him, but I understand why you killed him.: Death shifted, rolling over on his back so that Fangface was on top of him. He traced a finger down Fang's face, finding traces of energon and soot on his armor. _:We both need a visit to the wash racks tomorrow morning. -- Fang, it's not Bloodshine that bothered me. It's the way you react to things. You can be so casual about death and destruction sometimes. I wasn't even sure if you regretted killing him.:_

A tremendous flash of hurt washed across the bond between them. Fang nearly withdrew, and Death said, _:Wait, Fang. Hear me out.:_

:You always do this. I just want to enjoy the link with you and you start questioning me. Aren't you happy with me?: Fang sounded rather upset. _:This was a bad idea. I was in a good mood, and you start asking questions. What's next, are you going to tell me I'm _broken_ again?:_

Oh, Primus. Guilt hit Deathwheels in a wave._ :Fang, I'm sorry. I never meant to make you feel bad. It's just the way I am. I'm always analyzing, always trying to _fix _things. And fix people.:_

:Maybe I don't need fixing.:

:Fang, I love you.: Death held him tight. _:You are amazing and wonderful and you've shone light into my life after long, dark, miserable eons. I'd be dead if not for you, and I was lonely and without hope until I met you. Don't ever think I don't love you exactly the way you are, because I do. I had a good idea what you were like before I chose you, and I want to remind you that I chose _you_.:_

Shining amber optics met his gaze. It was close to impossible to lie during interfacing, and Fangface had heard the truth of Death's words. Then Fang put his head down on Death's chest, and responded uncertainly, _:You did choose me. You wanted me. In my entire life, people have wanted things _from _me, but nobody's ever just wanted me for myself.:_

:Mmmhmm. Fools, they are.: With complete honesty, and with an accompanying burst of pleasure that swept through both their circuits, Deathwheels told him, _:I am very glad you accepted me as your partner.:_

Fang let his optic shutters slide nearly closed, and then dimmed the optics behind them. Death could see the disappearance of the amber glow visible in the slits between the metal. Fang responded with a slow, easy glow of warmth and love. It felt so good, and Death responded back with nearly mindless affection. Rather than an explosive burst of emotions, climax came as a slowly building wave of feelings that became worldless and all-encompassing.

Afterwards, he lay back, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of Fang sprawled across his chestplates and the steady awareness of Fang connected to his processor. He thought Fang might slip into recharge, and he figured he'd follow after disconnecting the datalink, but after a moment, Fang said, _:Death, why does it disturb you when I'm not upset? You aren't.:_

:I'm not, but it's different for you. I'm not upset because I figured you'd take Bloodshine out sooner or later. He wasn't supporting you so much as supporting an end to Megatron, and he was an ambitious fragger. But you were the one who killed him with your own claws.:

:Hnh. I don't really see the difference. Dead's dead, if I do it or if someone else does it.: Fang trailed a finger over Death's chestplates, tracing a slight imperfection in the paint. _:He didn't like me. He didn't support me. I didn't need him anymore. He was a threat.: _

_:Fang, I have a question for you. Don't answer me, just think about it. Have you ever, even once in your life, done something for someone and not expected something back? And include 'praise' and 'gratitude' as 'something back.':_

:I have absolutely no idea how that's related to my reaction, or lack thereof, to killing Bloodshine.: Fang sounded only slightly annoyed. Death figured he was still enjoying the afterglow too much to get pissed.  
_  
:I'm not saying it is,: _he replied, though Fang certainly picked up on the fact that Death _did _think it was related. _:Have you _ever _done something completely altruistic, for no reason other than that it would make other people happy, and without them knowing it?:_

:Why would I do that?:

:Does everything need to be about getting ahead to you? About scoring points, making allies, or securing power?: Deathwheels said, _:Don't answer that to me. Just think about it.:_

Fang didn't answer, except with a disgruntled pulse of irritation. Death responded with amusement, which made Fang more annoyed. He said soothingly, _:Shh. I'll love you no matter what yur answer is. I already know the answer, really, and I love you. It's just something I want you to think about.:_

:You're a really lousy Decepticon,: Fang said, a bit teasingly, as he relaxed. He stretched, folded his arms under his head, and said, _:I'm going to recharge now.:_

Death didn't even bother to remove the interface cable. He just cradled the predacon on his chest close for a long moment, feeling his consciousness fade. He realized Fang now trusted him utterly; he had not even put his firewalls up before falling asleep. Death, after a long, stunned moment, let himself relax as well and cycle into charge. _I love you, Fang, _he thought as awareness trickled away.


	66. Chapter 66

Chapter 66

* * *

Fang stood outside Starscream's lab, trying not to ache for Death's touch quite so much, as he waited for the building to implode. When the explosion came and the walls toppled down he winced, and clutched his hand tightly about the metal canister he'd taken from the safe in Starscream's building. Death was already on board the Nemesis, helping Strika with a pre-flight check.

"Funny," Thundercracker said, as he approached on foot, "in all the time I worked under Megatron, I never saw him give up a base under anything other than direct fire. This is strategically smarter. We can't defend both the sparklings and the base at the moment, and if we try to stay here, we'll frag off the Russians even more, which means we'll also frag off the Americans because they don't want another excuse to fight with their enemies. It makes sense to leave."

He glanced up at the seeker and admitted, "It's hard, though. I know why Megatron never gave an inch if he could help it. Seeing something that was _mine _destroyed, even for the best of reasons, it hurts. It was mine, and now it's rubble."

"Yeah, I get that. We've got so little that is ours."

Fang glanced at the seeker. TC caught his gaze, then glanced down at Fang's hand. The vial in it was lead-lined and solid, obviously constructed to shield something. "What's that? Err -- you don't have to tell me, sorry, I'm always too curious."

He probably shouldn't let his minions know, but it was TC, and he was coming to like the seeker, and he really wasn't good at keeping secrets. "A shard of the Allspark. Starscream had it. As best I can tell, he got it from Megatron and he was trying to figure out how the Fallen revived Megatron with it."

"Heck of a weapon on our side if we could respark some of our fallen warriors," Thundercracker said, "and a hell of a moral boost."

"I was thinking of Starscream," he said. If he could bring TC's partner back, perhaps he could be more sure of the seeker's loyalty. Perhaps he wouldn't feel so guilty every time he looked at TC and thought of Death, and the bond he was forging with his own lover. He couldn't imagine a world without Deathwheels in it, couldn't imagine a reality that didn't have his snarky, gentle, wise partner as the foundation to his world.

Thundercracker went very, very still, for a long moment. Then his armor creaked as he knelt, not to be condescending, but just to be on eye level with Fang. "Lord Fangface, don't."

"Don't? You don't want him back?"

Thundercracker's red optics shuttered. "I would do anything to have the Starscream I knew when I was attending Iacon back. He was something truly special, and I wish you two could have known each other. You would have been friends. However, that Starscream has been dead tens of thousands of years. I wouldn't even interface with the mech you killed, for all that I loved him with all my being. It is for the best that he rest in peace, Fang. Don't bring him back. It wouldn't be good for him or for us."

He had a hard time imagining not wanting Deathwheels back, or Death changing to the point where he would repudiate him. For . "Are you sure?"

Thundercracker folded both his hands around Fang's grasp on the vial. "Very. Let him rest. What is done is done."

"Very well."

TC stayed down, however, even when Fangface stepped back a foot. The seeker rested a hand on the ground, lowering himself even further, back arched, head down, a gesture of humility. "I know you do not want to accept my personal oath, Fang, but I want you to know you have my loyalty as a Decepticon."

"Thundercracker ..." Fang said, warningly. He was uncomfortable with the idea of TC pledging personal allegiance to him. He would never be able to forgive someone if they hurt Deathwheels. How could TC ever bring himself to fully support Fangface?

Thundercracker was useful, but Fangface didn't want false promises, or oaths that would someday be broken, not from _anyone_.

The seeker rose. His lipplates were pressed into a thin line for a long moment before he added, "Primus knows you'll _need _my loyalty. The road you've chosen for us is going to be pit-slagging difficult."

Fangface shrugged. "Can't be any harder than teleporting that warehouse to Earth."

"We had Primus's help for that," TC said.

Now Fangface raised both optic ridges at TC, "And Primus better keep right on helping us, because I sure as Megatron went to the Pit, I can't do this by myself. If he wants us to succeed, he better _help_."

The seeker's red optics regarded him gravely for a moment. "You speak as if you're by yourself, but you're not alone, Fang. You have the support of 'Warp and I, and the Nemesis's brass, and Death, and the captains and officers of half the fleet, at least a quarter of the rank and file mechs. And Optimus and the Autobots want to work with you too, so it's fair to say you have _their _support. You can't stop a war if only one side wants to end it."

For a moment, all Fang could do was stare at Thundercracker. He nibbled on a claw, then sighed. "Maybe you're right, but the problem is, I don't know _who _I can trust on that list, other than Death."

"And me." Thundercracker shook his head. "You know, I really ought to be more offended than I am that you don't believe me. But I get where you're coming from, sir. We are from the same dark place. You _don't _know you can trust me, because we've all learned not to trust each other. But it's true. And maybe if I keep telling you that, someday, you'll believe me. -- May I go, sir? Strika wants 'me to teleport ahead and make sure everything's in order at the Autobot base so nobody shoots at us when the Nemesis arrives."

"Yeah, go." Fang blew out a sharp sigh. "You're dismissed."

Thundercracker glanced towards the Nemesis. "Sir, would you look out for 'Warp for me, when I'm not around?"

And then he was gone, with a crack of displaced air, before Fang could make a promise he would have gladly given.

* * *

Bee's humanoid half woke to an alarm from his internal chronometer, set for an hour before the Ark's scheduled departure. He rolled over, feeling the drag of his mechanoid half''s still-offline systems but too lazy to ping himself awake yet. It felt good to just lay under the fuzzy blanket, a warm body against his chest, a soft mattress underneath him.

He was getting quite fond of his new form's tactile senses.

_Who's pressed up against me? _He froze, unable to move, as Ratchet's mods belatedly engaged, freezing him in place until he was completely online and identified everyone in his surroundings. He booted his Camaro half's processor in a startled hurry. _Sam_, he identified, using mechanoid scanners, a second later. Sam was sound asleep, snoring, on his back. Mikaela was curled up on the other side of Sam, under the covers. And still naked.

Bee snuggled against him a little more, motor functions unlocking, and he set his chronometer for an additional fifteen minutes of recharge. He'd showered before bed; all he had to do to get out the door was comb his hair out and dress in a pair of fatigues and boots.

When he roused again a bit later, Sam was watching him with a faint smile that instantly vanished when Bee opened his eyes. Sam said, with every evidence of annoyance in his voice, "You know you drool?"

"I do?" Bee said, alarmed that he might have dribbled saliva on Sam's chest.

"Kidding, Bee." The smile returned. Sam reached a hand up and ran it through Bee's hair, a bit too casually. "Mikaela's still asleep. Is it time to get up?"

"Better wake her," Bee sighed, "she'll need time to take a shower. You too."

His nose was a bit too close to Sam's armpit for comfort now that Sam had raised his arm up to mess with Bee's hair, and there was the faintest hint of male-human funk. Bee sat up and regarded Sam thoughtfully. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Sam pushed himself upright too.

"You are okay with last night?" Bee repeated himself, getting more specific.

"Totally."

"Liar." Bee's tone turned teasing.

Sam threw his pillow at him. "Okay, I'm a bit weirded out. But I'm cool with it. We agreed we're a threesome. That means you get to sleep with her too. As fricking _weird _as it is to even think about my Camaro sleeping with my ..."

Bee threw the pillow at Sam's head. Mikaela, who'd been less asleep than she appeared, snagged it out of Sam's lap and chucked right back at Bee. "You'd _better _be okay with last night," she growled at Sam.

"It's just weird, is all." Sam put his arm out around Bee's shoulder and tugged; Bee willingly leaned back against Sam. It felt so very good to be held by his partners, either of them, in this body. Sam seemed relaxed, too, and for the moment he didn't appear to be bothered by the closeness.

He hesitated for a moment, then tilted his face up and pressed a kiss to Sam's lips. As he'd expected, Sam stiffened ... but then he returned the kiss with clear interest. Sam's fingers trailed along Bee's jaw, and then ran through his hair, and Bee closed his eyes and lost himself, just for a moment, in the wonderful sensations.

Finally, Sam lifted his mouth from Bee's lips and just hugged Bee close. Bee whispered, "And that kind of greeting is something I could get used to waking up to."

"Mmmhmm."

"You boys forgetting someone?" Mikaela said.

They both looked at her, Bee with a stab of guilt. Sam, however, made a snorting sound and said, "As if I could ever forget ..."

She clocked them both with a pillow, then yelped and ran for the bathroom when grabbed for their own ammunition.

* * *

It was barely dawn when they stepped out the door, and the late September air held the faintest cool hint of a still-distant autumn. The Ark was giving off low vibrations, below the threshold of human sound, as Teletraan began his pre-launch checklist of systems. A tanker pulled away, likely laden with what energon the ship could spare. He watched as Kat rode up the ramp on Doc's ATV alt mode, followed by her mother on foot.

Wheeljack emerged from the ship, trailed by two small mechs that Bee had not seen before. Both of them clung close to 'Jack's heels, so near him that Bee could hear a faint, steady pulse of 'Jack's sonar as the engineer kept close tabs on their location.

He padded their way when he saw them, waving. "Hey, Bee, 'Kaela, Sam," he said, surprisingly sober for a mech who had two apparent new sparklings all his own following him. "I want you to meet Array and Pulsar."

The two appeared to be the same design, and more than that, they had that certain synchronicity that Bee recognized from a few other examples of binary sparks he'd known. Bee guessed, "Twins?"

"Twins," 'Jack confirmed. "I realized it when I brought Array online and she started panicking and looking for her brother. We were up half the night looking for him by sparkdate alone. I was half afraid I'd bring him online and end up with triplets or worse when I didn't have the right kiddo. Or that ..." Jack switched to comm, mindful of little audio receptors listening in, _:Or that he'd be one of the dead ones..:_

Bee nodded and crouched in front of the two of them. They were about half human sized, maybe three feet tall. "Hi," he said, "I'm Bumblebee."

Array -- who had red paint -- hid behind Wheeljack's leg. Her brother, in colorful purple and gold, tentatively said, "My name's Pulsar."

_:They're traumatized, both of them, but Array's much worse off emotionally: _Wheeljack said, with some concern. He crouched too, and put a hand on both sparklings' shoulders. With a gentle push he encouraged Array to step forward. "Bee's a good friend of mine."

Array stared at him mutely, then twisted around to bury her optics in Wheeljack's hand.

_:She hasn't said a word since I onlined her. I had Ratchet and Elita both audit my logs of the sparkling interface downloads and they look good. It's either a spark-trait or trauma. I'm betting trauma. Pulsar's a lot more stable.: _Wheeljack stroked her back with his fingers.

"Shiny!" Pulsar pointed at Bee's wrist armor. Bee obligingly held his arm out and let the sparkling poke at his plates with delicate fingers. "Look! Me!" He could see his expression in it. "Array, look! You!"

"That's right," Wheeljack said, with a small smile. "Look, Array. You can see your reflection."

Array peered out cautiously, and Bee pointed at his arm, showing her where to look. She carefully approached him and then, when she saw the "other mech" reflected in his armor, she squeaked and tried to dive behind 'Jack. He scooped her up in mid leap and cradled her to his chest. "Pulsar and I were playing with a mirror earlier, right?"

"Right!"

"He's got it all figured out," Wheeljack said, proudly.

"That's me!" Pulsar grinned.

_:Doesn't sound like he's traumatized at all,: _Bee said.

_:He's very forgiving. And when I gave Array her downloads I got a glimpse of a memory someone hitting her and I think it was before she ever had her first code download. I think that she might have gotten free of the Decepticon techs and been beaten into submission before they gave her some operational code. I'd like to tear their sparks out for that.: _'Jack was coldly furious. Whatever he had seen had made him angrier than Bumblebee had seen in a long time. However, none of that rage showed in his expression. For his sparklings, he was giving a good show of calm pleasantry.

It was unfortunate that the techs in question were likely long dead, or Bee would have offlined them _for _Wheeljack. There were just certain things that were unforgiveable. Beating a sparkling who didn't even have the operational code to properly process sensory input yet was high on that list.

Wheeljack tried to set Array down, once she seemed calmer. "Array, look, your brother's not afraid."

She shook her head and clung to his hand. Pulsar noticed her body language and expression and observed, "Scared."

"That's right, she's scared." Wheeljack's tone was soothing.

Worry crossed his face despite his mentor's calm response, likely because sparklings were hardcoded to interpet anyone else's fear as a possible sign of danger. Suspiciously, he said, "Why?"

"Because somebody hurt her, a long time ago. It's safe now, though," Wheeljack explained.

"I'm not scared," Pulsar said, decided to trust Wheeljack's assurance. He crouched and patted at a puddle left over from yesterday's rain, making ripples on the surface. "Water!" He saw his reflection in it. "Me!"

"Look at the ripples," Wheeljack said, to both sparklings, "isn't that neat how they make geometric patterns?" 'Jack switched to Cybertronian to communicate a few fascinating and sparkling-simple concepts that the ripples in the water demonstrated. English wasn't very good for talking about math.

Pulsar giggled and stamped a foot in the water experimentally. "More!"

Bee smiled and said to Mikaela and Sam, "Most sparklings spend the first few months of their lives just exploring like Pulsar's doing."

"Well," Wheeljack shifted Array's weight from one arm to the other, "that is, when they're not working. I need to get these two over to the warehouse. You guys coming with me?"

"_Working_?" Mikaela said, in disbelief.

Bee explained, "We're not human, and you're applying human expectations. I wouldn't expect either of them to have much of an attention span, but there's no reason not to start teaching them some useful tasks now. They won't be bothered by the condition of the other sparklings -- they don't have the life experience yet to really understand what they're seeing."

Wheeljack reached down and scooped his other sparkling up. He added on to Bee's comment, "Pulsar will probably enjoy a few challenges. Array can hang out on my shoulder until she's more comfortable with everything. It's all good."

* * *

Windy, a human backpack swung over one shoulder and a datapad in one hand, was on his way up the Ark's ramp as Bee's humanoid form walked down it. Eye contact was almost unavoidable, and Bee didn't met Windy's gaze directly.

Manywinds gave him a hard stare in return, and stopped short.

"Hey." Bee set a box of parts that Ratchet had given him to deliver to the med bay hanger down at his feet. Guilt struck him in response to Windy's accusing glare. "Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

The little flier huffed a sigh, "You've said it. I've heard it. Do you feel better now?"

"Not really," Bee said, wryly, running a hand over his hair. "I fragged up. I hurt you."

For a moment, he thought that Manywinds was going to walk away without saying anything. Instead, Windy replied coldly, "I can and will work with you professionally. There are too few of us for it to be practical for me to avoid seeing you. However, we will _never _be friends."

Bumblebee flinched, then his temper rose with a slightly belated flash of anger. He snapped, "I'll do my best to make sure we never work together, Manywinds, if that's how you feel."

"Oh, I can be civil." Windy said, with a growl.

"Don't bother. I wouldn't want you to blow a circuit from the effort." He snagged up the carboard box of air filters and headed for Ratchet's hangar, where a pile of similar boxes of supplies was growing. Ratchet would have a well-stocked med bay by the time the Ark departed in an hour. Windy, as far as Bee could concern, could go frag himself.

"Hey Bee!"

He turned back at the shout of his name, hope swelling. Maybe he could salvage a friendship out of this.

"Want to borrow my datapad? You certainly aren't going to get any from those humans!" Windy held the datapad up, and made a rude gesture similar to plugging a cord in with his other hand. About the only time that gesture _was _obscene was when datapad interfacing was implied.

Apparently, the sentiment to "go frag himself" was mutual. Also, the friendship _probably _wasn't salvageable. Bee replied sweetly, "I'm getting more than you are!" and turned his back again and walked away while making a gesture over one sholder, under other circumstances, would have been a friendly wave.

* * *

Halfway over the Arctic Ocean to North America, the Nemesis's long-range radio system crackled to life. "Captain Astrotrain, reporting in. Come in, Nemesis."

Astrotrain _was _the ship, as well as being the Captain. Strika responded aloud for the benefit of the crew, "This is Captain Strika, Astrotrain. Welcome to Earth."

"Slagging _wet _looking world," he grumbled. "Strika. Where's Bloodshine?"

"Deactivated," she said, curtly. "He tried to kill our illustrious leader. Fang won."

"Only way anyone's ever going to take that cat out is with Unicron's help and one slagging big pulse cannon from orbit," Astrotrain said, cheerfully. He had a 'slagging big pulse cannon' and the implication was obvious.

"Astrotrain," Fangface said cheerfully, "It's so nice to know your battle plans in advance. You are aware that the last time someone actually tried that, I still won?"

Astrotrain's laugh was deeply amused. "Hello there, little kitty. Yes, I do. I understand that you had pre-installed a bomb in the ship's hold that took out their engines, and then you rescued them after convincing the crew to mutiny against the captain who'd come up with the plan."

In a sweet, cheerful tone, Fang said, "How do you know I don't have a device planted in _your _structures somewhere? I put the pieces in place for the coup for a very long time."

This time, Astrotrain's chuckle was even more amused. "Thanks for the warning. I'm sure you gave it just so that I can have the troops scour my insides end to end looking for explosives that don't exist. My ETA to touch-down is five Earth days. I'm in a pretty high orbit at the moment. Predaking can be there faster if you need him, with a hot re-entry, or send the seekers our way."

"That won't be necessary, Astrotrain," Fangface leaned against a bulkhead. "Get yourself in a low holding orbit and stay put. We're moving our base of operations to Nevada. I'll let you know when you can come down."

"Nevada?" Astrotrain sounded surprised. "Isn't that the geographic unit where the Autobots are -- were? -- located? I take it the war's going well, then? You have always been brilliant in a field of combat."

"Autobots are still there. We've got an understanding with them."

"Oh, that sounds promising." Astrotrain sounded positively gleeful.

"Maybe not how you think. Astrotrain, there's probably at least one cloaked enemy ship in orbit. Strika's transmitting you the details. Have a look at the sit report real quick, will you?"

He estimated it would take Astrotrain fifteen seconds to figuratively blow up. It actually took thirteen. "Fangface, you are _crazy_. The moment you land the Nemesis at that Autobot base they're going to swarm and seize it."

"Oh, chill, Astrotrain," Fangface said, "it's all worked out."

He made a hmphing noise indicating disbelief and derision. "You're insane. Please tell me this is really a plot to get us all in the base so we can conquer them."

"Sorry to disappoint," Fangface said, cheerfully. "And of course I'm insane. It's an absolute job requirement for the leader of the Decepticons."

This time, it took Astrotrain a full fifteen seconds to stop laughing. "Then you're well qualified, sir."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Fangface chewed on his claw for a moment, then realized that although Astrotrain couldn't see the nervous tic, Strika and the rest of the bridge crew could. _:Death, I swear this is driving me nuts. Ping me if you see my hands in my mouth, okay?:_

Death glanced over at him from scrutiny of a readout on a navigation console. _:It does make you look a bit neurotic when chew on your fingers.:_

_:I know! I'm trying to break the habit!:_ To Astrotrain he said, "How's your supply status? Do you need anything?"

Again there was a significant pause, and Astrotrain sounded surprised when he answered, "I could use some parts, if you have any to spare, and some power cells. I'll have my crew transmit a list of what we're trying to get."

Megatron never _asked _his crews what they needed. Fangface, as a commander, had routinely had to try to beg, borrow, barter or steal needed parts for even critical repairs. "Will do."

A few moments later, the list came across. Fang scrutinized it, compared it to the supplies he knew they had on board, and cleared almost everything. Astrotrain's requests were surprisingly reasonable. Perhaps he hadn't had time to add any fluff. It was probably pulled directly from his engineer's personal lists of supplies they needed.

"I'll have Skywarp pop in with this as soon as we can get it together. I think we have everything but power cells in your size, and I'll send the raw materials for you to fabricate those."

Clearly startled, Astrotrain said, "Fang, you're supposed to _argue_!"

Fangface snorted. "This is all reasonable, Astrotrain. It's stuff you and your team needs, and we have spares and plenty of opportunity to get more."

The triplechanger said slowly, "One more reasonable request? Can I _have _a medic?"

"Heh." Fang snorted. "Right after I get a few decent ones."

"Starcatcher isn't bad!" Astrotrain snapped. "Send Starcatcher up with 'Warp. I obviously can't do my own repairs, and I'm sure not going to trust that blasted combiner team with me. They're crazy, the whole lot of them."

"I can loan you Starcatcher for a few hours," Fang allowed, "but he's going to be assigned to Earth for the forseeable future."

"That's fine." Astrotrain grumbled something that wasn't quite intelligeable, then added, "Yell if you find me some Nebulans. I'd _love _to kill something."

He cut the connection.

"Isn't he just full of fluffy bunnies," Deathwheels said, utterly deadpan, into quiet that followed the end of the conversation.

Fang laughed so hard at that he couldn't speak, but he commed Death back. _:Death, I do love you!:_

_*_

* * *

By noon, Sam was so tired that he couldn't think straight. He had been working since before dawn on an endless procession of stasis-locked protoforms -- his nerves over working on living mechanoids had been quickly erased by the pure mundane tedium of the work. It wasn't any harder than filling a gas tank up on a car; the only part that required any real responsibility was distinguishing between the living and the dead, and Bee's humanoid half was doing that.

They had set up an assembling line process. Bee scanned the protoforms for signs of life. Sideswipe, who was working with them, would cart the dead off to the back of the warehouse, where they would be stored until a more secure location could be found. Sideswipe had been uncharacteristically silent all day, but then, most of the Autobots grew grim, and perhaps grieving, whenever they entered the warehouse. The pile of dead was growing larger by the minute.

Focusing on the living, Mikaela opened the fuel tank on them with a wrench, Wheelie poured in a small supply of energon, and Sam closed it. It took about a minute per sparkling, depending on the size of the tank. Ratchet and Wheeljack were following behind them, checking power levels after fueling and identifying sparklings with critical problems, and removing the feed lines that the Decepticons had been using. Ratchet was going to set up his own fuel system wherever the sparklings ended up, but until then, the lines were a potential source of energon leaks at the valve.

It was probably past lunch. He was hungry, sweaty, and all he could smell was the penetrating scent of burnt metal and an overlaying oily stink of grease and fuel. Though the building was enormous, the fire had sent black smoke throughout it, and everything was now covered in a thick layer of nasty soot that rubbed off on everything it touched.

He looked up at the sound of unfamiliar human voices. Epps was walking down the main aisle, followed by two dozen temporary workers wearing orange vests and looking either intimidated or madly curious, depending on personal temperment. The warehouse had been designed on a scale that was like nothing human; berths crammed full of motionless protoforms that were stacked forty feet in the air, aisles that stretched so far into the distance that the ends were lost in the haze of dust and lingering smoke particles.

The economy as bad enough in Nevada that they'd had _no _problem hiring help. Optimus had simply contacted a temp agency, which had promised them as much manual labor as they wanted. He'd requested a mix of skilled mechanics and unskilled labor, and three hours later they had their first class of helpers.

"Bee," Epp said, "would you show these guys the ropes?"

Bumblebee wiped his wrist across his face, leaving streaks of black where there had been sweat before. "Thanks for signing on. We appreciate your help more than you can know," he said, to the group of workers. "I'm Autobot Bumblebee. Call me Bee. These are my friends Mikaela and Sam, and they outrank you, so you do what they say."

The new hires stared at him, eyes drawn to the metal on his arms, or stared past him at Wheelie. Someone ventured to Bee, "You're really a robot?"

"I'm a mechanoid. Robot's an insult." He bared his teeth in a smile. The speaker, a woman, looked worried. Bee added, "Don't worry, though. I've been called a lot worse. Anyway, our task for the next couple of days is to get fuel into the tanks of all the sparklings. Did anyone tell you what sparklings are?"

They didn't say anything, probably because they were intimidated.

"They are children. You'll meet a few we've woken up. I expect our living children in this warehouse to be treated with the same amount of respect as you would your own kids. Anyone who cannot see them as children can leave now. They're not robots, they're not things, they're little babies and our enemy was using them to grow spare parts and as replacement warriors."

"The news says you're allying with the Decepticons now," the same woman who'd spoken earlier said.

"The 'cons are under new leadership, and their ship should be here in about an hour. They'll be helping. They brought the sparklings to us because Lord Fangface knew he couldn't save them all by himself." Bee wiped his arm across his face again, then brushed loose strands of his hair back behind one ear. His blond hair was streaked through with black and limp with sweat. The warehouse was uncomfortably warm inside.

After a moment spent wiping his eyes, Bee started pointing at people. "One, two, three ..." he counted to six a total of four times. "Pair off by your number. You're going to be fueling the living children. One person opens the fuel tank, one person pours eight ounces of energon in," he held up a red plastic gas can and a measuring cup, "third person closes the tank up tight. Make sure it's tight. Fourth person spots the ladder for the higher berths, and carries the dead sparklings out to the aisle. Treat them with the respect you would your own dead or you'll need to deal with me. Wheelie and I will sort the living from the dead. The dead will have a tag on them like this." He held up a piece of cardboard and a zip tie.

He counted off rows, indicating six rows out of several hundred, then made them wait in their groups the start of each row. Bee, Sam, and Mikaela then supervised for nearly an hour until they were sure that the temps understood how precisely to fuel the tiny mechs in this section.

"Sideswipe," Bee said, finally, "will you take over here for an hour? My humans and I need to eat. It's past lunch time."

Sideswipe nodded curtly. Sideswipe had been grimly silent all day, but Sam wasn't surprised by that. Sideswipe had been carrying the bodies of dead babies all day. Sam had only had to look into Pulsar and Array's optics once to see _children_ rather than small piles of soulless parts lying ten to twenty to a berth.

Bee gathered the workers together, then took a pizza order from them. Feeding the temps was, Sam thought, a typically Autobot thing to do. His personal theory was that the 'bots had worked together for so long as a team and a virtual family, each Autobot reliant on the others, that they automatically looked out for their employees too. Culturally, really, feeding one's workers wasn't any different than making sure one's teammates had sufficient fuel and supplies.

"Can I get two volunteers to go with the other me on a food run?" Bee said, Sam _was _surprised when Bee didn't assume that Sam and Mikaela would tag along with him. He selected two of the temps to ride with him, and then leaned over and explained to Sam in a low voice, "I'm trying to get them comfortable around us."

While the Camaro half of Bee and his volunteers went for food, Bee led the two of them outside. "Take a break," he said, softly, sitting down himself on the rocks. "This is a marathon, not a sprint. I'm really starting to get muscle sore, and you two can't be much better."

Sam gratefully slumped to the ground, Mikaela sitting between them a second later. His girlfriend -- _their _girlfriend, he reminded himself -- closed her eyes and leaned back against the warehouse wall. Sam's wrists ached from tightening fuel caps. They'd taken turns climbing a very tall ladder to the higher berths, some almost forty feet in the air, but even with sharing the work, his calves and shoulders were killing him. Repeatedly picking up dead mechs and carrying them down the ladder or handing them to Sideswipe -- nobody wanted to just drop them over the edge -- was injury to insult. Even the lightest weighed a good twenty pounds, and most of them were in the forty to fifty pound range.

Bee said wryly, "And to think, Doc suggested I take up jogging to stay in shape."

Mikaela said, "I don't want to stop for too long. They need us."

"If you injure yourself, you won't be able to help, and you are climbing on a high ladder to the upper berths and working around sharp and uneven surfaces," Bee said, "and if you get too tired you may make a mistake and hurt yourself. A fall could _kill _you. We also do not want to overlook fueling a living sparkling, or forget to tighten a cap, for example. Both would be easy to do if you let yourself grow tired."

"I'm fine." She sounded sullen.

Bee tapped his nose. "I can smell the lactic acid building up in your muscles, as well as mine. We're all going to hurt like the pit tomorrow. And your blood sugar is getting low."

"You can tell that too?" She hunched.

"You haven't eaten anything since breakfast, and it's almost one. Call it an educated guess." He smiled faintly, then leaned over and pressed his lips to hers in a brief, hesitant kiss, then urged her to look up at him with a hand under her jaw. "Mikaela, one thing I learned a long time ago is that the most efficient way to work on am overwhelmingly big and critically important task is methodically, with care taken for the health of the workers. We will not get this done faster by pushing ourselves to injury or exhaustion."

She made a face at him. "You smell like fuel."

"You stink too," he teased, "and I love you still."

Sam's heart did a weird dance at Bee's gentle banter. Bee loved Mikaela and that was a _good _thing. He loved Mikaela too.

Bee checked Sam's reaction with a quick look in his direction. Sam smiled easily, then said, "You've got grease on your cheek."

The Autobot was still trying to rub it off when heavy footfalls made all three of them look up. Optimus was approaching. Sam started to rise, but Bee remained seated. Much to Sam's surprise, Optimus sat down next to them, leaned back against the wall, and sighed. For a brief, rare moment, Optimus let his formal, grave dignity lapse. He looked simply tired, worn, even _exhausted._

"Optimus, are you okay?" Mikaela said, even as Optimus's eyes shuttered shut several feet above their heads.

"Sam, your father just spent the last fifteen minutes berating me," Optimus said, without preamble.

Sam winced. "I'm sorry."

"Do not apologize. This is not your fault. He threatening to leave the base, however, and I wanted you to know that I will personally support you in whatever decision you may make related to that." Optimus heaved a sigh from somewhere deep within his chassis.

Sam snapped, "I'm not leaving. My dad can do whatever he wants."

"He loves you."

"I know that. That doesn't stop him from being an idiot." Sam folded his arms. "Anyway, he probably won't leave. He's just upset that Bee stood up to him. Which, by the way, I'm grateful for."

Optimus smiled faintly. "That was my assessment as well, but I wanted to make you aware that he had made the threat. If he does leave, your mother will most likely go with him. I will send a mech with them, if she can convince him to accept a guardian. I do not wish to leave them unprotected. They are too important to you."

"Thanks." Sam blew his breath out slowly. "Optimus, thank you. I think ... I think things are working out between Bee, and Mikaela, and I."

Mikaela smiled. "Yeah."

Before Bee could chime in with his sentiments, a small figure darted up the hill of martian soil towards them. Paladin bounded into Optimus's lap without hesitation and said, "Found you! You went away!"

"You were supposed to be taking a recharge, little one," Optimus said, as Ranger also approached at a more dignified speed. He said sternly, "Ratchet says you disobeyed him."

"Want _you_." She sounded extremely annoyed. "Not Ratchet. Not Elita. _You_."

Optimus met Sam's optics. Sam was surprised to see deep amusement in Optimus's eyes. To the two humans and Bee he said, "I should be angrier than I am, but they grow out of this stage so fast ..."

Ranger stopped ten feet from Optimus and said, "You left us _behind_."

"I left you with Ratchet, who loves you too, and who will keep you safe," Optimus said, "And I told you to stay put with him. Leaving could have been dangerous."

"How?" Ranger actually seemed to consider Optimus's words.

Optimus turned Paladin upside down as he talked, and held her that way as she wiggled and laughed. To Ranger he explained, "There are things in this world you don't understand yet. I do. If I tell you to stay with someone I expect you to obey me."

"Tell me about the things I don't understand."

Optimus's laugh was deep and amused, much to Sam's surprise. "In good time, I will. In the meantime, if I tell you to stay with someone and you do not, I will restrict you to the main hangar. You've seen the main hangar. It is very boring and there is nothing to do in it. You will sit there by yourself until I see fit to let you leave. Do you understand?"

Ranger's eyes narrowed. "That is unfair."

"That," Optimus said, "is called following orders or suffering the consequences. Following orders is part of life."

"I don't believe I like following orders."

A movement to Sam's right made him glance over at Bee. Bee's shoulders were quivering, and Bee was hiding what was almost certainly a grin behind one hand. Bee's blue eyes were watering with mirth. Mikaela said, "Bee, are you okay?"

"I wish J-Jazz could s-see this!" Bee said, trying so hard not to laugh that the effort made him stutter. "Hell, I wish P-p-prowl could see this!"

Ranger, meanwhile, was still trying to argue with Optimus. "... but _why_?"

"Because," Optimus said, with a great deal of patience, in a tone that was explanatory, "I said so. I do _not _need to explain myself to you, and I _will _punish you if you do not obey."

"I don't like those rules."

"Tough." Optimus still had Paladin in his arms. He let her slide down to sit in his lap, then reached out and suddenly grabbed Ranger and pulled the much larger child towards him. He held Ranger in his lap and said in a low tone, " I love you deeply, and I only want what is best for you. Sometimes that means you will simply need to obey, even if you don't understand why I gave an order. I know you don't understand that yet, but you will someday."

Ranger sighed, but somewhat to Sam's amusement, the child leaned against Optimus's chassis and relaxed for a moment. "Am I in trouble?"

"No." Optimus shifted him a bit so they could look each other in the eyes. He tapped Ranger on the nose with one finger, getting Ranger's complete attention when he did so. "But if you run away from someone when I tell you to stay with them again, I _will _punish you, and you will not like that. If you want to avoid punishment, you will do as I say."

Optimus then let both children up out of his lap. He turned to Bee and said meaningfully, "Will you watch my children for a few minutes? I believe I have an errand to run."

Sam had a sneaking suspicion Optimus's "errand" would not take him very far away at all. This was a test to see if Ranger and Paladin would obey. The thought of Optimus giving his apparently stubborn and clearly defiant sparkling the Autobot equivalent of a grounding threatened to send Sam into an unstoppable gigglefit.

"Of course, Prime," Bee said, somehow managing to keep a straight face now. His expression was too neutral. He'd turned off his emotional expression software, which meant that Bee was probably howling with silent laughter inside.

Optimus said, sternly, "Ranger? Paladin? You _will _stay here with Bumblebee."

"How long will you be gone?" Ranger still had that challenging note in his voice.

"Five minutes." Optimus rose. Paladin willingly bounced over to Bee, standing nearly as tall as the humans. Ranger towered above them, all stern angles and rigid poise. Optimus ran a hand over Ranger's helm and said gravely, "Thank you for obeying me."

Optimus bent over and handed Bee something disk-like. It took Sam a long, startled moment to actually identify that Optimus had given Bumblebee the largest frisbee that Sam had ever seen. It had to be two feet across and was made of tough fabric with a hard rim. It was probably intended for really big dogs.

As soon as Optimus had moved away, into the interior, Bee looked down at the frisbee in his hands, flicked his wrist without releasing it for a couple of times, and then said, "Hey, you kids want to play?"

Paladin tilted her head sideways, considering, and possibly baffled. Bee just flicked the frisbee without waiting for a response from Ranger. Paladin immediately streaked after it, leaping into a transformation. Her alt mode had two wheels like a motorobike, but no seat and no handlebars and no real up or down, just a body suspended between two weels. She wasn't built for a passenger. She was designed to cover rough ground with startling speed and efficiency.

When she caught up to the frisbee she transformed and turned her momentum into a vertical leap. She jumped a good ten feet into the air, caught the frisbee, and ran back with it on two legs.

"I can't believe you're teaching Optimus's kids to play fetch," Sam said, grinning.

"Prime suggested it," Bee said, with serenity. He threw the frisbee again, and Paladin charged after it. "This is a common sparkling game."

Mikaela looked up at Ranger and asked, "What? You don't want to play?"

"I fail to see the point." He sounded almost arrogant in his response to her. "I know I can run and catch the frisbee. Why would I want to do so?"

Bee said, in a tone of absolute calm, "Because Paladin might be better at it than you."

"She is _not_!"

"Yeah?" Bee threw the frisbee a third time. With a metallic screech of glee that could have peeled paint, Paladin took off after it. "Seems to me she's smaller and more agile, and your alt mode won't be able to deal with the rocks on this hill."

"My acceleration on two legs would exceed her speed on wheels."

"You sure about that?" Bumblebee said. Paladin returned in seconds with the disk in her hands. She thrust it at Bee. Bee waited, poised to throw it again. Ranger had his head tilted to one side. Suddenly, he stiffened and straightened up, going alert and quivering.

Bee chucked the frisbee.

Ranger was faster, as he'd said, over the rocks. However, Paladin launched herself airborn from behind Ranger, bounced off his shoulder and helm, and caught the frisbee in midair. With a crow of glee she ran back.

"She cheated!"

"It's not cheating if there weren't any rules established to begin with," Bee explained. "And I think Paladin isn't competing with you. She just wants the frisbee."

"I beat Ranger!"

"Okay, well, maybe she is _now_." Bee laughed, and gave Paladin a brief side-hug with one arm, pulling her against his him. "Smart kids."

"I want a rule where she can't jump on me," Ranger said. "Or jump at all. That's not fair. She can win if she jumps. I can't jump as high. She's using the energy she builds driving fast to push herself into the air."

Bee put a hand out and gave Ranger a friendly shove on the shoulder. "Sorry, of you want to play, that's not a fair rule for Paladin. If she can't jump you'll always win. You're taller than she is."

"It's fair for _me_."

"Ranger, define fair for me."

"Equal or balanced," the sparkling huffed. "It's equal for _me_."

"It's not equal for her. Equal means equal for both of you."

"But then I could _lose_."

"The challenge is what makes it fun." Bee threw the frisbee. Both sparklings were off as if propelled by rockets. Paladin did jump for the frisbee, but Ranger shoved off a rock at the same time. They collided in midair with an audible crunch. Sam winced. Bee didn't. The sparklings went down together in a tangle of limbs, and when they scrambled to their feet, it was clear that Paladin had a few small dents.

She keened briefly, cradling her arm. Ranger glanced between her and the frisbee, which had settled to the ground beyond them. Then he knelt and said to his sister, "It hurts, doesn't it?"

Bee said very quietly to Sam and Mikaela, sounding awed, "I think that's true empathy. They don't usually develop that this quick. Primus, he's going to be fun to watch grow up. As you can doubtless tell by now, sparklings are extremely self-centered and generally incapable of thinking beyond their own needs at first."

Paladin nodded in reaction to Ranger's words.

Hesitantly, awkwardly, Ranger touched her arm with two fingers. "I'm sorry. I didn't calculate our trajectories before I jumped. I hurt you."

She sniffed. "Better now!" And then she bolted for the frisbee.

"Mine!" Ranger grabbed her by one shoulder-mounted tire. There was a brief scrabble between the two of them. Ranger managed to hold her back, reach past her with his other hand, and grab the frisbee off the ground. Gleefully triumphant, he ran back to them.

"Okay, I am setting a ground rule," Bee said, "no wrestling, no physical contact. Someone might get hurt worse."

"I wasn't hurt!" Paladin said, even as Bee was holding her arm and inspecting the damage. To Sam's eyes it looked very minor, and even as he watched, the dent popped out and her armor smoothed.

"New rule: no contact." He reached up for the frisbee in Ranger's hands and threw it again.

The two were actually about evenly matched. Sam could see Ranger was far more frustrated by losing than Paladin was. He seemed to think he should be _better _at the game than she was, and he got furious at himself when he lost. Paladin, for her part, was cheerfully competative but not overly upset when Ranger beat her to the frisbee.

After the promised minutes, Optimus returned. Both children saw him and with twin cries of welcome they barreled into him with loud clangs of armor against armor. He scooped Paladin up, draped an arm around Ranger's shoulders, and said to Bee, "Thank you."

"Not a problem."

"Come, you two," Optimus turned back towards the warehouse. "We can use your help inside."

"Help?" Paladin squirmed in his arms until she was facing forward, legs dangling over his wrist, back to his chest plates. He held her in place with his other hand spread across her small body. "Fun?"

"Serious business," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But you will enjoy helping me, right?"

As soon as they were gone, Bee dissolved into a close cousin of the gigglefit that Sam had felt looming over himself. After he caught his breath, he gasped out, "Oh, P-p-primus."

"What's so funny?"

"You'd have to know Prowl to really understand," Bee said, flopping back down on the ground. "I'm not even sure I could put it into words. I'm not sure what's funnier, Optimus's sparkling arguing with him like that, or the expression I can envision on Ironhide's face when I send him the vid of that exchange between the two of them."

"It wasn't that funny," Mikaela said, mystified.

"Oh, oh, oh yes it is. Prowl was the only mech I've _ever _known who would point blank disagree with Optimus and the only mech I've ever seen Optimus refuse to explain his orders to. There were times Optimus just told Prowl to 'do it' and figure out how on his own." Bumblebee snickered again. "And now Ranger's doing the exact same thing and oh, Primus, it's hilarious. It's probably a good thing that it's Prime and not Ratchet or Ironhide raising him, because either of them would _kill _him before he grew up!"

Still snickering, Bee leaned against Sam for a moment, and Sam reflexively hugged him. Then Bee said cheerfully, "Pizza's here, and I'm _starving_."

Sam pretty much agreed with that sentiment, but when he looked up, he realized that the Bee's Camaro half had pulled up with the two temps inside. They were staring at him. He started to withdraw from embracing Bee, and Bee began to straighten up.

_Screw it. _Sam tightened his grip on his best friend and partner. He met their gaze with a challenging stare. Both people looked sharply away.

Bee murmured, "Thank you, Sam."

Sam, pretty much, never wanted to let him go.


	67. Chapter 67

Chapter 67

* * *

"You need to move a little faster," Wheelie said, chidingly, to one of the temps, a man named Michael.

"I'm moving as fast as I can," he grumbled, though it was clear to Wheelie that he wasn't. He was slow, and he smelled of ethanol fumes in a way that was entirely not fuel or solvent related. Two days in on the job of fueling all the sparklings and they'd made some headway, but today Michael had shown up in a less-than-optimal state.

"You're slowing everyone else down," Wheelie said, irritated. This group of workers had half the production of the faster teams and it was entirely Michael's fault. Even when completely sober, he was still inefficient.

"I'm _not slow_. You might not understand this, being a _robot_, but some of us are human and can't work that fast. Freakin' alien slave drivers!" The last was muttered under his breath.

Wheelie was about to ping Ratchet for help when ten feet of silvery predacon stepped around the corner and fixed the human with flat, unamused amber eyes. "You're fired."

"Fang ..." Wheelie gasped. He hadn't seen his mentor since he'd woken up in a new body in Russia. Fangface had been at the base for two days, since the Nemesis had arrived, but he'd managed to avoid the predacon the entire time.

"Get." Fang loomed over the human.

Michael might have been willing to argue with six feet of transforming motorcycle. Fifteen feet of predacon was an entirely different story. He squeaked and fled.

Fangface said to Deathwheels, who'd walked up behind him, "Death, will you make sure that man doesn't leave in his own car? He's got a significant amount of an intoxicant in his blood and as entertaining as a good car crash would be, he could hurt a young squishy in another car. I like the young squishies."

All the human teams in earshot were staring at him. Fangface turned to them and said with a slow smile, "The little squishies are a lot more tender and juicy than the big squishies."

"Fang!" Wheelie said, horrified, even as Death turned to quietly follow the dismissed human. The people in the work teams behind him were all comfortable with giant alien robots. "That's not even funny!"

"_I _think it is." Fangface reached down to try to pick Wheelie up.

Wheelie took a hasty step back. He didn't want to be picked up by anyone. In the last several days, even the thought of riding on Optimus's shoulder had started making him uneasy. Optimus had taken it with good grace when he'd turned down the offer of a ride today. He wasn't sure why he was reluctant, though that feeling had started when the new sparklings had arrived. He was very sure that he didn't want to be cradled in the crook of Fang's arm like a baby.

"I'm not a child anymore."

"Primus, you're only thir ..."

"Stop!" Wheelie hastily cut Fang off, _:Don't say my age in front of the humans. I need to command them. Optimus has me supervising this lot.:_

:Sorry, scraplet.: Fang transformers and tried to nudge Wheelie with his nose. _:I wasn't aware of your role.:_

Wheelie dodged that, too. _:Don't do that, either.:_

:Aww, kiddo, are you still mad at me?: Fang pursued Wheelie, who stood his ground after a couple backwards steps and let Fang bump him. It was an old, familiar, greeting. Once he would have welcomed it with all the joy in his spark. Now, he just felt horrendously guilty for _not _wanting it.

_:Not really.: _Wheelie rested a hand reluctantly on Fang's nose, meeting Fang's gaze from a distance of only a few feet between their optics. _:I am ... proud of you.: _His words came slowly. _:I never expected you to do what you have. Optimus has told me what you've done. Are doing. I didn't expect it of you. Last time we spoke, you were threatening to kill the Autobots.:_

:I was threatening to defeat them, not kill them,: Fang chided.

_:You know they would never surrender.:_ Fang gave in to a surrender of his own, and rested his own head against Fang's cheek, arms going around Fangs neck. Staying ticked at Fang for long was difficult, at least partly because Fang made such an effort to make sure people _didn't _carry grudges against him. He'd made a masterful effort at remaining pissed, but he gave up immovable anger in the face of the unstoppable force that was Fang. He observed, though, _:You'd have to fight them to the death to beat them. Threatening to defeat them is threatening to kill them.:_

Fang sat on his haunches, which lifted his head out of Wheelie's reach, and addressed the humans, "Hey, you all, get back to work. You're wasting time!"

Then he turned his attention back to Wheelie. _:If I had to do it that way, I would. The war must end. But I'm much happier working with the Autobots.:_

Fang tried to put a paw on Wheelie's shoulder, and again Wheelie stepped back.

_:What, still a little mad at me?:_

:It's undignified.: Wheelie huffed a sigh aloud through his vents. _:Look, I think I'm starting to fit in here, a little. I'll never be just one of the gang, but at least they've quit acting like I'll betray them at the first chance I get.:_

Fang looked hurt. _:I'm touchy-feely with everyone!:_

:Yeah, well, then, let's not remind either faction I'm close to you. Or have you forgotten you refused to let me come back to you because it wasn't safe?: Wheelie crossed his arms and stared at his feet. _:You 'cons are here now and I'm in easy reach if someone wants to hurt me. And I get enough slag from the 'bots as it is.:_

His mentor frowned, but said slowly, and in candid admission that left Wheelie feeling defensive because he wasn't about to match that level of honesty, _:You know that I never had a mentor? However, the mech who was closest to being a mentor for me left when I was barely past being a sparkling. He was a brilliant scientist, a metallurgist. I would give anything, even now, to be able to hug him or sit at his feet. I miss him so much, Wheelie, and I barely knew him. He's dead, he has to be, and I never got a chance to even tell him how much he meant to me.:_

Unspoken was, 'Why don't you love me?' and it made him feel horribly guilty. He did love Fang, he just didn't _like _him all that much sometimes. Plus, he had his own aft to look out for._ :Yeah, well, I'm not saying I'm not your sparkling. Just kill the public displays of affection.:_

:But ...: Fang started to protest, and Wheelie fixed him with an irritated glare. Fang subsided. Then he brightened, in one of those dizzying changes of subject and mood that Wheelie remembered being irritated by even as a very small child. _:Hey, I'm going to adopt a sparkling. Want to be there when I bring your sibling online?:_

Wheelie ran a hand over his optics in a gesture he'd learned from Ratchet. _:You're going to _what_?:_

:Adopt a sparkling.: Blithe good humor shone in Fang's bright eyes.  
_  
:And if all this work at peace falls through, and you end up fighting with the Autobots again, and the Decepticon army is every bit the cesspit of nastiness that I _well _remember growing up in, _what _are you going to do with the sparkling? For that matter, what if someone slags you? I can't help but notice you've got a 'shoot me' target smack between your shoulder blades. When was the last time someone tried to kill you -- less than a week ago? Damn near succeeded, according to Ratchet. And you want a sparkling. _You _want a _sparkling? YOU WANT A SPARKLING?_:_

This time, Fang grinned. _:Sure you're not jealous, kiddo?:_

:No. I'm NOT.: Of that, Wheelie was very sure. _:And what happens if you can't care for this sparkling? If someone kidnaps him? If you have to abandon him to the Autobots? Do you know how much it _hurts _when your own mentor can't keep you safe?:_

:Wheelie,: Fang sighed, and somehow, suddenly, without any warning, he seemed older, wiser, wearier. And Prime. Very, very, Prime. Amber eyes regarded him with clear thought for a moment. "Wheelie, the only way I will ever get the Decepticons to agree to a change for the better will be to force that change upon them. This means a core modification to our culture. I am intending that every Decepticon who is able to do so, who has a suitable psych profile, will adopt sparklings. Every adult with sparklings will then be vested in changing the way we operate."

"Potentially, there's a whole lot of suckage involved in being one of those sparklings," Wheelie said, frowning. He knew too well how younglings were treated in the Decepticon army.

Fang shrugged. "There's a whole lot of suckage involved in this entire situation. However, I can guarantee that the mechs I approve to raise children will be fierce advocates for change, and ferociously protective. The two go hand in hand. Once, a long time ago, most 'cons chose to fight the Autobots because they wanted a better life for themselves and their friends, their family, their world. Right or wrong, they saw Optimus standing in the way of that goal. Maybe neither side was right. I don't know, I wasn't even _there._"

Fang slapped one paw against the cement floor, making a loud bang. Everyone in earshot jumped. He continued, passion making his eyes gleam, "They will come here. We will build a base, and we will build a new life, and we will think of the future, not the past. I swear it, Wheelie."

They'd switched to speaking aloud, and Wheelie abruptly realized that many of the humans close to them were listening, some more obviously than others. He said, a bit disconcerted by Fang's fervor, _:Fangface, I have work to do.:_

:Very well. Will you come, though?:

Wheelie hesitated. A _sibling_. He wasn't sure if he was curious what it would be like to have a sibling, or if he just felt sorry for the sparkling. Some of his worst nightmares came from being small and clueless and trying to grow up among Decepticons. The same Decepticons Fang seemed to think should _all _adopt sparklings. Primus above, those poor kids ...

_:Please.: _Fang bumped him with his nose again. _:It will be just you and Deathwheels. You haven't even met Death. You should. He wants to get to know you.:_

:Your partner?: It was strange to think of Fangface with a partner. Optimus had clued Wheelie in about the real nature of Fang's looming bodyguard. To Wheelie, Fangface had never seemed like the type who'd enter an _equal _partnership with someone. Wheelie, who had often chaffed under Fang's bossiness and been frustrated by his stubborness, wondered just how domineering Fang was over Deathwheels. He had a hard time envisioning Fangface yielding to anyone; Fang could be both stubborn and paranoid about his own safety.  
_  
:My partner. You'll like him. He's smart like you are.:_

Wheelie had very mixed feelings, but he also knew Fangface wouldn't give it a rest. Short of hiding behind Optimus, he wouldn't be able to avoid Fang and if he tried to say no, Fang would either wear him down or physically haul him away. Wheelie wasn't entirely sure that Optimus would actually defend him from Fangface in this instance, either. He suspected Optimus would be a lot more likely to tell Wheelie that he should accept Fang's invitation. _:Okay, I'll be there.: _

_:Excellent. Tonight?: _Fang was openly grinning now.  
_  
:Yeah, I'm free after my shift ends.:_

Wheelie shot the closest human, a dark-haired woman named Tia, a scowling look after Fang was gone. She was staring at him. "What are you looking at?"

The temp went very pale and held both hands up. "Nothing! Nothing! That was ... that was just the leader of the Decepticons, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. He's an aft."

"I heard what he said. About the sparklings." Tia shook her head. "Sounds like he's pretty determined to make peace."

"Who, Fang?" Wheelie shrugged. "He is, for the moment. I just don't know if he can pull it off."

"Looks like he knew you." The woman was clearly curious.

Wheelie made a loose, expressive gesture at the warehouse. "Yeah. Apparently, I came from this place. Megatron had a bunch of us little guys activated for various purposes, and Fang snagged me out of a batch of about fifty reconnaissance models. He raised me, until Starscream decided he needed a bunch of little mechs for maintenance and recon with the Nemesis, and he just took me from Fangface and denied doing it."

"He's your dad?" The woman's eyebrows rose.

Wheelie hunched uncomfortably. "Something like that. It's not exactly the same sort of relationship. C'mon, we need to get back to work."

He knew they were watching him. He wondered what the humans thought. He didn't quite have the nerve to ask what they were thinking, though. He was, effectively, the son of the current leader of the Decepticons. And the 'cons had tried to destroy Earth. How could they possibly like him, knowing that?

_Thanks, Fang. I guess I won't ever fit in anywhere, _Wheelie thought, suddenly and unaccountably angry at his mentor. _You might be a hero, but you're still a fragger. _

* * *

Andrew Gallego frowned. The base entrance was manned by an Autobot and half a dozen soldiers, all heavily armed. The Autobot was large, black, and had formidable cannons exposed on his arms.

_Ironhide_, he recognized, _their weapons specialist and Optimus's current second in command. Supposedly known for being rude and curt with humans, little patience with us._

He very nearly turned his Barracuda around and headed back to California. However, the promise of _ratings _and _elated investors _drove him forward. He'd done his share of acting, but he preferred the production end of things. The money was better, and he liked the control it gave him. The robots were damned scary, but he figured a science show akin to Mythbusters, only aimed at kids, with a robot as a star would probably do pretty well.

He'd done a round of golf with a studio exec yesterday. The man had practically pee'd himself with enthusiasm at the idea.

The giant alien robot hung back, but watched him suspiciously. One of the soldiers approached with near equal suspicion, and, to his bemusement, waved something resembling a Star Trek tricorder at his ride.

"It's not an alien, I swear. It's all American."

The soldier said, "It's entirely possible that one could substitute himself for your car and superficially, they'd look the same. If you know cars you'd spot the difference under the hood, but they're damn good at superficially blending in."

Ironhide said, suddenly, "That vehicle has a very large engine and some interesting handling characteristics compared to typical earth vehicles."

"Yeah, it's a classic." He patted the car's steering wheel fondly. He'd just driven from LA to Nevada in about two hours less than would have been suggested by the legal speed limit. He could afford any car he wanted, and had a couple dozen vehicles, but this antique muscle car was a favorite. It was less ostentatious than some of the vehicles his colleagues preferred, but it still turned heads. Certain people -- including, apparently, giant alien robots -- were impressed by it, and he readily confessed to enjoying the chance to show off.

"Hnnh."

At that moment, a sleek, silvery classic from an entirely different decade pulled up. Wheeljack transformed with a whirl of motion, flicked his doorwings high over his back, and said, "Wow, cool wheels!"

He beamed.

'Jack crouched down so he could look through the 'Cuda's window. "Sorry again about last Saturday. How was your drive?"

"Smooth." The Autobots had offered to send transportation for him, but he always preferred to drive himself. "Thanks for making time for me."

"Oh, trust me," Wheeljack said, "the prospect of a job that doesn't involve killing things makes me all sorts of happy inside. C'mon, follow me. I'll take you up to my hangar. Just stay close and don't pass me. We'll have to cross the runway and we need to have permission from the tower to do it."

* * *

A couple moments after he pulled into the hangar, a motorcycle zipped through the doorway with a girl on the back. He stepped out of the vehicle and realized he wasn't in Kansas anymore when the girl climbed off the motorcycle, patted it on the seat, and said, "Thanks for the lift, Wheelie."

The motorcycle said cheerfully, "Anytime, Mikaela!" and drove himself away without a passenger.

"That's Wheelie," the girl said. "How was your ride?"

It was only belatedly that he recognized the ruffian who'd just gotten off the bike was the supermodel gorgeous girl who he'd flirted with at the dance. He blinked twice, aware that he was staring.

She was wearing a grease-stained pair of overalls, had black smudges and no makeup on her face, and her hair was tugged back in a perfunctory pony tail. And she was _still _beautiful, though in an entirely different sort of way.

"Good. No traffic once I left LA."

She glanced at him briefly, then turned her attention to his car with interest. "1970 Barracuda. Hemi?"

"Yeah."

"_Nice_."

She was not only stunningly gorgeous, she knew cars. Andrew lifted both eyebrows in appreciation as she studied his car. After a moment, she turned back, and held both her arms out. "Sorry for the scruffy look. I've been working with Ratchet all day getting Fang's sparkling in operational condition. He's a little guy and Ratchet has to use probes and waldos on mechs that small -- or use _me_." She waggled her fingers in in the air. Her nails had chipped and scratched red nail polish on them; he remembered the red nail polish from the party. She'd worn a gorgeous cream-colored sparkly dress and her toenails had been painted too. She'd worn open toed heels and he'd noticed.

_Pretty enough to be a model. Knows her way around machines. Girl, want a job? _

He had no clue why she'd shown up looking like she'd just crawled out from underneath a car. Did she not care what he thought at all? He'd specifically asked for her to be there when he met with Wheeljack, at least partly because the idea of trying to interact with an alien was all sorts of scary and the pretty girl who seemed to be his friend made him more approachable. That this gorgeous young woman _wasn't _shamelessly chasing him, or chasing fame, made her all that much more interesting.

Wheeljack chuffed a soft laugh as he stopped beside her. "Mikaela's all sorts of useful. We like her lots."

"Feeling's mutual." She patted the robot's mechanically complicated looking knee with easy familiarity.

_And she's so comfortable around the robots. Good chemistry. Wish Wheeljack was a bit shorter -- that's going to make framing shots hard -- but we can play up the size difference, shots of her standing fearlessly next to his knees, and maybe put her on a catwalk when we need both their faces in the same frame. Or have her ride on his shoulder or something._

He blinked, realizing that he was including her in his ideas for a show. Well, she had the looks, and the natural charisma. _Yeah, we can aim the show at kids, but with sex appeal and explosions to appeal to adults. Oh, yeah. This'll work well, if the robots really want to cooperate with this._

"Hi!"

He turned, startled, by the single word. Two small robots stood behind him, along with one as big as Wheeljack. One small robot was smiling. The other was clinging to the ankle of the taller robot -- Bumblebee, Gallego remembered, from the research he'd done on the 'net.

"That's Pulsar and Array," Wheeljack said, "my children. And Bee, of course, who volunteered to babysit for a bit."

"I'm Pulsar!" The purple and gold sparkling announced, and laughed. "You're a human!"

"Ah, that's right." The child was waist high, but solidly built. Large blue optics watched him curiously. It was cute, with over-sized hands and three-toed feet, and an expressive face.

_Good lord, it's an Autobot Chibi_, he realized. The Autobots couldn't have made a more adorable midget version of a giant alien robot if they'd tried.

The red one suddenly ran to Wheeljack. He scooped her effortlessly up and transferred her to his shoulder, where she clung to his armor. "Array doesn't talk yet, but she will when she's ready. There's no hurry." He stroked her head with his fingers, and the sparkling leaned into his touch, optics going dark. "She's understands everything we say, and that's the important part."

"Array's scared," Pulsar said, "they hurt her. She was a big room and they hit her."

Wheeljack crouched and said in a soft, curious tone, "Pulsar, how do you know that? Did you hear me talking about it?"

"She told me."

"She spoke to you?"

Pulsar just shook his head. "She _told _me. I know what she's thinking."

Wheeljack's optic ridges rose. "Is that so? Can you tell what other people are thinking?"

"Just Array."

"Uh," Andrew said, "can you guys actually read minds?"

"Not normally, though it is technically possible and a very few have that gift," Wheeljack poked Pulsar under his chest armor with a finger, making the sparkling giggle and jump back. "But Pulsar and Array are twins. Some twins are closer than others. Sometimes their sparks are bound together on a quantum level -- you might see Skids and Mudflap, who have the same gift. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe might too, though I've never gotten a straight answer out of them about it. This might be the case with these two. Array knew she had a twin when I woke her up, and dang near went through a window trying to get to him. I spent all night trying to find him for her."

He tried to make sense of the last two sentences. "So these two are from the sparklings you guys saved? I saw that on the news last night."

"Yeah, they're just babies." Wheeljack sat down cross-legged, with surprising flexibility, and pulled both children into his lap. "We're still getting to know each other. I'd only planned on adopting one child, but when I realized why she was so upset, I couldn't _not _find him for her. And Pulsar's pretty cool. Right Pulse?"

Pulse grinned and nodded.

"So it was meant to be." Wheeljack tickled Pulsar for a second, making him giggle helplessly. Array also grinned. "They're the first sparklings I've ever raised, so this is going to be quite a new learning experience. I've wanted children for a long, long time -- they're really a gift."

They were _adorable. _And Wheeljack's attitude was making him genuinely like the mech. Andrew said brightly, "About that show. You've got lots of appeal on your own, but I was going to suggest some human child actors and stuff. What ..." he hesitated, having no idea what the Autobot would think of his idea. The alien was just so _big_. He'd had all sorts of organized ideas in his brain until he'd stepped out of his car, and now he felt all out of sorts. He felt like he was launching into a pitch without all the social niceties that came before. "Umm. I think I have a good idea for the show, but, uh, I don't know what you'd think. But your children are, um, well ..." he was stammering more than he had in a very long time.

Wheeljack grinned and said, "Yes."

"Huh?"

"Yes, I think it would be an excellent idea for the children to act on the show. I've been watching human education programs." Wheeljack's smile was downright mischievous. "I suspect they'll be at least as appealing to young humans as dancing actors wearing fur suits, with the added benefit of being _real _people, not imaginary."

Mikaela snorted a sudden laugh. "Oh, God. 'Jack, is your processor okay after watching that stuff?"

The robot -- Gallego abruptly remembered they liked being called _mechs _-- gave her an innocent look that was spoiled by the words that followed, "I propose we demonstrate all sorts of cool, explosive, destructive science effects on toy dinosaurs during the very first episode."

Gallego burst out laughing. _Working with these two, _he thought, _is going to be the most fun I've had in a long time.  
_

* * *

t'Tamis sat silently in the med bay hangar, shoulders hunched, optics dark. Ratchet had a ton of work, but he couldn't help but keep an optic on their prisoner. The prisoner, for his part, wasn't watching _anything_. He was sitting in a depressed lump, not interacting beyond the bare minimum. He had chains around one ankle and one wrist that clanked when moved, and there hadn't been a noise from his berth since morning.

_He's going to break from self-imposed social isolation at this point, _Ratchet thought, watching the kid in concern with peripheral optics. He wished Smokescreen were here. Smokescreen had the training to deal with this.

Finally, after hours of silence -- and days prior of the same -- Ratchet said quietly, "You know, I can talk and work at the same time."

No response.

"We'd make you a brig, but we don't have another prisoner at the moment, and we can't spare a guard. So you're stuck with me, miserable though I know my company is."

No comment.

"I know you haven't gotten a response to your hails," Ratchet said, "we'd sense the incoming message even if it was encrypted. I'm sorry. We are telling the truth. You can go home if they're willing to come pick you up and _talk _to up. Do you think they left without you?"

Silence.

"Look, if they left Earth's system without you, we'll treat you well." Ratchet sighed. "At some point we'd have to chose between paroling you to some sort of restricted area on the base and taking those chains off, or putting you in stasis lock again until your buddies show up and we can give you back. From your standpoint, there's something to be said for either. You might have a long wait among enemies if we parole you. If we put you in stasis lock it will make the time pass quicker."

Ratchet could have predicted the mech's response at this point, which was no response and no movement. From a medical standpoint, he was starting to get concerned. He set the wrench he was using down next to a sparkling who had some major issues, and turned to the prisoner. "Are you even in there, or did you reformat yourself when I wasn't looking?"

The mech was sitting motionless, optics still dark, arms around his knees. A little concerned that the soldier might have _actually _committed suicide without Ratchet realizing it -- it was actually possible to reformat oneself if you had the necessary code routines -- he picked a wrench up and walked quietly over. He didn't detect a brush of sonar or other scans as he approached. "Hey!" He smacked the prisoner lightly in the helm with the tool. "You in there?"

The mech started keening, Cybertronian-style sobs. Still wordless, but at least it was proof he was still home inside his processor.

_Primus. He's just a youngling._

"Shh." Ratchet patted his arm, a bit awkwardly. He just wasn't good at warm-fuzzy stuff. He wished almost anyone else was in the med bay. "Stop that. We're not hurting you."

"I want to go h-h-home."

"Shh."

"He okay?" Wheelie's voice said, as the mech walked through the med bay doorway.

"Does he look okay?" Ratchet snapped. "His people aren't answering his hails."

Wheelie ignored Ratchet's offer of a hand up when he approached the berth. He crouched, jumped, caught the edge of the berth in his hands, and hitched himself up over the edge. He stepped over the much larger mech's chains that stretched across the berth, walked right up to him, and said, "Sucks to be you."

That provoked the mech into lighting his optics.

"I wasn't created an Autobot either." Wheelie stood with his arms folded, regarding the prisoner with a scowl. "The thing about the Autobots, however, is that they're the faction where all the softsparks ended up. If you were in the hands of the 'cons they'd have just hacked you and been done with it. Then afterwards they'd have infected you with a virus and made you a shock trooper and aimed you back at your own side, though given your weird design, you might have ended up being dissected and studied instead. Methane as a fuel? Really?"

Ratchet chuckled. "He ate a bag of lawn clippings earlier. Mooo."

"Primus, that's weird. Why'd they design a fuel system like that?"

"The s-sibs can't make energon." The soldier looked up at him, apparently prompted into a response by Wheelie's scornful tone. "We normally use an algal based products that can be produced in large quantities without harm to the environment, and can be grown in vats on a ship, but I can fuel using any carbon based plant life with a high cellulose content."

Ratchet snorted. "Energon? More likely, they can't make the power plants to use it. Energon's just a highly refined petroleum product with a very, very specific viscosity. If you've got complex carbon molecules on a world, you can crack energon from them. It's the power plants that are difficult to make."

He let out a long, shuddering noise that sounded startlingly like Nebulan -- the organic species --- crying. "I just want to go home."

"We'll let you," Wheelie patted his arm. "Optimus says we're just going to let you go. We just want to open a dialog with your leadership."

"C-c-conflict," the mech stuttered, and then shut his optics off again. "Unresolveable c-c-c-conflict."

"Feh." Ratchet tapped him on the helm again. "No, it's not. We didn't start the fight, we don't _want _to fight. Conflict can be resolved."

"C-code con-n-n-flict." The words were spit out through a rush of static and random noise. He was starting to shake.

Well, that explained a few things. Ratchet smacked the mech with a wrench again, this time in a very deliberate attempt to check his hypothesis. "We've been lying to you, you know. I'm going to hack you now."

The shaking stopped. Frightened optics stared at Ratchet. The alien mech hissed, "No! No, oh help me, NO!" and tried to scramble away. Wheelie jumped off the table as a thrashing foot nearly clipped him. The mech jumped in the other direction. He couldn't go anywhere, but he hit the end of his chain a few feet from the berth and landed on his aft on the ground.

"Hnh. And I _am _going to hack you, too." Ratchet stepped out of possible attack range and pinged Optimus, getting a swift response back. _:Optimus, I need your permission to do a medical deep-scan and repair of our prisoner's code.:_

:Ratchet?: Optimus sounded surprised.

_:I have a theory to explain their behavior. It's relevant, it's important, and I think the ethics fall on the side of hacking through his firewalls to verify my theory. He's not going to like it, but it's necessary.:_

:Do you want to tell me your theory?:

:Behavioral modification coding, at a core programming level.:

:Is it possibly that he has a virus?: They'd certainly dealt with enough viruses over the years, and Optimus's question was a valid one.  
_  
:Possibly. I'll use all the protection I can.: _Ratchet had no intention of catching a virus.  
_  
:Be careful. I'll send Magnus over to help you restrain him. I assume he's not going to cooperate?:_

Ratchet eyed the alien mech. The alien mech hissed obscenities at him._ :I think I'm going to need Grimlock too.:_


	68. Chapter 68

Chapter 68

Author's Notes: Chapter 69 is going to be so much fun. I've been looking forward to writing it for a long time, because I'm evil. No good deed goes unpunished ...

* * *

"I promised you," Ratchet said, as calmly and soothingly as he could, "that no harm would come to you. I do this for medical reasons, not out of maliciousness or out of a need to gather intelligence."

"Frag you." The mech was justifiably terrified, and he thrashed futilely against Grimlock's massive bulk. Grimlock held him in a bear hug, with t'Tamis seated on a table and his back to Grimlock's chest. t'Tamis's irises in his optics were dilated huge, his cooling fans were screaming, and Ratchet was certain he was running some heavy duty battle routines. This was _not _going to be fun, and he wished they hadn't sent Elita away. Elita was far better at hacking than Ratchet was. Ratchet was pretty sure that this was because she was always less emotionally involved with her subjects.

"I believe you may have some firmware coding in your processor core that needs to be altered. It is affecting how you think."

"_Frag _you."

Magnus was leaning his weight on t'Tamis's legs, and the mech struggled enough that the much larger soldier was very nearly dislodged. Magnus swore softly as something popped with a loud spang in his chassis. Ratchet thought it was a probably a tension wire attached to Magnus's back struts by the sound. Aside from a demonstration of very soldierly vocabulary, Magnus gave no sign of the pain that sort of minor but aggravating injury caused.

t'Tamis arched his back and put every ounce of strength he had into trying to kick free. Magnus held on grimly, and then something snapped with a _pow! _in t'Tamis's leg and the mech went limp with a keen of pain. Ratchet identified, again by the noise, that was a piston mount coming loose from t'Tamis's hip, and that was a much more serious problem. He'd be welding things back together later.

_I need to get this done, _Ratchet thought, before somebody suffered a really crippling injury. Likely, that would be t'Tamis, as it seemed he was willing to fight to the point of deactivation by his terrified expression. Magnus and Grimlock had restrained their share of prisoners in the past, and knew how to do it without significant personal injury. On his short list of things to build was a med bay table with proper restraints.

"You are not even aware, most likely, of this coding. It is seamless to your reality." Ratchet plugged a cable into his own dataport. He had already discovered datapads didn't work with Nebulan mechs; there were code incompatabilities. He'd even needed to modify the datalink cable to fit the Nebulan's 'port. One of Bee's priority tasks when he got to Nebulos would be to swipe and scan some Nebulan medical equipment.

Ratchet's first problem would be to taking the Nebulan's motor functions offline. He immediately ran into a firewall blocking access to autonomic functions, plus an active effort from t'Tamis to kick him out. Ratchet, grimly, set up several subroutines to bludgeon his way through the firewall, and simultaneously distracted t'Tamis by prodding the firewall around his memory core. He wasn't about to hack the mech's memories, but the threat was enough to make t'Tamis focus there rather than protecting his autonomics. It was a dirty trick, but Ratchet had learned that nice wouldn't win him this sort of fight. There was definitely psychology involved in hacking a conscious mech, and for this specific issue, t'Tamis needed to be conscious.

Memories could be accessed even from a dead mech by creating a facsimile of a processor core. Operational code, however, required an operational processor core for access. Which meant, by definition, a reasonably conscious mech. Had this been a Cybertronian mech Ratchet would have partially sedated him, but that required use of a datapad.

_:I could just physically cut the cables,: _he growled at t'Tamis, though he didn't want to do that because sticking his fingers in the chest of an actively struggling mech was a prescription for injury, either t'Tamis's or his own.

Unsurprisingly, that threat didn't gain him any cooperation.

_:Hold still or I will weld you to the table, and I mean that literally,: _Ratchet growled, accompanying the threat with images of mechs he'd actually _done _that to over the years.

t'Tamis finally quit fighting, intimidated or terrified past the point of actively resisting. The vids also distracted just enough of his processor core that Ratchet's random passkey generation outstripped t'Tamis's ability to _change _the keys, or possibly Ratchet just got lucky. The firewall on his autonomics went down. Ratchet slammed through the breach, and immediately locked a number of systems down. He cut motor functions, fans (a little heat stress to his processor core would reduce his mental efficiency significantly), and a few routines like those operating his gyros and his optics. He also slapped in a temporary bit of code that tricked t'Tamis into thinking his armor was vibrating wildly -- not painful, but that was even _more _distracting. Then he fouled up t'Tamis's proprioreception software.

The end result was a wildly disoriented mech who didn't have the processor power left to fight him. He couldn't tell up from down, tell where his limbs were located, or see. Ratchet thought he had forced hacking down to a science. It was a necessary skill he'd learned during the war. When Ratchet did it, the first step was distracting the mech to the point where he couldn't effectively fight back.

The 'cons used pain for the same purpose, but Ratchet was pretty sure his tricks were more effective. Now that he had his attention diverted, gaining access to t'Tamis's operational code was a matter of plowing through three more firewalls. These went down faster. t'Tamis couldn't concentrate at all.

Once he had access, things went very quickly. Ratchet had a good idea of what he was looking for: Threat recognition coding.

All mechs came online with very basic threat recognition integral to their firmware base code. Processor cores had the most elementary of operational code installed during manufacture, with the expectation that operational code would be uploaded by a sparkling's mentor. That base code was standardized and well understood; the human equivalent would be the machine language upon which operating systems were installed.

Threat recognition code even in Cybetronian sparklings could be summed up with an if/then/until statement: "If not understood, then be cautious until understanding is reached." That was sensible programming that could be overlain with modifying operational code -- a scout would be more cautious than a frontliner -- but it would always influence how the mech operated.

In t'Tamis's base code, there was another command line, directly linked to defensive/offensive hardcode. It said, basically, "If from Cybertron, then consider threat," and it was linked to, "If it's a threat, attack it." There were some additional subsets there defining what was Cybertronian. Moreover, there was tertiary coding one subset below _that _which declared any allies of Cybetron would also be considered threats to be eliminated.

_Oh. Frag._

Anger rose. Ruthlessly, he removed the firmware coding. It infuriated him that someone would think they had the _right _to impose their personal opinion of Cybertron on a sparkling's development. It was a violation of t'Tamis's free will that incensed Ratchet above and beyond what it meant to Cybertronians, because the code was so basic to t'Tamis's operational thoughts that he wouldn't even know it _was _code. He would just, simply, view any Cybertronian transformer as a danger to be eliminated.

_And yet he still has the ability to reason, to think for himself, in all other areas. _Ratchet's armor clamped defensively tight to his body in in an expression of extreme horror, and he very nearly activated his forceshield. The reason for t'Tamis's "conflict" had been his base-level coding affecting his view of reality -- that all Cybertronian transformers were threats, the same way falling from a great height, fire, or crushing force would be a threat -- which was conflicting with what his logic told him. He was being treated fairly, even kindly, by his captors.

_He knew we weren't monsters. His logic told him that. But his very instincts are insisting we're the spawn of the Unmaker and that reaction is so integral to his code that he probably doesn't even know why he feels that way._

That sort of conflict could cause actual mental illness in a mech, if not an outright processor crash. If a mech's base coding directly conflicted with reality, it almost inevitably would lead to instability. The conflict was probably why t'Tamis had said so very little.

Ratchet rapidly changed a few permissions and locked a few pathways down so he couldn't be kicked out of t'Tamis's processor before he was ready. Then he released all the disorienting changes he'd made to t'Tamis's autonomics, though he kept his motor functions restricted. Immediately, he was assailed by a sense of outrage, fury, and a frantic effort from the Nebulan mech to evict Ratchet from his thoughts.

_:Outoutoutoutout!:_

:Calm down.:

:OutoutoutoutOUTOUTOUT**OUTOUTOUT**!:

Grimly, Ratchet realized that the base coding was so strong that there would be no reasoning with this mech. He ignored t'Tamis's screaming with practice that came from hundreds of thousands of years of being a medic. The code was simple and elegant, which also meant it was going to be fairly easy to remove. Before deleting it, he moved a copy to an area that t'Tamis could access himself, and archived it so it wouldn't affect his processing routines.

_:What the frag are you doing to me?:_

He was calmer. t'Tamis was pissed, obviously felt violated, and was terrified, but he was rational now.

_:t'Tamis, I've been a medic for longer than your species has existed and I want you to know that what I have done to you was done with your best interest, backed with a lot of experience, in mind.: _Ratchet relaxed a bit, hearing a much more rational attitude in the Nebulan mech's thoughts. _:I am so sorry for needing to do what I did to you, but there would have been no way to convince you to cooperate. If you like, I can medically lock the memories of the last hour after you write yourself a text file description.:_

:No!:

:I'm sorry. You will note that I have stayed out of your memories and all access was to your processing code. It would be very easy for me to strip considerable information we would like to have from your memories now, but I will not _do that.:_

:... Why?:

:Because this was medical. One of my strongest beliefs, one thing that keeps me going in the face of the darkest evil, is that free will is a right_ and the code that someone imposed on you took away that free will to analyze data and come to your own conclusions.:_

:I don't understand.:

Ratchet pointed him at the archived bit of code. _:This was in your base code in your processor core. It was probably printed to the core when it was manufactured, rather than being an upload. You can't even see that base code because it's not normally meant to be modified:_

:That ...: t'Tamis's thoughts hiccuped, and Ratchet felt his systems stutter as the mech very nearly crashed from a purely emotional response. _:Please get out of my head.:_

:I want to make sure you're stable, kiddo.: Ratchet sent a pulse of warm concern to t'Tamis. _:I am sorry. I know this is a violation. I know you'll probably hate me for all new reasons. But I would be remiss in my duties if I closed the connection before I knew you were okay. I made some changes to your base code that could potentially cause instabilities.:_

:You really care.: t'Tamis seemed shaken by that. _:You _care_.:_

:Yeah, I do. Just don't tell anyone. Might damage my reputation as the Hatchet.:

:Why?: t'Tamis's question was tinged with fear. _:Why do you care? I tried to kill your soldiers. I'm sorry. The compulsion was so strong. I didn't even recognize that it was ... it was ... it wasn't rational, but I needed to kill your people when I saw them. All I saw was a threat. But then Ironhide ... Ironhide ... he was so _moral. _I knew he was a threat, but he treated me well. And you were fixing your _enemy _in the med bay. My instincts, and what the Old Ones taught us, told me you were blind killers, dangerous, evil, to be destroyed ... but you acted like ... like ... like heroes.:_

:I care,: Ratchet said, solemnly, _:because it is who I am, and forgiveness and love for others -- even our enemies -- is part of the teachings of Primus. I'm far from his most faithful follower, but even I can believe in that ...:_

:Primus is a myth,: t'Tamis said, short and angry.

_:No.: _Ratchet sighed. _:t'Tamis, normally I wouldn't do this, it's somewhat unprofessional, but I want you to really understand us. I am going to lower a few of my firewalls. I want you to access me.:_

:... I could hurt you.:

:Probably not, kid.: Ratchet was amused by that. _:My operating system was upgraded a long time ago by a pair of mechs named Jazz and Prowl.: _He deliberately shot t'Tamis an image of the two, Jazz laughing at something, and Prowl standing beside him, stiffly at attention and yet smiling faintly. _:They're both dead now. Jazz died just recently in a battle to stop Megatron from destroying this world. We've lost so many people I cared about. Jazz was head of special ops, and Prowl was our tactician and Prime's second in command.:_

:There are no such thing as Primes.:

Ratchet lifted an optic ridge at that. Then, very deliberately, he dropped a few select firewalls.

t'Tamis punched through the hole that created in Ratchet's defenses, in what was very likely intended to be an offensive strike. t'Tamis was still angry, still scared, still _violated_. He lashed out, searching for a way to cause damage, to make Ratchet retreat from his mind, to do harm.

_:Easy, kid ...:_

t'Tamis found what seemed to be an open, unguarded peripheral. He accessed it and slammed straight into the warm, holy, ancient presence that was Ratchet's matrix. Ratchet smirked as he felt t'Tamis's stunned reaction. The Matrix, for its part, responded with a friendly ping of greeting and a very verbal, very sentient, **_:Hello, Child of Primus.: _**The words were accompanied by the overwhelming presence that came with a visit by the Order of the Primes. Apparently, they had decided to be chatty today.

The Nebulan mech recoiled with frantic haste, or tried to. He transmitted panicky shock as he fled. However, the Matrix had hold of him, and it followed the pathways that Ratchet had created to access t'Tamis's mind. Ratchet caught an echo of vast love and deep affection, mixed with soothing comfort. Ratchet followed the Matrix's greeting with a wave of his own feelings: sorrow at needing to hurt t'Tamis to save him, apology, and every bit of the deep annd overriding desire he had to avoid a war.

_:Primus.: _It wasn't an oath, but recognition from t'Tamis. _:Ratchet, you are a Prime. But all the Primes are dead or forsworn! Some say they never existed!:_

:Kiddo, I am so sorry for what I had to do to you.:

:I ...: he sensed t'Tamis inspecting the code that Ratchet had found again.

**_:Ratchet has freed you to think for yourself, Child of Primus. What you do with that freedom is your own choice. Chose well, and make us proud. You have the capacity in you for great heroism, t'Tamis of Nebulos.:_**

_:... can you get out of my head now? Please?: _t'Tamis begged.

Ratchet did one final scan. The young mech seemed stable enough. Ratchet closed the connections slowly, carefully, releasing the locks on t'Tamis's motor functions last of all. To the two mechs holding him he said, "Let him go."

Grimlock and Magnus backed off. t'Tamis, not particularly to Ratchet's surprise, bolted off the table. He hit the end of his chain with a snap and his leg, injured earlier in the struggle, buckled underneath him. He collapsed with a keen of grief and pain, and started rocking back and forth.

"Out." Ratchet shoo'd both soldiers out the door. They knew him too well to argue.

Only after they'd left did Ratchet sit down on the floor next to the other mech. "I'm sorry I had to put you through that, but it was the only way."

Blue optics, a slightly different shade than the most common cerulean among Autobots, blinked at him. Ratchet hesitantly put a hand out, meaning to offer slight comfort with a pat on the shoulder. t'Tamis whimpered and moved, seeking comfort and safety in Ratchet's arms. Ratchet made a muffled noise expressing surprise, then wrapped his arms tightly around the young soldier.

"I just want to go home," t'Tamis whispered, "And they won't even answer my comms. I just want to go home."

"I promise." Ratchet held t'Tamis to his chest like a sparkling. "I promise we'll get you there."

t'Tamis buried his face in Ratchet's bumper, fingers clinging tight to the metal. He whimpered wordlessly, then wailed, "They won't answer the comm when I hail the ship!"

"Kiddo, if we have to take you back to your people personally, we will do so." Ratchet's vow was firm. "If your people won't come to get you, we will take you to them."

"I just want to go h-home."

It was a long time before the young soldier stopped keening and slipped into recharge in Ratchet's arms. Ratchet scooped him up, then, and set him back down on a berth. After a moment's contemplation he removed the chains on the mech's wrist and ankle. t'Tamis was no threat, not anymore. He was just a lost youngling. Ratchet hoped the kid could forgive him for what he'd needed to do.__

Pit. Ratchet leaned against the berth with Fang's sparkling on it and watched t'Tamis recharge. _If they've all got that code, we have no chance at peace with them. _

* * *

Fangface stepped cautiously through the med bay hangar entrance. He didn't have any official business here other than collecting his sparkling, and he half expected someone to challenge his approach. Ratchet had said he'd deliver the sparkling to the Nemesis, but Fang just couldn't wait.

The Decepticons were confined to their ship and to the base his Constructicons were building next to it. On Autobot orders, they had put the ship down twenty miles from the Autobot area on the vast base, on the far side of the gunnery range. He wasn't fooled by the location -- it gave the factions a physical buffer from each other, but it also meant that the Autobots could keep an eye on the 'cons and strike swiftly and decisively if they needed to.

Twenty miles was sufficient distance for the largest conventional weapons to be used against the 'cons, and was a reasonably safe range for an airburst from a small tactical nuke if it came to that. Beyond the Decepticon Operational Area was a mountain range, isolated and remote and still part of the base. The 'bots could even use laser rifles and pulse cannons and other energy weapons without worrying about what might be struck beyond the field of battle.

It didn't escape Fangface's notice that the acronym for their area was 'DOA.' He'd laughed openly when one of the humans had first used the acronym in his hearing, much to Lennox's discomfiture. He was absolutely certain that the acronym was a prime example of snarky military humor, and far from being offended, he found it vastly amusing.

Strika had complained bitterly about the location. Fangface had overruled her. Privately, he was confident that the 'bots would not strike first. He wasn't about to admit it, but the threat of an effective Autobot retaliation might discourage mischief and malice from his own commanders. When he'd confessed to that belief in an interface with Death, Death had snickered and agreed with him.

However, he had permission from the 'bots to cross the gunnery range and enter the Autobot Operational Area without advance approval. So did Thundercracker, Counterpunch, and Deathwheels. For his part, he'd reciprocated with the same kind of approval for Optimus, Ratchet, Ultra Magnus, and Hot Rod. All were large, tough mechs who weren't likely to start trouble or be harassed unduly by his side. Trust had to start somewhere, and they _would _have reason to be running back and forth.

This was his first time testing that agreement.

The SOA -- the Sparkling Operations Area -- was now under mutual guard by all three concerned parties. At the moment, Strika was overseeing the evening work shift, along with Grimlock and Epps. He'd swung by the SOA on the way to the AOA -- the Autobot Operations Area -- and had found that Strika and Grimlock were engaged in a low-level staring match from about a hundred feet apart. Epps had been standing at attention at the door and had been just a tad too professional when Fang had approached. He'd heard the human's heart rate increase, however, and he'd smelled strongly of adrenal hormones linked to stress.

Nobody had challenged Fang's right to inspect the SOA, or stopped him from walking from the SOA to the AOA. He _was _well aware that Bluestreak was perched like an oversized and well armed vulture on the roof of the air traffic control tower, however, and Silverbolt was circling the base. They were being watched. True trust might be years in coming, if it ever did. That no alarms were raised and no one confronted him was good enough for now.

Ratchet greeted him with a frown, but his tone was friendly enough. "Good afternoon, Fang. Silver said you were heading this way. Your sparkling, and Death's, are ready to go."

"Thank you," he said.

"I had to replace the processor core on yours. His was slagged from the physical damage he took in the fight. I think he got a surge when you got shot."

Fang made a face. He wasn't upset about the processor core so much as the other damage he knew the sparkling had taken. "I tried to protect him."

"Honestly, Fang, that's not necessarily a bad thing. Technically it makes him a reformat, but we've been having some issues with the trauma the sparklings have experienced. He's only lost about ten minutes of life. One of 'Jack's twins won't even speak, and Silverbolt tried to adopt a seeker that we had to deactivate and reformat for our _own _safety. He was too far gone and never would have been sane. He's a lot better without those memories." Ratchet huffed a sigh. "Do you have complete operational code ready to upload?"

Fang said, "Yeah."

"Want me to quality check it?" Ratchet's offer was simply friendly, and Fangface wasn't particularly surprised by that. "Nothing like trying to debug a conscious sparkling to make you a big believer in a second review."

He hesitated, then compressed and transmitted the code to Ratchet. "Deathwheels already looked at it. We're reformatting all of them, anyway."

Ratchet's lipplates pressed into a thin line. "I'm not sure about the ethics on that, Fang. They may only have a few minutes of memories, but effectively, if you erase those memories, you're killing the person they might have become."

He met Ratchet's disapproving blue eyes. "Ratchet, my first minutes of life were much like what these sparklings endured. I wouldn't wish those memories on my worst enemy. They'll be healthier individuals if they start over from scratch."

The medic blew a sharp, angry breath out. "The truth of it is, you're probably right, but it goes against everything I've ever believed in. You are _erasing _a person. Paladin and Pulsar are going to be fine. Array too, probably, with time. Stratodancer-- Silver's kid -- would never have been. But that's three people who we would have literally deleted that don't need to be. Young, undeveloped people with minutes of life experiences ... but people nonetheless."

"They'll never forget." Fangface countered, shaking his head. "Better they start fresh."

Ratchet ran a hand over his face and leaned back against the berth. "We could argue this back and forth forever, but I've got a better suggestion. I've identified several dozen sparklings who do need a new core. Cores don't like extreme heat, and the ones closest to the fire are pretty slagged. You can have those kiddos for your faction. In a few years, we'll look at the results and make a decision based on the the psych profiles of the current batch of kids. If they have too many issues, it may, indeed, be in _their _best interest to be reformatted."

He sat down on his haunches and regarded Ratchet with honest surprise. "Ratch, that's ... actually not a bad idea." Fang chewed on his nail for a moment. "Thanks."

"Mmhmm."

The med bay hangar had several cargo containers towards the back of it, intended for secure storage. One of the cargo containers was open, and a loud crash came from inside it. Ratchet clapped a hand over his face, then said aloud, "Scanner, what are you up to?"

"Yours?" Fangface said, in surprise, as a solidly built, ten foot tall sparkling emerged from the cargo container. He was just tall enough that he had to duck to fit under the roof.

"First Aid's." Ratchet smiled. "Scanner, I told you to stay out of there."

"Loud!"

"Yes, loud. Will you listen to me next time when I say something?"

"Where's First Aid?" The sparkling shifted his weight from foot to foot and seemed edgy.

"Scanner?" Ratchet said, firmly, "What did I say?"

The sparkling parroted his words back exactly, with a completely guileless expression, "Yes, loud. Will you listen to me next time I say something?"

"And what does that mean?" Ratchet looked like he was about to laugh, and was trying mighty hard to be stern. As Fang could have guessed, that question earned him a blank look. Fang hid a smile by nibbling at a toe. Clearly, the sparkling did not have much ability at abstract thought yet.

Ratchet face-palmed again, and simplified his orders, "Scanner, do not go in the cargo containers."

"Okay." Bright, innocent blue eyes studied Fangface for a second, then turned back to Ratchet. Scanner repeated, "Where's First Aid?"

"First Aid is busy. You need to stay with me." Ratchet scratched his head for a second, then reached into a drawer and pulled out several parts to some sort of internal pump, a box of long screws and bolts, and a screwdriver and set of sockets. "C'mere, kiddo."

Scanner padded over, and when Ratchet thrust the parts at him, he took them. "Go sit in the corner and put that together."

"Okay." The sparkling walked off, already turning the pieces around in his hands in an effort to figure out how they fit together. Knowing sparklings, that project would keep the child amused for a few minutes. Depending on his aptitude with spacial relationships, it might even keep him busy for a few hours. Sparklings _loved _puzzles, particularly three-diimensional ones.

"Be careful," Fang advised, with a grin. "His next step will be taking things _apart. _Wheelie dismantled a spare force-shield generator on me the second day I had him."

Ratchet snorted. "How long did it take him to put it back together again?"

"So that it worked? Two more days. There were a lot of parts."

"Wheelie's definitely a sharp youngling, Fang." Ratchet watched Scanner for a moment. Scanner had figured out how to fit two pieces together, but had a long way to go to get all of them sorted out. "I was pretty skeptical when Optimus brought him here, but he's been nothing but a joy to have around. He works hard and he follows orders. I have no complaints about him other than that he tends to keep his mouth shut a tad _too _much. We didn't even know he was medically trained at all for weeks."

Fangface grinned broadly. "You should tell him that you like him. He doesn't think anyone likes him."

"And ruin my reputation as the Hatchet?" Ratchet snorted.

"Heh. There is that problem."

Ratchet turned back to the table, which had several assorted parts on it. "Fang, would you do me a favor and shut that cargo container door? If I walk over there, Scanner will follow me, and I don't want him to see the combination on the lock."

"Sure." Fang headed for the container, unsuspecting of the contents. When he peered inside before pushing the door shut, he saw a silvery form, small and sleek, laid out on a table. The crash had come from a bucket of parts that the sparkling had apparently tipped over. A few random pieces had rolled outside the door. _:Is that Jazz?:_

_:Yes, that's Jazz. I had him brought up here ... we're going to inter him in a crypt when the Ark gets back, and I need to remove all his classified mods before we do it.: _Ratchet looked up from his work. _:Unfortunately, we needed him for parts until very recently. I know it's grim and a bit gruesome, but it's the truth.:_

:He was a good mech.: Fang said. _:It must be hard for you to have his body here.:_

:Very.: Ratchet's response was curt. __

:I'm sorry. I wish we could have stopped Megatron before he came to Earth. All the pieces in my plans didn't come together until this year, though.: Fangface was honestly sorry. He wished Jazz were around to see the end of the war. He wondered if Jazz would be proud of him too, the way Ratchet claimed to be.  
_  
:So you did plan the coup ahead of time. With you, it's so hard to tell how much is deliberate and how much is impulsive improvisation.:_  
_  
:Who, me? Improvise? Never.: _Fang pushed the door shut, and snapped a very large padlock closed on the lock. His foot brushed against one of the parts on the floor. He frowned and bent over and picked it up. _:Oops. What's the combination, Ratchet? I'll put these away for you.:_

:Heh. I have the leader of the Decepticons in my med bay and he's tidying up for me. Do you realize _how surreal that is?: _However, despite his teasing, Ratchet proceeded to almost absently gave him the combination. The padlock wasn't much of a defense anyway; even a sparkling could tear through the corrugated steel sides of the cargo container. A large mech could just walk away with the entire container. The lock was there to keep nosy humans and sparklings out.  
_  
:Yeah, yeah, don't tell anyone I'm helpful like that. You'll ruin my reputation.:_

:Yes, Lord Friendlyfangs.:

:Oh, frag you, Ratch.:

:I feel the love already.:

* * *

"Bee," Mikaela said, "mind if I borrow a pair of your pants?"

"Uh, sure, go ahead," Bee said, looking up from his lunch, which was a bowl of soup, a high-calorie shake, and a fistful of vitamins. They'd returned to the trailer to eat today, though Bee had sent his other half off on a Chinese food run for the temps. He added, "Though I don't think they'll fit very well."

"That's not the point." Mikaela stepped out of the bedroom already dressed in a pair of Bee's khaki fatigues, plus a pair of her work boots and an elderly sweatshirt that belonged to Sam. Her hair was somewhat messily pulled back in a pony tail and she had no makeup on. His pants were a couple sizes too large and only a tightly cinched belt was holding them up. Sam's sweatshirt fit her like a sack.

Bee had seen Mikaela wear makeup when up to her armits in engine guts at her shop. He didn't quite understand why she insisted on cosmetics, but she did, and he knew it was expected of women who were meeting with important people to wear makeup. He'd also never actually seen her wear clothing quite that shapeless before, and that outfit was definitely not in the same class as the pantsuit she'd bought for 'official business' several days ago. He was well aware that humans communicated concepts and attitude with the clothing they wore, as well as body language and speech.

Sam, who'd been devouring a fistful of potato chips, froze in mid-chew at her appearance.

"I have no issues with how you look myself," Bee said, carefully, "but aren't you forgetting that Gallego is coming by again in a few minutes? I thought he said he wanted you to appear on the TV show."

She held her arms out to the side, displaying her outfit to both Bee and Sam. "What? This isn't sexy?"

"Mikaela," Sam said with completely frank honesty, "you'd look good wearing anything."

"Or nothing," Bee put in, just because he knew it would make both of them laugh.

"That, too," Sam agreed.

"Gah." She raked a hand through her hair, mussing it further and loosening several bits from her ponytail.

"Is something the matter?" Bee asked.

She flopped into a kitchen chair. "Andrew Gallego likes me."

"This is a good thing, right?" Bee said, puzzled by her reaction.

"Not," Sam replied, "if it means I have to give him a black eye."

"Oh, _likes _you like _that_," Bee belatedly caught up on the implications of her statement. Sometimes, humans seemed almost exactly like Transformers in their behavior, and sometimes human behavior served to forcefully remind him that he was an alien. This sort of thing would simply not be an issue for a mech. It was pretty much impossible for partners to cheat on each other because it was so difficult to lie during 'facing. He asked, "How do you know he is attracted to you? If he's behaving improperly, I can have a word with him for you. I seriously doubt violence will be necessary."

Mikaela rolled her eyes. "No, he's not hitting on me. A girl just ... a girl just _knows _these things."

"Okay," Sam said, "and this bothers you ... why?"

He thought that Sam had a good point. Mikaela had never been shy about her appearance before. She looked good, she knew it, and she pretty much expected and enjoyed male attention. Sam had routinely been reduced to frustrated jealousy by Mikaela's cheerful flirting with everyone male. Before they'd become a threesome, he'd certainly listened to Sam vent a few times. Bee, for his part, wasn't bothered by the whole thing, mostly because he knew that Mikaela's tendency to flirt reflected superficial attraction and her love for Sam -- and himself -- ran a lot deeper. Also, he'd been known to flirt with his share own of both mechs and humans with playful friendliness.

In response to Sam's question, she shrugged.

Bee decided that Mikaela was trying to hide behind oversized clothing and a complete lack of makeup. It didn't make sense, at first, but then something occurred to him. "'Kaela," Bee said, "Are you attracted to Gallego?"

Her stricken look said it all. Sam tensed, reading her like a book. She was.

Bee ran a hand over his face, "Oh, Primus. I've seen Wheeljack's vids and comments on Gallego. Frankly, I'm a bit attracted to him too. He's in good physical shape, he likes cool cars, he's an actor with some talent, he's done his share of producing and directing and he's _good _at it, and he's funny as hell. He can even sing. Sure. I like him."

Sam very nearly mirrored Bee's gesture with a facepalm, "I am _so _not ready to make this a foursome." He was not stammering to the point of near incomprehensibility, Bee noted, even as he turned to look at Sam. If he wasn't tangling his words up, he probably wasn't actually that upset. Sam added, with a slight stutter, "B-but he is p-pretty smoking hot."

Now it was Mikaela's turn to go all wide-eyed at Sam.

Sam shrugged. "Bi, remember?" Then he lost control of his attempt to look cool and started giggling helplessly. He folded his arms on the table and buried his face in them. At Bee's snicker, Mikaela smiled hesitantly.

"I don't think you two are his type, though." Mikaela could manage deadpan far better than Sam could.

Sam started wheezing between fits of helpless laughter.

Bumblebee stood up, patted Sam on the shoulder, and then walked over to Mikaela who stopped smiling and looked up at him with apprehension. However, he simply caught her hand in his, led her to the couch, and encouraged her with a tug to sit down next to him. She did, curling up next to him, and saying, "I don't even know why it bothers me so much."

Sam had followed them. He didn't hesitate, he just sat down on Mikaela's other side, putting his arm around her shoulders and sandwiching her in a hug between himself and Bee.

Bee ran his fingers through Mikaela's messy ponytail for a moment longer, then said softly, "Before you met Sam, you had a lot of boyfriends, didn't you, starting very young?"

"Thirteen. And at least twenty." She hunched her shoulders at the confession, sounding ashamed. "I'm probably really lucky I didn't catch something, or end up pregnant."

He tightened his grip on her, at the same time Sam did. "Shh. 'Kaela, I'm going to make a guess, and I want you to tell me if I'm right."

"Okay." She sounded apprehensive.

"I'm guessing that once you won the affections of a boy, you weren't interested in him very long. As soon as another hot young man came along, as soon as you noticed that attraction, you flirted a bit to see if the new guy was interested, then dumped the first guy and went after the next." He pressed his forehead to her temple. "Am I right?"

"Y... yeah." She closed her eyes. "I was such a slut."

"No!" Sam said, then added, "Not anymore!"

Bee rarely felt old compared to his humans, but at that moment, all his years settled down onto his shoulders. He pressed a kiss to her hair. "You're worried that if he propositions you, you would be tempted. He's a wealthy, powerful man. In us, you have me, an alien soldier who is leaving you soon, and in Sam you have a young man who scares you to death because you love him so much. And now there is an incredibly wealthy, powerful, attractive man -- the kind of man any woman would be drawn to, and no few men ..." Sam made an almost-laughing sound at that, "... and he is looking at you as if he likes what he sees. It must be very tempting."

She started to sob softly. He knew he'd nailed the problem dead on.

"It would be simple to pursue him, and far less complicated and potentially heart-wrenching than what we offer you." He kept stroking her hair, the silky strands sliding between his fingers. "And once a fling's over with Gallego, the pain at the end of that relationship will be far less than the pain you would feel if our partnership disintegrates. You're not emotionally vested in him. With us, it's real."

"Y... yeah." She was still sniffling.

"Shh." Bee met Sam's eyes over Mikaela's shoulders. Sam looked scared. Bee repeated, "Shh, 'Kaela. It's okay."

He also commed Wheeljack briefly, _:'Jack, will you let Gallego know that Mikaela will be a little late?:_

:Will do. Something up?:

:Nothing major.: Actually, he thought this was pretty important, but he wasn't going to worry Wheeljack. Besides, this was the sort of thing that was best dealt with between partners, privately.

He said to Mikaela, "You have a few choices here, Mikaela. You can try looking like an urchin to turn his attention away, but that's probably not the best tactic to take. If nothing else, you are representing us and we would prefer that you did so in a professional manner. Also, if you end up with a role, I expect they would dictate what you wear on the show anyway."

In response to a sigh from her, he hugged her a little tighter, and continued, "You can dress as you normally do and accept his interest as a compliment, but make sure he is well aware you have a partner -- or partners. We haven't really discussed how open we're going to be about our relationship, and I'm perfectly okay with you allowing him to assume I'm simply a best friend and that Sam is your boyfriend."

Sam snorted. "The paparazzi will figure it out pretty quickly anyway. And, uh, a p-p-polyamarous star might not fly all that well on a kid's TV show anyway."

"Which is something else to consider. I suspect they might not get past 'sleeping with an alien' before they ruled you out, nevermind the threesome aspect. On the other hand, it's Hollywood, and I am led to believe there are quite a few children's show stars who led or lead double lives. Also, it's entirely possible this show could be marketed overseas, in cultures where it wouldn't be an issue."

He'd _seen _the Razor Ramon Hard Gay cooking show for children on YouTube.

"Mikaela, the third option is to avoid him. You already have a place here with us, and we do not need you to be a movie star. Gallego can easily find a pretty girl to act with Wheeljack. 'Jack being 'Jack, he won't have a problem developing the right sort of chemistry for a show with almost any co-star. Ratchet wants to train you as a medic. It would be a rewarding, respectable, enjoyable career for you -- a lifelong occupation, and acting is not likely to be something you can do the rest of your life. It's not cowardly to avoid temptation. Sometimes, that's the most respectful thing you can do for your partners."

Mikaela sighed softly. "I don't know what I want to do."

Bee tilted his head sideways. "There's what you 'want' to do and what you 'should' do. What do you think you _should _do? I believe this is a time where you need to chose the right thing, which may not be what you _want _to do, but what is best for you -- and for us. Do not forget that your choices directly affect us."

She chewed on her lip for a moment, then said, "It's every little girl's fantasy to be a movie star but ... I'm so scared."

"She could be a movie star," Sam declared. "Mikaela, you've _got _the looks. If you want to take this chance with Gallego, you should go for it. I trust you."

She let out a long, slow, ragged breath, and nodded. "But I don't trust myself."

"Do you want my advice?" Bee asked.

"You'll probably tell me whether I want to hear it or not."

"In this? No." He squeezed his arms around her. "Only if you want to hear it."

"What ..." Now her heart rate was picking up. This upset her to ask. "What do you think I should do?"

"I think you should avoid temptation," he said, hoping she'd take his advice, "until you're more comfortable with being tempted, and more confident that you can resist."

She stiffened, and he suspected she was probably biting back a denial that she'd cheat on them. However, she finally admitted, "I'm so scared I'm going to screw this up with you two."

"She wouldn't cheat on me ... us!" Sam, on the other hand, sounded indignant.

"Sam ..." Mikaela sighed. "Don't."

"Don't? I _trust _you."

"Maybe you shouldn't." She hunched her shoulders. "Didn't take me very long to make the moves on Bee, y'know."

"That," Sam said angrily, "is _different_."

"Mikaela," Bee said, with calm he certainly didn't feel, "why are you trying to hurt Sam?"

"I ...!"

Before she could bite out a denial, he cut her off and said in a conversational tone of voice, "Wheeljack finished a human-sized pulse cannon. The recoil is going to knock you on your ass, but maybe it's time you learned to shoot things."

"... huh?" Sam said. Mikaela just looked confused.

"Trust me on this," Bee said, standing up and then offering her his hand. "Blowing up the landscape is a much better way to blow off some anger than saying hurtful things to your lovers. I'll teach you how to use it, after our shift's over. In the meantime, go put something more appropriate on, and go talk to Gallego. I'll leave it up to your judgment about what you want to do. You do need to go talk to him today, though, to be polite."

"Wait a second. She just said, about you, and her ..." Sam wasn't going to let it rest.

"Sam, you can blow a few things up too." He interrupted again, and shot Sam a significant look. "There isn't a thing you can say in response to Mikaela that won't make everything worse."

"But ...!" He was angry, and justifiably so, but he trailed off after one quick word of protest. Bee wanted to slap himself in the forehead. Bee was still standing with his hand out to Mikaela, who was hunched up on the couch and not trying to rise. Sometimes, it was best to just take the high road and walk away. He figured this was one of those times.

"Sam, I'm sorry." Mikaela apologized, and finally let Bee pull her to her feet. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm just so ... so _angry_. Not at you. Just in general, at everything."

"Tonight, we test Wheeljack's prototypes. Definitely." Bee put his arm around Sam when Sam stood up and gave him a quick squeeze of sympathy.

"Yeah. Sounds like a plan." Sam gave Mikaela a wary look, then said, "And it's not cheating with Bee, okay? Don't think that way."

"... Thanks, Sam." She smiled faintly. "I love both of you. You guys know that, right?"

"Likewise," Sam said, firmly.

"I believe we have unanimous agreement on that point," Bee said, with a smile that spread widely across his face. He focused his attention briefly on the radio in the living room. It began to play Elton John's _Can You Feel The Love Tonight._

"Aaaaauuuuugh! Mushy! You're going to give my ears cavities!" Sam clapped his hands over his ears and ran into the bedroom, even as Mikaela dissolved into giggles and scrambled to turn the radio back off.

* * *

The Nemesis's five resident Constructicons had managed to throw up a fairly sturdy base in just a few days. Optimus had advanced them a fairly sizable amount of money with the agreement that Fang would send the Constructicons over to do similar work for the 'bots. Fang knew he needed to talk money in general with Optimus in the near future, but was putting that off in favor of more important priorities. However, he didn't think it entirely fair that the Autobots were collecting huge royalties on Cybertronian technology while the Decepticons went begging.

Among the more urgent tasks than wrangling with the Autobots over money issues was getting the base operational. They now had several concrete buildings, a paved airstrip of their own, an underground bunker for munitions, and an access road graded to a nearby public highway that crossed the base. Strika had suggested, and Fang had agreed, that crossing the artillery range to get to their base was just asking for trouble. It would be far too easy for an Autobot or a human with a grudge to have an 'accident.'

The humans had promptly set up guards of their own at the DOA gate. As far as the humans were concerned, the Decepticons were _not _allowed free run on American soil. Any 'con that had business off base was required to have an Autobot minder and human escorts.

Fang was annoyed, but only mildly so. He'd been worried _himself _about what might happen the first time one of his mechs got a bit rowdy with the squishies. Unsupervised, that was probably inevitable. This way, they would have no excuses.

A bigger issue was the human insistence that any vehicle-mode Decepticon who left the base had to be in a street legal form, and properly registered and licensed. The Autobots had been given drivers licenses as a matter of course. The 'cons were not being grandfathered in, and were required to pass _driving tests _before they were allowed to drive on human roads. The humans were even asserting that to _get _to the facility that did the tests, the 'cons had to be towed or transported.

Optimus had offered to give them a lift in a trailer to the DMV.

His 'cons were indignantly refusing the offer.

Fangface was not particularly happy either, but he'd decided to choose his battles. Death was, however, going to need to transcan some sort of transport that would satisfy the fleshy bureaucrats. Death was grumbling. He _liked _his bulldozer form, and was currently hanging out with the Constructicons after a day spent excavating the foundation for another building.

Idly, he twirled the small metal canister containing the Allspark shard between his fingers while he contemplated the mundane aggravations and issues that kept cropping up. Somehow, he suspected Megatron had never had to tell Wildrider he couldn't have a license plate that read 'BOTSUCK' and then come up with a good reason _why_ that didn't make him sound like a total softspark.

"What's that?"

Fang blinked, and glanced down at the sparkling at his feet. He knew she'd just grown bored wth the shiny cubes of metal he'd given her to stack. At a little under twenty-four hours old, his sparkling's attention span was limited. (Death had teased him that she still focused for longer than Fang himself could.) "It's not a toy, Prism."

"Okay." The sparkling held her arms up. "Up!"

He subspaced the shard, and scooped her up. She looked so much like Wheelie had as a child, but her personality was _totally _different. She was going to be an absolute delight, he thought. Perhaps it was the fact she'd known only love and affection rather than a harsh, cold start on life. Perhaps it was a spark gift. He didn't know. All he knew was that Prism had a pure clarity to her thoughts that had left him both stunned and delighted.

He hummed a song, something with a fast beat that was currently playing on a human radio station. She bobbed her head in response, answering the tune with instinctive motion.

_Jazz was always bopping along too. _Fang's vocalizer faded out as he remembered that. Primus, but he'd been fond of Jazz. The thought of that motionless, dead form stored away in a cargo container in the Autobot's ramshackle base made him so sad. Jazz was not meant to be still, or quiet. Jazz should be alive, laughing, singing, flirting, teasing, playing pranks and cheering the entire universe with his bright humor.

Alive.

Death had asked him, _Have you ever done nice anything for someone else, without them knowing? _

Fang retrieved the Allspark shard from the subspace pocket. Thoughtfully, he rolled the metal container between his fingers.

Alive.

Jazz deserved to be alive, and a little anonymously done 'miracle from Primus' would make an awful lot of Autobots very happy.

Alive.

A slow, sneaky smile spread across the Decepticon leader's face. They didn't even know he _had _a shard. They'd never suspect it was him.

_This is going to be so much fun! _


	69. Chapter 69

Chapter 69

Author's notes: I'm going to put a warning on this chapter for what is essentially domestic violence, for anyone who might find this triggering.

* * *

_"You wanna a piece of me? You wanna piece ..."_

Megatron snarled, _"No, I want ..." **KSSSHHHHHT!**_

Static. Explosion of pain. A shrieking, cracking, tearing, horrible _noise_.

And then, one nanoclick later, his processor booted straight into battle mode. Jazz lunged frantically to his feet, astonished to be alive and able to move, but not about to question his luck.

Megatron? Where was Megatron? He had to stop him. They had to get the cube away!

Fight. _FIGHT_.

His HUD was running a rapid tactical analysis, even as he automatically reached out to connect to the others on his team. Ratchet, Optimus, Bee, Prime. Where were they? The humans. The soldiers. Sam Witwicky. The human girl. How long had he been knocked offline? He had to get back in the fight. He pinged everyone to let them know he was back online, but didn't wait for a response as he scanned his surroundings. He was in some sort of metal building. And right in front of him was a mech with a 'con sigil.

He realized all of this in a fraction of a nanoclick.

"Fangface!" He recognized the Decepticon traitor. Rage surged through his circuits. Jazz whipped his cannon up and fired without hesitation. Fang, the blasted glitch, dodged with an oath.

"Slag it, Jazz, hold on a sec!"

"You're in this mess too, you fragger? You wanna fight me? Huh?"

Fangface ducked another shot. "Stop shooting! Fraggit, Jazz!" Fang spit out a frantic comm burst too fast for Jazz to block it.

The distinctive _crack _of displaced air heralded the arrival of Skywarp, a very large Decepticon that Jazz didn't recognize, and Strika. They all came running in through the building's door a second after Skywarp teleported in just outside.

"Don't kill him!" Fangface shouted, diving for cover even as Jazz automatically targeted the probable-Constructicon as the biggest threat. That thing was huge, easily four times Jazz's size, and it had the biggest pulse cannons that Jazz had ever seen on an ambulatory mech smaller than Omega Supreme. The caliber on those cannons was easily twice Jazz's head size.

"He's trying to kill us!" Strika protested, and she aimed the muzzle of another very large weapon in Jazz's direction. He saw a blue glow deep inside and launched himself at her, aiming for her optics with his own plasma cannon, trying to get inside the range of her weapon before she could finish powering it up, and praying that the Constructicon wouldn't shoot the Nemesis's SIC while trying to take him out. There were, apparently, more Decepticons on Earth than he'd thought. If Strika was here that meant that the Nemesis was here!

He nailed her dead on in the head with a blast from his weapon before she could charge her weapons capacitors, and that took her down for the count. Not offline, but she'd have to reset her circuits, for sure. He wheeled about to look for his next target. He was so outnumbered and outgunned he was sure he was going to die in the next few seconds ...

"What the _frag _is going on here?" A familiar voice bellowed. Ironhide. Good. He had backup. Maybe his luck would hold and he'd live with a few more tales to tell! He wasn't sure how far he was from his last location in Mission City, but apparently, 'Hide had found him.

"Uh, Fang," Skywarp shouted, "you want me to slag someone for you?"

"No! Stand down, Skywarp!" Fang said, which made absolutely no sense. Jazz figured he could determine what the hell Fang was up to _later_. His chronometer was insisting only moments had passed. He had to stop the 'cons!

_:Ironhide, get the big one. I'll take Fang out.: _Jazz didn't hesitate to throw the order 'Hide's way. _:I owe that slagger for the whole mess with Grim. I'm gonna kill him _slowly _...:_

:Jazz! Stand down!: Ironhide's voice held raw command, a sharp and firm order.

_:The slag?: _Jazz snapped back at him. _He _was second in command, Ironhide third. _:Kill the Constructicon! That is an _order_!:_

He didn't wait to see what Ironhide was going to do. It wasn't like Ironhide to question orders during the heat of battle when those orders were "kill it!" 'Hide would come through. He just wheeled past Skywarp -- who was staring stupidly at him -- and launched himself at Fang, swinging his guns up to bear. Fang ducked, but Jazz had counted on that. He'd sparred with the traitorous little glitch often enough to know his moves. He shot low.

Unfortunately, the weapon's plasma splashed across not Fang's armor, but the leg of a very, very, _very _large predacon, with a dinosaur alt-mode.

"Jazz?" The dinosaur said, unharmed by the blast, "Jazz you dead!"

"Not if I kill you first!"

"STAND DOWN!" Optimus's shout seemed to shake the very walls. "JAZZ! FREEZE!"

He skidded to a halt, plasma cannon wavering between Fangface and the mechanoid dinosaur and Strika. Compulsion to fight warred with ingrained obedience to Optimus. His processor was screaming with battle routines. His fans were howling. Tactical analysis, telemetry, sonar, radar, every routine and every sensor was running at maximum power. It seemed like seconds earlier that he'd been in a fight for his life.

Fang slowly put his hands in the air. Optimus's gun was pointed at the predacon. Ironhide was covering Strika. Oddly, the dinosaur seemed to have Skywarp fixed with a dangerous stare.

Ratchet's bellow was even louder than Optimus. "Fangface, what the slag did you do?" The CMO stalked into the room, stomped past Jazz without giving him so much as a single look, grabbed Fang by the neck with one hand, yanked him off his feet, and shoved him hard against one of the columns that supported the roof. Neither Optimus nor Decepticons made a move to stop him. Optimus and Ironhide transferred the aim of their cannons to the 'cons.

"Uh ... I was trying to do a good deed anonymously?" Fang said, with a lazy grin.

The medic shook the predacon hard, then smacked him against the steel I-beam again. "We are _not _done here. Whose spark did you put in his body? One of the sparklings? I am going to shred you limb from limb and then make _tinsel _out of the scrap. There won't be pieces big enough left of you to recognize. And then when I'm done doing that I'm going to, to, to ..."

Ratchet had reached the point of inarticulate rage.

Strike said cheerfully, "When you're done with him, I'll smelt the parts down and make a road grader blade out of them, then sell it to a landfill."

The Constructicon said lazily, "You can't kill him until I'm done with him. Once I'm done venting at him you're welcome to him."

"_Damnit_," Ratchet flung Fangface hard to the ground. He hit the concrete hard enough that sparks flew as he slid across it. "It's been a _long _time since I've been this angry at anyone."

Fang didn't try to get up. Instead, he gave the Constructicon what looked like a wounded glance, with wide, hurt, eyes, then he pointed at Jazz. "Ratch, you _do _even see who's staring at me like I'm the second coming of Megatron?"

"You are an _idiot_. I thought you at least had enough sense to remove weapons before onlining a sparkling, and _what the slag _do you think you're doing using _Jazz's _body!" Ratchet had his hands on his hips. "There's a whole warehouse full of hundreds of thousands of protoforms. Why him? _Why_?"

"Uh," Jazz said, "Somebody want to tell me what t' slag is going on here?"

Ratchet rounded on him, in complete oblivious disregard of both the weapons of the three large 'cons, and Fangface. Fang sat up and chewed on a paw ... then caught Jazz's gaze and _winked_.

_What_?

"Easy," Ratchet said, voice abruptly going soft and gentle, "shh, it's okay. He should have taken those weapons first. Just relax. Nobody's going to hurt you ... it's okay, kiddo."

"Ratch," Jazz said, somewhat impatiently, "Why are you talking to me like a sparkling?"

Without turning around, Ratchet hissed at Fang, "Did you at least reformat his memory core?"

"I was trying to bring him back to life, not kill him twice," Fang nibbled on a claw.

Jazz turned to Optimus. "Boss, either you're all glitched, or I was offline for more than a few seconds. My chronometer must be fragged. Will _you _tell me what's going on?"

Prime had been quiet since shouting at Jazz to stand down. His optics were wide and somehow soft. "Oh, Jazz. Old friend. You were dead. Your chrono would have gone offline with the loss of your spark."

"Uh, apparently I got better." He scratched one sensory horn.

More Autobots were streaming in. Somewhat to Jazz's surprise, there were quite a few -- and they didn't seem to be overly bothered by the sight of bristling Decepticons. Weapons were out, but nobody was trying to kill each other. A quick encrypted transmission passed between Optimus and Fangface, then Fang said, "'Strika, 'Warp, go home."

'Warp left without argument, taking the Decepticon commander with him.

Fang finally sat up and said ruefully, "Oops. I think I pissed my own side off as much as I pissed off Ratchet."

"That," Ratchet snapped, "is impossible. What did you _do_?"

"Allspark shard." Fang held up a metal vial.

_Allspark what__? _Jazz thought, shocked by the implications of that word.

"Slagging, fragging, _imbecile._" Ratchet didn't seem surprised, just angry.

"Worked." Fang sounded smug.

"Did you ever stop to think that Jazz's last memories were of the battle in Mission City and his chronometer would be offline?" Ratchet snapped back. He reached out and hit Fang in the head, hard. The sound of Ratchet's hand hitting the con's cranial plating was _loud._

Jazz pointed at Fangface. "Uh, so if I'm following t' discussion here, I was dead, the Decepticon brought me back online, and nobody here's trying to kill him but me, so I'm taking it that we're friendly with him?"

"We were. I might kill him now." The medic hit Fangface again. "Give me that." He snatched the container with the Allspark shard out of Fang's hand and subspaced it.

"I don't think it will work again for a long time," Fang sighed, "It's out of energy. It will recharge slowly, but it's only a tiny fragment. Still, it worked. You guys _are _happy, right?"

"Uh, if I was dead, an' you brought me back, I ain't complainin'." Jazz turned his attention back to Optimus. "Boss, I think Ratchet's going to fritz from anger. Will _you _fill me in?"

Prime facepalmed and shook his head -- then crossed the distance between them in two long strides and grasped Jazz's hand between his own. "Welcome back, my friend. Welcome back."

"See?" Fangface said, and one of Jazz's peripheral optics showed him that the Decepticon was gnawing on his talons. "I made _somebody _happy."

"Indeed you did," Optimus said, "However, while I am very happy to have Jazz back, I am truly disappointed that you chose to do this without talking to us first."

Jazz said, "Explanations ... _please_?"

"Sorry," Optimus said, but he was smiling. "Jazz, you were dead."

"Ah think ah got that memo."

Optimus ran his palm over his face, the said, "I am not even sure where to begin, Jazz. So much has happened. It's been a little over two years since you offlined in that fight with Megatron. He tore you in _half_."

So he hadn't imagined that rending, shredding sound. Well, he was fine now. "Did we stop Megatron?"

"Oh, yes."

"Good."

"He's dead."

"Even better." Jazz sighed a low, happy sigh. "So, are the 'cons imploding like we forecast they might?"

Ratchet pointed at Fang. "Fangface is now Lord Friendlyfangs, leader of the Decepticons."

"Slag. Really?" Jazz stared at him. "Ah, Lord Friendlyfangs?"

"Don't call me that!" Fang objected to the hated nickname with a savagely snarled protest.

"You're lucky I don't call you _dead_, idiot." Ratchet shouted right back.

Optimus made a longer, far more heartfelt sigh than Jazz's earlier noise. To Jazz he explained with almost rueful amusement, "Until now, he's been remarkably well behaved. I'm going to chalk this up to stupidity, not malice, given the results. Primus, you could have killed him, and _that _would not have been good for our cause."

"Cause?" Jazz felt like he'd suddenly woken up in a mirror universe where up was down, left was right, and evil was... slightly less evil. The leader of the Decepticons had brought him back from the dead, apparently, if his words could be trusted, to do a good deed. And the leader of the 'cons was Fang, who he remembered primarily for having the attention span of a glitchmouse and zero self esteem. Fang had betrayed them badly, despite all the work that Jazz had put into trying to make him an Autobot. Just how long had he been asleep, err, dead? "Pardon me for bein' confused an' all, but none of you are making much sense."

Ironhide grunted. "Peace, that's the cause, I think, at this point. We think it might be possible. Fang wants it as much as we do."

"Huh." He scanned the gathering 'bots. A scant few he could identify by faceplate or body language, but most had taken earth alt modes.

Perhaps sensing his trouble, Optimus said, "It might be helpful if you all would ping Jazz with your designations. I believe he doesn't know who half of you are."

He was immediately hit with over twenty transmissions, which helped immensely as he began to match identities to features. Some of the mechs he didn't know at all, and there were too many pings to sort them out. However, an impressive number of friends were here. The silver mech his own height had to be Wheeljack. The big gunner was Bluestreak. Sunstreaker looked spotless, with immaculate armor, and was standing next to his brother. That was Hot Rod by the door, and the towering mech peering in from outside could only be Silverbolt.

Grimlock's transmission was one of the last.

"Grimlock, m'mech!" The identity of the enormous dinosaur suddenly became blindingly obvious. He smiled hugely. "You're alive! I thought you were dead!"

"Me Grimlock alive. _You _dead." Grimlock grinned toothily at him.

_Processor damage? _Jazz thought, hearing the odd phrasing. He'd written Grim off as dead millenia ago. Seeing him alive and well was astounding.

The room was in chaos now, with mechs jostling each other and shouting, and a flurry of comm signals between them, some encrypted and some not, clogging the air. Insults and gratitude were both expressed to Fang, who seemed to be taking everything in stride. He was now leaning against the same I-beam that Ratchet had smacked him into earlier, arms folded, just watching everything.

Then a mech with silver armor and doorwings held at a precise angle stepped up to stand calmly at Optimus's side. Only one mech in the world could manage to look that cool amid such tumult. Only one mech held his doorwings so perfectly still, at that exact angle. Only one mech would hold his head so high, and look Jazz so calmly in the optics. He hadn't pinged Jazz, but perhaps he'd been waiting for Jazz to notice him. It was the sort of thing that he'd do. He had a sly, dry, incredibly understated sense of humor.

Jazz forgot about the miracle of Grimlock being alive. He stared for a long, stunned moment. Then he shouted, "PROWL!" and tackled the mech in absolute and utter glee. The one mech in the world he'd missed more than anything else, his best friend, the yin to his yang, was _alive_.

The room exploded with triple the noise. The mech he'd tackled shouted and thrashed and at first he thought it was just Prowl objecting to being undignified, but then he realized the cries were of fear, and the mech was trying to get away from him. A balled fist connected with his faceplate in a real defensive strike, nearly connecting with his optics. He had not been expecting to be struck.

_:Jazz! That's not Prowl, that's Ranger, and he's four days old!: _Optimus's comm cut across half a dozen other communications from other mechs all shouting the same basic thing. Jazz always gave Optimus's transmissions priority. Before he could react, however, Optimus's hand grabbed Jazz by the arm and rather roughly yanked him off.

With a frightened sob the sparkling dove for Optimus, clinging to his leg. He was waist high to Optimus -- which meant he was about the same size as Jazz.

"Aw, slag, 'm so sorry little guy," Jazz said, running his hands over his head. "You look jus' like a friend I used to have. I didn't mean to scare you."

Ranger stared at him suspiciously.

"Really. I'm Jazz. You were standing jus' like my old friend Prowl and I thought you were him. I really am sorry." He felt horribly embarrassed. It appeared that he'd given the kid quite a fright. He'd been so _sure _it was true, and that Prowl had come back to him. _Prowl's dead. He has to be._

Ranger looked up at Optimus, clearly checking Optimus's reaction. Optimus patted him on the back between his door wings, soothingly. "It's okay, Ranger. I expect you'll like Jazz. He's a good friend, and you can trust him. He was just confused because you _do _remind a lot of people of Prowl_._"

The sparkling slowly let go of Optimus, and looked Jazz over from head to toe. Ranger tilted his head to one side then said, "You were very happy to see me because you thought I was your friend. You were not trying to hurt me. I just was not expecting to be knocked down. I am sorry for striking you. I reacted on instinct. I should not do that."

_:Ahh ... you said he was _four days _old?: _Jazz thought perhaps he'd misunderstood.

_:Jazz, Prowl is dead.: _Optimus's voice was very gentle. _:We recovered his body from the Decepticons. His memory core was too scrambled by a virus to be coherently repaired. Ranger has his spark. I'm Ranger's mentor. As you can hear, he is an exceptional sparkling, but he is very much a sparkling still, and quite young.:_

:His memory core was scrambled? We need to talk later, boss.: Jazz said brightly to Ranger, "You don't need to apologize, little guy," he said, to the sparkling. "I'd hit a stranger if they glomped on me like that too."

Ranger tentatively smiled. That shy smile made him look a lot less like Prowl. Prowl had rarely smiled, but there had never been anything hesitant about it when he did. Sarcastic, sometimes, but not _shy_.

Jazz ran a hand over his helm for a second time. "Primus. So I was dead, and now I'm alive, and it looks like we've got a whole bunch more mechs here. I take it we killed Megatron at Mission City?"

"We had to kill him twice," Ratchet said, "to make it stick. The Allspark was destroyed the first time around. Sam shoved it into Megatron's spark chamber."

Jazz hitched himself up to sit on one of the tables in the room and regarded the assembling Autobots for a second before Ratchet's words really registered. "The Witwicky kid put ta what in ta where? And how?"

Optimus shot him a quick video. Jazz's optic ridges rose. "He saved your aft, fearless leader, that's for sure."

"Twice." Sideswipe laughed. "The second time, Optimus was actually dead. The kid died too, and the Order of the Primes brought him back."

Jazz's optic ridges remained up. "Wow. Someone want to squirt me the debriefing on that one?"

Multiple mechs shot him the requested files. He unzipped the one that came from Optimus, and rubbed his forehead in response afterwards. "So the Witwicky kid and the Banes kid saved our afts? Plus an old Decepticon, a Decepticon reconnaissance mech, and Skids and Mudflap got his aft to where he needed to be."

"Ey!" A mech who _had _to be one of the twins protested. "Don't sound so surprised!"

Jazz grinned. "Compared to the improbability of two little humans saving our afts, I probably shouldn't be. Err -- Skids?"

"Mudflap." The twin corrected him.

"Right. Still sorting everyone out. You were taller and skinnier the last time I saw you, which was at least a thousand years ago." Jazz shrugged unapologetically. "Primus, I can see I have a lot to catch up on."

Bluestreak spoke up, perhaps inevitably, "Jazz, there's so much! We're trying to end the war with the 'cons, and the Allspark's destroyed, and there's five hundred thousand sparklings in the SOA and I bet you adopt a couple right away, and Ratchet, Grimlock, Bumblebee, Hot Rod, and Ironhide are Primes, and Fang too, and the humans know we're here and we're trying to do with them like we did with Nebulos, y'know, make 'em good allies, not destroy their world, that's not what I meant -- oh, and some Nebulans survived and they've got their own Allspark and they've got mechs on their colony world and they're really fragged off at us, and ..."

"Woah!" Jazz put his hands up. _Fang Prime what? _He had to have misheard. "Slow down! You're making my processor fritz with all that."

His entreaty didn't help. Bluestreak was on a roll.

"... and Bee's got partners and ..."

"Hey, cool!"

"... they're the humans ..."

"Ah, still cool!" _Which humans? _

"... and they found the Ark, which is an ancient exploration ship and it's _so _cool, it's huge, and it's on its way to Nieryl Six right now to get energon for the sparklings ..."

"Oh, good, we won that fight?"

"Yeah, we did, Magnus did a good job leading us, and we didn't lose any mechs at all, and the Ark's going to bring Mirage and Perceptor back and I can't _wait _to see them, but we lost several people when Soundwave attacked the troop transport ship ..."

"Who?"

Optimus beamed the names to him.

"Damn," he said, softly.

"Only casualties other than you, though, in the last orn," Bluestreak said, then abruptly paused. After a second, he added, "Well, and Prowl. I'm sorry, Jazz."

Jazz shook his head. He needed to talk to Optimus and Ratchet about that.

"But everyone's getting sparklings!" Blue was off on another streak of rambling, enthusiastic chatter as he described the sparklings brought online so far. "I'm so excited, Ratchet says I can raise a couple, I'm looking forward to it, but I don't know if I can, I mean, I'm _me_, and ..."

Jazz grinned. "Blue, you'll do fine raising kids as long as you remember ta let 'em get a word in edgewise."

The room exploded in laughter, with Blue giggling right along with everyone else, and suddenly _everyone _was talking again. Optimus discretely beamed him a _proper _situation report that had tags indicating it was actually intended for Mirage's team when they arrived. He added a personal note expressing that he was truly thrilled that Jazz was back with them.

Jazz promptly amended the situation report with a memo about his own resurrection, written in cheerfully informal first person, and sent it back. _:There. It's now up ta date for ya, big boss.:_

:Indeed. Welcome back, Jazz. We missed you.:

* * *

"His psych status is normal," Ratchet said, to Optimus and Fang, much, much later. He'd spent a couple hours talking to Jazz, and had determined that Jazz was a bit shaken, but otherwise sane and sound of mind. Physically, he was in good shape. "He's our Jazz. My medical suggestion is to keep him off duty the next week or so to make sure nothing unexpected surfaces, but I see no reason to think he'll have any issues from this down the road. He'll bitch about the medical leave, and if he gets too annoying we can probably put him on light duty in a few days."

Fangface, who was sprawled on the floor in the med bay hangar, said lazily, "I did good, didn't I?"

The CMO rounded on the Decepticon leader with a furious growl, "No. You didn't. You are an _idiot_."

"Ratchet ..." Optimus tried to soothe him with a hand on his arm. "Let it go."

Fang had sat up, and said indignantly, "I don't get why you're so upset. Everyone loves Jazz, and he's back. I didn't even mean for you to know I did it, but he came online before I could scram."

"You had no _right ..._" Ratchet hissed.

"Ratchet," Optimus said, a little more sternly.

"No. I need to say this." Ratchet marched across the med bay to Fang and loomed over him. "Fangface, you have _got _to start thinking things through."

The Decepticon leader pinned his ears flat in a display of anger. "Okay, so I didn't know the precise circumstances of his death. It worked out okay."

"I'm _not _talking about that, though it probably would have been smart of you to remove his weapons and bring him online under a motor function lock." Ratchet balled both fists and glared down at Fang. "There are two _very _good reasons why this was stupid. The first one is that the Allspark fragment has a limited amount of energy. As much as I love Jazz, and as much as the rest of us do, we cannot bring everyone back. I can make an argument for bringing certain mechs back, but Jazz would be _low _on that list. None of Jazz's skills are irreplaceable. If there was one single mech I _would _bring back to life, it would be Omega Supreme. We slagging well could use a heavy hitter right now to defend the sparklings, and his body's mostly intact. I'm sure that we could use a few more fliers, as well. I bet Silver would love to have one of his gestalt back, or First Aid would give anything including his own spark for the same. We could slagging well _use _Blades!"

Fang hissed, "I wanted to bring Jazz back to make _you _happy."

"Yeah, well, you've just succeeded in convincing me what a damned immature little _idiot _you still are." Ratchet's voice dropped an octave, into a furious snarl. "I thought you'd grown up. I thought I could trust you. And now you do _this_."

"I just wanted to do something _nice _for you!"

"Ratchet," Optimus said soothingly, again clearly trying to calm Ratchet down.

Ratchet ignored Optimus, because that was not Optimus's command-voice. He continued to rant at Fang, "And in _any _case, I would have very strongly advocated against resurrecting _any _mech. Fang, we don't have the _right_."

"Why not?" Fang snapped. "And the Allspark shard will recharge. We _can _revive Blades or one of the Aerialbots if you want. It'll just take a few years. There's a few 'cons I'd sure like to bring back, too."

"No. We will _not_." Ratchet slammed the palm of his hand down on a berth with an enormous crack. "Fangface, you _are _aware that we have proven, beyond any shadow of any doubt, that sometimes sparks return from the Well, correct? That reincarnation is a real, proveable phenomena? Every spark resonates with a completely unique quantum signature! I was able to verify that was truly Jazz by comparing his spark signature to his medical records. Sometimes those signatures turn up again, after someone dies, in new sparkling."

Fang's ears were still flat to his head. "And?"

"And, you complete _fragger_, you may have brought Jazz back, but for all you know, you just killed somebody's child." Ratchet balled his fist, clearly contemplating striking Fangface. "The Nebulans have something very close to an Allspark. They're ensparking new protoforms. Somebody could be mourning their sparkling _right now _because you forced Jazz's spark back to _this _life."

Fang's eyes widened, then he lowered his head. "I ... didn't think about that."

"No. You didn't. And I have no idea if that happened or not, but it's a very good reason why we don't step into Primus's tracks in matters like this!" Ratchet turned his back abruptly on the predacon. "Get out of my med bay."

Optimus sighed, "Fang, you'd best leave. I will talk to you tomorrow."

"Uh ... yeah, I guess." Fangface transformed, gave Ratchet's back a long, searching look, then slunk out the door.

After he was gone, and out of earshot, Optimus said quietly, "Ratchet, don't be too hard on Fang."

"I'm not sure I was hard enough," Ratchet grunted. "He _can't _make that kind of mistake in judgment. It also makes him look pretty bad to his side. Both Death and Strika were ready to rip him a new exhaust. He can't afford that sort of loss of confidence."

Optimus folded his arms. "I agree with you in that Fangface must be more cautious of appearances. I'll have a talk with him about it in the morning. However, did it ever occur to you that the _leader of the Decepticons _just resurrected my second in command because he wanted to do something nice for us?"

"He's a slagging overachiever, too."

"Ratchet, _the leader of the Decepticons _revived Jazz. As bad judgment goes, it certainly beats destroying a planet with six billion inhabitants, attempting to destroy Earth's sun, or using a million sparklings in stasis lock to grow spare parts." Optimus folded his arms. "Also, the leader of the Decepticons is a friend of yours who truly values your opinion. Fang lives for the approval of those he respects. I suspect your words impacted him far more harshly than you intended."

"Optimus ..." Ratchet scowled. "Okay, I'll talk to him."

"Mmhmm. Please encourage that friendship, Ratchet. Don't dismiss it. Both for Fang himself, and for all of us. Do not forget where Fangface comes from and the power he has, and to not underestimate the influence you have over him. Your approval has always mattered to him."

"Huh." Ratchet grunted. "Fine."

* * *

It was nearly dawn when Fang padded down the hall to his brand new quarters. The base still smelled of wet cement and paint. The Constructicons had thrown up a solid building, with multiple underground levels, in less than five days. It was very rough still, with limited power, but it was weathertight and liveable.

His quarters were comprised of three spacious chambers two stories below ground. He pinged the door as he approached and it scanned him and then cycled open. The door opened into a lab; he'd grown attached to Starscream's facilities and had his own built. There were benches, tables, tools, chairs, and monitors ... all regrettably sized for a bigger mech. _I really need to get some custom furniture, _Fang thought, with mild irritation. Most Decepticon commanders and science staff were simply bigger than he was.

There was a certain element of survival of the fittest in Deception command that tended to weed out smaller mechs. Fang's close-quarters fighting abilities had made him a notable exception to that rule.

Past the lab was his private sitting area, where he could hold small meetings or relax. Beyond that was his bedroom.

The room had a solid blast door on it, and he knew the walls were specially reinforced. That was Death's doing. Deathwheels had insisted that he have extra protection. They could set a nuke off overhead and this room would remain survivable.

Deathwheels was standing in the corner when he entered. The walls were thick enough that Fang couldn't scan through them, and he jumped in surprise when Death's optics lit at his entry. "Death. Whew."

The larger mech padded towards him, and Fang transformed and stood up. "Jazz is fine, according to Ratchet. It worked."

"You're an idiot."

Fang narrowed his eyes. "I just heard it all from Ratchet. I don't need it from you, too."

"Maybe you do." Death grabbed him by the arm and shoved him into the wall hard enough to hurt. Simultaneously, Fang felt him activate the room's privacy shield with a burst of transmitted code. The transmission was encrypted, and when Fang pinged the privacy shield himself, he realized it was password protected. He couldn't turn it back off!

Shocked, Fang thrashed, "Hey! Let me go!"

Ratchet had manhandled him earlier, but that had felt different. Ratchet was _Ratchet _and he'd known to the core of his being that the worst damage that Ratchet would inflict was a few minor scratches. Ratchet's disappointment and anger had been far harder to bear than the physical abuse from the medic.

By contrast, Deathwheel's face was twisted with real rage and Fang _didn't _know he wasn't going to follow it with a truly damaging blow. And he'd cut Fang's comm access to the outside world!

"You little _fragger_," Death was in his face, eyes shining too bright. "You are a complete and total and absolute _idiot_!"

Fangface could have kicked himself free, but not without doing damage to Deathwheels. He tried bracing his feet, talons held up and clear, against Death's chest and pushing, but the larger mech was immovable. "Death, put me down!"

"You made yourself look like an _idiot _in front of Strika." Death ground out. He slammed Fang into the wall a second time.

"Put me down!" There was no warning in Fang's voice, no threat, just begging. He was shocked by how frightened he felt, and how pleading his words were even to his own ears. He could defend himself, but not without hurting Deathwheels. He'd _die _before he hurt his partner.

"Blast you to the pit." Death let go of him abruptly, letting him drop to the ground. He turned sharply away, showing his back to Fang.

"Death, I'm _sorry._" Fang picked himself up. His armor across his shoulders was dented, he could feel the errors from stressed and twisted attachment points. "I didn't think."

"No. You didn't. Fangface, _blast _it. You cannot do stupid, irresponsible, selfish _things _like that. You idiot! You need Strika's loyalty, and you just looked like a softsparked weakling. Not only did you revive Jazz for reasons that _utterly _escape me but you let Ratchet manhandle you in front of all of the Autobots and Strika and Skywarp!"

Death spun back, loomed over Fang, and growled, "You lost so much face tonight I don't even know where to begin. _Why _didn't you fight back? You'd have _killed _any 'con who so much as looked at you wrong, yet you let the Autobot's CMO beat you up without lifting a claw in your defense? Are you _glitched? _You should have taken him out! You could have done it before anyone could have reacted."

Fang balled his fists, jerked his chin up, and snapped, "Ratchet's a friend. He was justifiably pissed off at me, but he's a friend. Why would I kill a friend?"

"A friend?" Deathwheels said, incredulously, "Fang, he's a slagging _Autobot_. I know you feel for him, I know you've got some kind of crush on him ..."

"I do _not_!" Fang denied, even though it was a blatant lie.

"Slaggit, you do, and we both know it." Death's snarl made Fang actually jump. "And that's not what this argument's about, so let's not go there."

"Death, I love you." Fang had never expected to see this kind of anger from Deathwheels. "Maybe ... maybe I like Ratchet, maybe even _that _way, but I'm realistic enough to know it can't happen. He is a friend, and a good one ..."

"He's an _Autobot._"

"He saved your life."

"You'd have fixed me without his help." Deathwheels frowned.

"_And _he saved mine, I might add."

"Because he has feelings for _you_, Fang." Death groaned.

"Look, forget this line of thought. Death, if I'd kacked the Autobot's CMO I never would have gotten out of there alive, and it would sort've ended the truce." Fang rolled his optics.

Death huffed, "But that's not what was going through your processor."

Actually, it had been at least part of the reason why Fang had not fought back. He'd been in the wrong, knew it, and had been confronted by not just Ratchet, but the majority of the Autobots at the base. Submitting meekly had seemed like a good game plan at the time. He met Death's angry optics with a furious stare of his own. "Give me _some _credit, Deathwheels. I know when I'm outnumbered and overmatched."

"Hnnh." Death sat down on the berth, looking suddenly tired. "Strika really lost a lot of confidence in you. I could see it in her optics. She said that she was tired of following cowards."

"She said that?"

"She did."

"Primus." Megatron had been known for furious bluster, but also for grovelling submission if he was overmatched in a fight. There were numerous instances where someone -- including Starscream -- got Megatron on the defensive. Megatron had always won out in the end, however, by being a sneaky, sadistic, treacherous glitch. He suspected Strika was comparing him to other 'con leaders she'd known, including Megatron.

"I'm sorry I hit you." Death's apology sounded genuine. "You just make me so _mad _sometimes, Fang. You're so smart, so clever, so brave. You've got the guts to fight all the way to the top, and then you go off half-cocked with a hairbrained scheme like this. Do you have _any _idea how this will look to the troops?"

"Maybe they won't find out."

"The 'bots will talk if the 'cons don't. I imagine there are plenty of vid clipps being passed around the Autobot base right now, and they'll end up on our side just as soon as our mechs start talking to them." Deathwheels sounded depressed.

Uneasily, Fangface replied, "Well, in the future, I'll just have to do better. Besides, my results speak for themselves. I'm building a better future for us all. I'll just ... deal with the scrap when it comes. Right?"

Death turned to him and brushed a hand over Fang's faceplate for a second. "I hope you're right."

"'Face with me?" Fang said, hopefully. He wanted to feel Death's warmth and support, and the love he knew was behind the anger.

His partner nodded, and pulled a datalink cable out from a subspace pocket. "C'mere." Death pulled Fang into his lap and connected them. Fang shuttered his optics and lowered his firewalls. _:I'm sorry,: _he thought, at Deathwheels. _:I'm sorry, I didn't think things through, and I should have.:_

Love hit him, and a return apology. _:Sorry for going off on you.:_

He was loved enough for Death to apologize. That made him feel a lot better. He relaxed into Death's arms, and basked in the waves of love, and sorrow for hurting him, and irritation that slowly transmuted into resignation. Death's fingers stroked over his armor, and Fang sighed in complete acceptance. He had been wrong, but Deathwheels was forgiving him.

_:Fang,: _Death said, tone concerned, _:I do want to ask you to do something, and that is to stay away from Ratchet.:_

:But Ratchet is my friend.: He objected, though perhaps not with the strength he would have shown even moments before. He didn't want to upset Deathwheels again. He wanted the warmth to last.

_:Ratchet isn't good for you, Fang. He may be your friend -- though somehow, I doubt that -- and you may enjoy being with him, but he influences you too much. You have to remember you're a 'con. When you're with him, you start thinking like an Autobot.:_

:I'm not entirely sure it's wrong to think like an Autobot.:

:You behave _like an Autobot. Altruism is well and good until it makes you look like a soft-sparked fool. The whole thing with Jazz ... you were trying to make Ratchet happy, weren't you?:_

:Yeah, and the others. But yeah.: He couldn't lie in an interface session. Could anyone?

Death pressed Fang's head to his chestplates. _:Fang, I'm not sure you have the strength to resist. For all our sakes, please stay away from him.:_

:You are _jealous_._: _He could feel strong overtones of resentment in Deathwheel's words. _:Am I not allowed to have friends? Ratch is one of the few people in this world that I can really trust. And you can trust me. I'm just attracted, not actually tempted.__:_

:I am jealous.: Deathwheels confessed, though he had denied it earlier. _:Fang, I mean what I say about him being bad for you. But I also know he is a much better mech than I can ever be. I'm just a maintenance 'bot ...:_

:You're my second in command. The second in command of the Decepticons is a pretty fine catch.: Fang tried to use humor to defuse Death's mood, which was turning dark again. It didn't work as well as he could have hoped.  
_  
:Feh. I'm just a maintenance mech with more than average brains. I'm SIC because I'm your partner. On the other hand, Ratchet is ... Ratchet is a legend, all in his own right, even from before the war. __I think he returns your feelings, and I'm so scared that someday, if this war is over, I could lose you to him. He is _more _than I could ever be.:_

:Don't talk like that. I love you. I would never want to replace you.: He was worried and distressed by Deathwheel's low opinion of himself. Didn't Death realize just how wonderful he was? In Fang's entire life, nobody had ever cared about him like Deathwheels did. _:Death, please. Have some more faith in yourself.:_

He pushed every bit of love and affection and trust he had through the bond. Deathwheels groaned, _:Fang, slaggit, I am _so _sorry for hitting you. You didn't deserve that. You meant well.:_

:Eh, maybe I did deserve it. I really wasn't thinking with my processor, I was thinking with my spark.: Fang rested his head against Death's powerful arm. _:Are we good?:_

:We're good.: Death's thoughts were tinged with so much affection and love that Fang could scarcely believe it. It amazed him that anyone thought of him like that.

For several minutes, they just lost themselves in each other's thoughts. Then, reluctantly, Deathwheels said, _:I have a meeting with Strika and TC and the engineering staff, Fang. We need to figure out what we can strip out of the Nemesis to increase her cargo capacity. I'll be back later. You should try to get some recharge.:_

"Thank you," he said, aloud, as Death disengaged the connection.

After Death had left, though, he couldn't sleep. He sat in darkness for a long time, knees to his chest and tail curled around his feet, unsettled for reasons he couldn't completely explain. He'd just about decided to get up off the berth and poke around the lab for a bit when he heard the faintest _tink _of metal on metal.

"Who's there?" He powered his laser rifle up, even as he sprang off the berth. The sound had come from under the desk in the corner.

Frightened red optics stared at him from the darkness. Tiny optics. "F-fang?" Prism's small voice quavered. "Is he g-gone?"

"Slaggit!" His voice made her jump, and he instantly felt horribly guilty. "Easy, it's okay. C'mere, kiddo. What are you doing under there?"

"Was playing." She hung back.

"You were supposed to be recharging in TC's quarters." He'd left Thundercracker in charge of babysitting, which was why only Skywarp had teleported in to the fight earlier.

"TC had work. Gave me to Death. Death gone?"

"C'mere, kiddo." He reached under the piece of furniture and offered her his hand. She latched on to one finger and he coaxed her out, letting her cling to his digit for comfort. She was so tiny, but the Primes had told him to save _this _sparkling. Who was he to argue with the will of the Primes? Anyway, he could upgrade her into something bigger as soon as she was out of the sparkling-silly stage. Once she was in the open he picked her up and held her to his chest. "Were you scared?"

"Death _hurt _you." She was tense, clearly frightened.

"Shh, it's okay," he nuzzled her. "I'm okay. I'm not hurt. Death was ..." he improvised, "it was just a bit of horseplay. Death wouldn't hurt me, we were just playing. I'm sorry you misunderstood."

She patted his face with a tiny hand. "Not play. _Hurt_. Fang _hurt_."

"Aww, I'm okay." He rubbed her head with a finger. "I'm okay, kiddo. I'm not hurt."

"Dented." She just wasn't buying his lie.

"Kiddo," he hoisted her up to eye level in the palm of one hand, "You don't need to be afraid of Deathwheels. I promise you. He would _never _hurt you. I love him with all my spark, and I trust him, and he loves you too. He was just upset over grown up things today, and sometimes grownups yell at each other when they're upset."

She had a stubborn streak, he realized. "I don't _like _Deathwheels."

"Kiddo," he cradled her to his chest, tucking her expertly into the crook of his arm. "I promise you, Death loves you. But it's okay if you're mad at him."

He was going to have words with Deathwheels later. Their argument was nothing a child should have seen. Prism was so innocent. It wasn't right that the first disagreement she'd ever seen had involved her mentor being thrown against the wall and hurt. Death should have told him Prism was in the room, and they could have sent her out before they argued. He'd launched right into the fight, however, with no regard for the sparkling's presence.  
_  
He's probably lucky it's Prism and not Wheelie. Wheelie would have bitten his ankle.  
_  
That thought made his circuits freeze, a moment after the brief flash of probably inappropriate humor. Sparklings _were _sometimes known to defend their mentors without any regard to their own safety. Prism could have dashed out to his defense and been injured, or she could have tried to run for better cover than under the desk and been stepped on and hurt. Or worse. She was tiny enough that she could be _killed _by being stepped on.

"You know what?" He looked her in the optics. "I think I'm a little angry at Deathwheels right now, too."

She giggled. "Deathwheels is a fragger."

"Okay, that word is _so _not in the vocabulary file I gave you. Where'd you learn it?" Someone had been cussing around his sparkling.

"Skywarp."

"Figures."

"And TC. And Death. And Strika. And Ratchet. Everybody says it." She giggled, clearly having no comprehension that 'fragger' was a word for soldiers, not a word for sparklings."You say it."

Fang clapped his free hand over his optics. "Everybody says it but you. You understand? Prism does _not _say 'fragger'."

"Okay." She giggled. "Deathwheels is a fucker."

"Ah ... I don't even want to know where you learned that, but don't say that word, either." He considered. "I believe you may call Death an _idiot _at the moment, and I will not complain."

"Deathwheels is an idiot!" She laughed, pleased with his permission, and bounced up and down in his hand. "Deathwheels is an idiot! Death is an idiot! Idiot!"

He tucked her back into the crook of his arm, ignoring her wriggly protest. "And it's time for recharge for little sparklings, and big mechs too."

He set her down on the berth and transformed. With Prism tucked safely between his paws, and quickly slipping into recharge, he was able to relax and cycle down into sleep himself. It felt so _right _to have his sparkling snuggled safely under his chin that he didn't even have any nightmares.


	70. Chapter 70

Chapter 70

* * *

"See Ratchet?" Prism said, sounding hopeful. She'd met Ratchet twice, once for a checkup after being activated, and once when Ratchet had stopped by the Decepticon base to drop off Thundercracker's kids.

Thundercracker was adopting two seeker models -- both full sized, both with interstellar flight capability. Ratchet had disabled their jets, their quantum engines, and their weapons, as well as overhauling their long-neglected power plants. Until they had some life experience they were grounded. Fang was a little apprehensive about the idea of sparklings that large, but he had to admit they needed more air support.

"Not today, kiddo." He reached a hand up to his shoulder and scritched her head with a claw. He knew that sparklings thrived on touch; it made them feel safe and loved. She leaned against his fingers with a happy-sounding chirp.

"Like Ratchet," she expressed her opinion cheerfully when he lowered her hand.

"I do too, but there's other people you can see too. We're going to see Optimus."

"Big!"

"Everyone's big compared to you," he chuckled.

"Bigger than _you_. Could hurt you!" Her words made him wince, because he knew where they'd come from. She'd seen him hurt.

"Optimus won't hurt me, I promise."

"Optimus!" She spotted him as they walked towards the hangars, and she promptly hid behind Fang's head, hanging on to an armor seam at the back of his neck with tiny fingers. That plate of armor was the one that Death had dented, and the connection points were warped and loose. He ignored the errors her tiny weight caused, and absently set an auto-repair routine to fixing that armor. His repair nanytes could easily such a minor dent, though they'd prioritized it lower than some of the microfractures and minor glitches left over from his fight with the Nebulans.

The dent in his armor wasn't critical, but it was annoying and if Prism was going to hang on that plate, it was painful. He justified changing the priority of repairs with the fact that it didn't _look _good for him to walk around with a dent, either. He needed to present an air of absolute competance and physical strength at all times.

Optimus was in the main hangar, and when he entered the leader of the Autobots was sitting in a surprisingly casual pose. He was using a flatbed trailer like a bench. Jazz, silver armor gleaming in the morning sunlight that shone through the door, was talking to him. Ranger was with them, though Ranger seemed to be more absorbed in watching a pair of pigeons on the ground than in anything the adults were doing.

"Hey," Fang said, cautiously.

Jazz nodded to him. The mech's visor reflected the blue sky visible through the hangar door as he studied Fang for a moment. Finally, he smiled and said, "I didn't get a chance to thank you, last night. I'm sorry Ratch went off on you."

"He was right." Fangface sighed. That made Jazz frown, and Optimus straighten up.

"Jazz, can you take Ranger and Prism outside? I need to talk to Fang."

"Prism?" Jazz said, in confusion.

Fang pointed over his shoulder. Prism was just barely peeking out. When she realized she was being looked at, she ducked down. "Prism's mine. She's decided she's scared of Optimus because he's bigger than me."

"Oh dear." Optimus chuckled. "Prism, I think your mentor would win."

_:Oh, you're being too kind.: _Fang snorted. He'd seen a few legendary fights with Optimus, both on his side and facing him across a battlefield. Optimus was one mech he never wanted to challenge head on. If he ever had to take him out, he was going to be damn sure it was a complete surprise -- an ambush from nowhere. "Prism, will you go with Jazz?"

Jazz said, somewhat incredulously, "Seriously, Fang?"

_:Jazz, I trust you with my sparkling more than I trust my own faction.: _

The noise that Jazz made in response to this observation from Fang was somewhere between a snicker and a snort.

Fang got a grip on Prism, pulled her free of his back. He held her in the palm of one hand. She hid her eyes against his fingers and squeaked in protest at being exposed, which made him feel awful. Jazz moved closer, bent down, and said, "Hiya, little cutie."

That prompted her to peer up. She saw his face, said, "No optics!" and hid again.

"I've got optics." He pushed his visor up with a finger. "See?"

"Oh." She turned her attention to his fingers. "Scary hands."

Jazz clicked his digits together ruefully. He definitely didn't have sparkling-friendly hands. "That's true. You wanna walk with me? I'd better not try to pick you up."

Prism buried her face back in Fang's fingers. "No walk!"

"I'd rather she be carried, honestly," Fang said, "it would be too easy for someone to step on her. Even a human could do her some damage."

_:Why in Primus's name did you pick such a tiny sparkling anyway?: _Jazz asked, sounding mostly curious.

_:Because the Order of the Primes singled her out to me.: _

_:Ah swear ah'm not in Kansas anymore.: _While Fangface was trying to puzzle that reference out, Jazz said, "What about my shoulder, kiddo? You want to pretend you're a parrot?"

That got a definite headshake. She didn't like that idea at all. And Jazz's hands were just not designed to hold a small object, particularly one that might try to wriggle and escape. Fang sighed. "Is Bee around? Or Blue?"

"I can take her," Ranger spoke up, suddenly, looking away from the birds.

_:Optimus?: _Fang was dubious about trusting his two day old sparkling to a five day old sparkling.

_:He's been very gentle, almost excessively so, and he follows directions well. I wouldn't worry, Fang. He's operating on a level far higher than most sparklings his age, and he'll be with Jazz. He won't hurt her.:_

Ranger held a hand out, palm up, looking calm and confident. Fang tried to set Prism into Ranger's hand, and Prism exclaimed, "No, no, no, no, no!" and attached herself to Fang's thumb.

Fang got a good grip on her with his other hand, pulled her free, and plunked her down in Ranger's hand. She screeched. Ranger gave Fang a startled, worried look. Fang shrugged. "You asked for it. She's two days old. Being afraid to leave me is part of the package. The only way for her to get used to leaving me is for her to actually do it."

"I was afraid the first few times Optimus left me with someone else," Ranger said, thoughtfully, as he cradled the keening sparkling to his chest. "I learned Optimus always comes back for me, and I have fun while I'm gone. Everyone's interesting. Everyone's nice to me."

_:Primus,: _Jazz said, to both of them. _:He's spooky.:_

_:He's remarkable.: _Optimus sounded proud of his youngling. _:I am truly going to enjoy watching him grow up.:_

Ranger stroked Prism's back with a finger, very gently. That he was taking great care to be gentle was reassuring to Fangface, who relaxed. Ranger was well aware of his own strength, it seemed. He asked her, "Do you like music?"

She nodded hesitantly, calmling a little in the security of his grasp. She was young enough that she would feel safe if any other mech held her right. Ranger had clearly accessed his sparkling-care routines, and was using them approrpiately. Tentatively, she said, "Yeah. Music is fun!"

"I like music too."

"Me three," Jazz said, smiling. "C'mon, you guys. We can round up Wheeljack's kids and Paladin and I'll teach you guys some dance steps."

After they were gone Fang said, "I'm sorry, Optimus."

"Don't apologize." A smile touched Optimus's lips. "And thank you."

"You're not mad at me?"

"I am disappointed that you did you involve us in this decision, and concerned about your safety. I am very glad to have Jazz back, however." Optimus stood up. "Will you take a walk with me? There's no privacy shield here. We can go down to the river, away from the others."

Fang nodded and transformed into alt mode, more comfortable on all fours for long distances. Optimus waved off Ironhide when he moved to follow, then asked, "Are any of yours watching you?"

Fang pointed upwards. "TC and 'Warp are in the air. Neither of them have the sensors to hear our conversation at this range. They can obviously be here to protect me in a nanoclick if I need it."

"You deliberately have them watching you?" Optimus sounded approving.

"Yes. I am not merely concerned about your faction."

"Good."

"The control tower didn't want to clear them for flight. I told the tower they were going up one way or another." Fang sighed. "They're restricted to the base airspace -- I told TC and Warp to 'port out over the ocean later, and take the coneheads with them, and get some real flying time in. Who do I need to warn so nobody tries to shoot them down?"

"Give me their flight plan, and I'll take care of it," Optimus said, though he shot Fang a file with the names of a few contacts in various country's air forces, plus an assortment of flight rules and regulations that the seekers would need to follow to stay out of trouble. "However, you should reach out to these people and give them your contact information. You're going to have a much more difficult time than I did with earning their trust, but you can start today. Make sure TC keeps the other seekers in line, because an incident now would not be politically prudent."

They traveled in silence for a bit, crossing the runway and then heading down towards the small waterway. Only when they were out of any possible earshot of either base did Optimus say, "You may wish to have Deathwheels walk with you when you come here." Optimus suggested, "I am concerned your side could interpret your behavior as being too friendly if you come without visible guards in the future."

"You want me to make it appear I don't trust you," Fang mused, sitting down on a rock.

Optimus nodded. "We may want to stage some public arguments, as well."

"What did you have in mind that we fight over?"

"Money." Optimus smiled slowly, an expression that Fang didn't necessarily like. "It's plausible, and I suspect that you won't need to act too much, either. I _am _going to make you angry."

"Oh, thanks for the warning." Fang gave him a sour look. "You know my side can still kick your side's aft. And then you'd _still _cooperate with us because of the sparklings."

Optimus sat down on the ground next to Fang. He shutted his optics and leaned back next to Fang's rock. It occurred to Fang that he could kill Optimus before he had a chance to react -- the Autobot leader was relaxed, unguarded, and within a few feet of Fang's claws. A leap, a couple killing kicks, and it would be all over. If he was looking for an ambush it didn't get better than this.

"Do you really want to do it that way?"

It took Fang a startled minute to realize that Optimus was talking about threatening the Autobots with Decepticon forces, not an assassination of Optimus himself. He had only mused about the latter out of habit, and dark humor. "No," he said, miserably. "I don't."

"It's funny, isn't it," Optimus said wearily, "how being a Prime changes you."

"They spoke to me." Fang hunched his shoulders. "They _spoke _to me."

"The Order."

"Yes."

Optimus opened his optics and glanced over and up at Fang. "It's somewhat of a relief to me to no longer be alone. I was the last of us for a long time."

Fang nodded. "About that money thing ..."

"We will discuss that later, when I have my team with me. Feel free to assemble your own group of negotiators." There was sudden steel in Optimus's voice.

"Heh. I just wanted to say that I want to ensure the future of my people."

Optimus replied, very firmly, "My goals are to secure a future for _all _of us."

He snorted, "Yes, but in the short term, we're going to need resources."

"You have plenty of ways to earn an honest living on this world," Optimus replied, "and we will discuss this _later._"

"Hnh."

"Figure out what's important to you and what you can bend on. Then come to the table ready to negotiate. Strika was a senator before she was a Decepticon commander, Fang. Get her to help you. Don't look to me, I'm not your friend in this." Optimus watched the water for a moment before adding, "I can't be."

"Negotiating peacefully's harder than just beating up your enemy and taking what you want," Fang replied, "Megatron never could have made peace. He always took the easy route."

"Wise words. Don't forget them." Optimus rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Fang, what I really wanted to ask was how you are doing. Are you okay? And in this, I am asking as a friend."

"Why would you think I'm not?" He stiffened, torn between a denial and the warm-fuzzy feeling that Optimus's words gave him. Optimus thought he was a friend!

"You have a dent between your shoulders and Ratchet did not hit you that hard."

He reached over his shoulder to rub at the offending piece of armor. It was warm to the touch. His repair nanytes were building a lattice underneath, which they would contract and twist to pop the dent out. "This? Trouble on the home front."

"We were afraid that would happen. It is why Ratchet was so angry at you, in the end. Which isn't to say he didn't feel horribly betrayed by you in the beginning, before he realized what you'd actually done." Optimus still had his fingers pressed to his nasal ridge. "He'll give you all sorts of other reasons and justifications, but Ratchet is fond of you, Fangface, and proud of you, and very afraid bad things will happen to you."

He contemplated telling Optimus about the argument with Deathwheels, but something kept him from speaking up. He just said, "It's dealt with. Over. And I didn't even have to frag anyone."

"I see." Optimus obviously didn't believe him. "If you need anything, Fang, let me or one of the other Primes know. I think it's fair to say that we all get the big picture here, and we will help you. Never doubt that."

Fang nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak, because if he did, he might start whining. However, it was strange how warm inside he felt, just knowing he did have friends. Peers. Allies. Whatever the hell they were.

Optimus said gently, "We cannot be friends in public, Fang. Not for a very long time. We will not meet in private like this often. However, today, I wanted to make sure you were _safe_."

"Yeah. I don't think there's an imminent coup being planned." He smiled, then sobered. "My biggest worry is the Nebulans, honestly."

"Keep me posted." Fangface chewed on a nail. "The solution to the code issue that Ratchet found is probably a virus of some sort, perhaps spread via nanytes if we could make the code small enough."

"Do we have the right?" Optimus asked. It didn't entirely sound like a rhetorical question. Optimus also sounded very tired.

"Delivery method would be a bitch. We'd need to infect a critical mass before they managed to identify it and innoculate for it." Fang shook his head. "But it sounds like they're going to be completely irrationally violent towards any Cybertronians they encounter."

"And anyone supporting them. This could mean trouble for Earth."

"Primus. Normally, I'd say leave, because I have no desire to face a tactically superior army that large," Fang said, "but the sparklings ..."

"Yes, the sparklings. We cannot abandon them." Optimus sounded as depressed as Fang felt.

* * *

"Put ya right foot in ..." Jazz demonstrated, "put ya right foot out, put ya right foot in, and shake it all about ..."

Five out of six sparklings danced with him to a song he'd found on the internet. He'd found Paladin and Wheeljack's twins with 'Jack. Scanner had joined them as well. Ranger, who was so much like Prowl it hurt to see, had both his hands spread, palm up, for Prism to dance on. He was not moving about himself, however, and Jazz was not at all surprised by that.

Point of fact, Prowl had very good rhythm. Jazz had regularly gone dancing with him before the war. Ranger likely was the same. However, Ranger had refused Jazz's encouragement to dance with a polite, "No, thank you," and Jazz wasn't sure if it was uncertainty, dignity, or something else that had stopped him. He was, however, fascinated by Prism, who was dancing on the palms of his hands with all the enthusiasm a sparkling could muster.

Optimus was right about Ranger behaving as if he was much older. Ranger was very careful with her, and with the other sparklings too. There was a kindness, an understanding, in his optics that Jazz had never seen in a sparkling this young.

_You're an old soul, as the humans would say, m'friend, _Jazz thought. He concluded the song, and the five dancing sparklings groaned when he didn't offer another. "C'mon, kids," he said, "I think 'Jack wants to talk to me."

Wheeljack was approaching, trailed by Andrew Gallego. The engineer had an armful of small weapons, and was grinning, probably at least partly because Jazz was _alive_. (Which, admittedly, made Jazz grin too.) Gallego also had a weapon, and 'Jack said cheerfully, "Everyone else is busy, Jazz. Want to help us test a new gun?"

"I'm sparkling-sitting," he said, even as Paladin held her arms up to be picked up and he reached down and gingerly hoisted her to his hop. His hands, designed to rend and tear, could manage the larger child more easily than a tiny one like Prism.

"These are for the sparklings," Wheeljack said. "We're shooting the first episode on the physical states of matter."

He shuffled the guns around in his arms and then thrust one at Jazz. In doing so, he dropped another, and Ranger swiftly leaned over, reached his free hand out, and caught it in mid-air without so much as shaking Prism in his other palm.

"Thanks, Ranger," Wheeljack grinned at the sparkling.

Ranger inspected the weapon in his hands.

Wheeljack said, "Can you figure out how that works, kiddo?"

He popped the chamber open and peered into it, then sighted down the barrel. "It appears to use compressed gas to fire small plastic pellets." He shook a bright red pellet out into one hand and inspected it curiously. "It has a viscous fluid inside it."

"Paint," Wheeljack elaborated. "For the segment on gas."

"Paintball?" Jazz's lipplates spread in a grin, after he googled the concept online for a second. Paintball guns were powered by compressed Co2. "Oh, I'm _so _in." He probably would have added a few threats to frag 'Jack's aft if not for the little ears listening.

"This is a nonlethal weapon that lacks any damaging power," Ranger said, as he transferred Prism to his shoulder. "What is the purpose?"

"It's for a game," Wheeljack explained.

The sparkling thoughtfully examined the weapon. It had a bracket to mount onto a mech's arm, and plugs to connect it to his processor. "It would be a good way to practice tactical theories. War games sound interesting."

"I'll bet they do," Jazz said, after trading a look with Wheeljack. "Bet you can teach us a few things eventually."

"The idea is appealing." He flared the armor on his wrist, and experimentally pressed the bracket to his empty weapons mount. "I've never fired a gun before. With this, I stand little chance of damaging anyone, and I can practice ideas I have. I have considerable tactical and battle analysis software that I would like to experiment with."

"You should do that," Jazz said, cheerfully. "We'll help ya."

_:Jazz, he shouldn't have any battle-related software,: _Wheeljack said, _:I helped review his operational code. It wasn't there. We deliberately deleted it.:_

_:Ah need to talk to Prime and Ratchet.: _Jazz traded a look with Wheeljack. _:One of the few mechs better than ah was at covert firewalls was Prowl.:_

_:Covert firewalls?:_

_:Undetectable protection on core processes and other vitals.: _Jazz snorted. _:Ah bet Soundwave had an absolute Pit of a time cracking Prowl's defenses ta infect him w' that virus to begin with. Prowl taught me a lot of what ah used in special ops for our covert troops.:_

He was impressed that Fang had located as many spies as he had. There were over a dozen more that Fangface _hadn't _found, all deep cover moles whose carefully constructed personas would pass even a 'face session with another mech without difficulty.

_:You think there might be something of Prowl left in there?: _Wheeljack sounded hesitant.  
_  
:You and Ratchet worked on his reformat and Optimus was the one who uploaded his operational code. All three of ya are competant, but I wish ya'd had Elita take a look at him.: _Jazz sounded troubled as he watched Ranger attach the paintball gun to his arm. _:Better yet, ah wish ah could have a peek.:_

_:Well, his memories are gone, save what Teletraan manages to recover.: _Wheeljack shook his head. _:That isn't even his original memory core. We scrapped it on the off chance the virus managed to elude a reformat, and installed a factory new one from the Ark.:_

_:Processor core's his, though,: _Jazz observed.  
_  
:Yeah, we decided to take a chance on it because it was so important to him, and just scrubbed all data out of it every way we could. That virus is memory-resident anyway.:_

_:Hnnh.:_

_:He's dead, Jazz.: _Wheeljack sighed. _:I'm just going to enjoy Ranger. He really is a delight. Look at him.:_

Ranger was letting Prism sight down the barrel of the gun. She was bouncing up and down with excitement. Wheeljack said, _:I've got a pistol here that she could use, if Fang's okay with us playing with her.:_

_:Fang,: _Jazz comm'd him, _:We're going to play paintball with the sparklings. Care if Prism plays? She seems to be getting along with Ranger really well.:_

Fangface said, voice tense, _:I'd rather she not. She could get stepped on.:_

_:Ah understand. Ya about ready to have her back?:_

_:On my way.:_

Fang's arrival a few minutes later caused several humans to tense as he ran through the base. Jazz ruthlessly ordered his battle routines not to activate when the Decepticon loped at a high rate of speed between two hangars.

"Fang!" Prism saw him and waved.

He skidded to a halt next to them, throwing up a spray of sparks from his talons sliding over the pavement, and making five of six sparklings shriek with approval at the showy display of power. Prism said proudly, "MY Fang!"

He grinned, transformed, and held a hand out for her.

She latched on to Ranger's armor, mood changing in an instant. "No!"

"No?"

"Play paintball!"

"Sorry, kiddo, that's not a game for littlesparks like you," he wrapped his hand around her body and pulled her free.

Prism protested, "No no no no no no!!!!!! Play! Stay and play!" and when he tried to plunk her down on his own shoulder, she wrapped her arms tight to her chest and refused to hold on.

_:She would be safe, I'd see to it,: _Jazz offered, feeling bad. She was nearly hysterical.

_:It's a power struggle now. I will _not _have a spoiled sparkling,: _Fang turned to go. _:And it's an image thing, too. I am torn, Jazz. Part of me wants my sparkling to play with Autobot sparklings, because I want to tear down the walls between our people. However, I cannot risk the appearance of trusting you too much.:_

_:I understand.:_

"No! No! I want to play!"

Jazz understood Fang's reasoning, but Prism's cries about broke his heart as they walked away. Jazz suspected that Fang felt the same, because his jaw was clenched and he moved with stiff, firm strides. He didn't look back.

Ranger said, "I like Prism."

"Me too, kiddo," Jazz admitted.

_:You ever think you'd see sparklings again?: _Wheeljack asked.

_:Never. And ah am _loving _this.: _Jazz clapped Ranger on the shoulder. "C'mon, kiddo. Let's go try out that tactical code of yours. I bet it's top knotch."

* * *

t'Tamis watched, uncomfortable and ill at ease, as the mechs he'd considered his worst enemies played with their sparklings. He'd been paroled to a degree, allowed to wander around public areas of the base as long as he had a minder. Right now, his minder was the Pit-spawned sniper who'd killed his team.

Bluestreak was, demonstrably, deadly in a field of battle. They'd stood no chance against him and his buddies. t'Tamis knew he should hate him especially strongly.

However, he just couldn't summon up the rage anymore. Until yesterday, the thought of the Cybertronian mechs -- the thought of Cybertron itself -- caused waves of fury and hatred and pure, deadly, anger. Fear, too. Cybertron was a threat. Cybertron had destroyed Nebulos after Nebulos had bowed and surrendered to Cybertronian aggression. This was recorded. Even the Cybetronian mechs admitted to it. He didn't care _which _faction had done the deed, the simple truth was that the Cybertronian race itself had the capability of that sort of evil.

The Elders taught that Cybertron was the greatest threat to Nebulan civilization. He believed it. There was empirical evidence to that effect, given that they _did _destroy a peaceful, civilized world that had been willing and even eager to see peace. More recently, they had tried to destroy Earth.

They'd hacked him. The medic Ratchet said it was for his own good, that a line of code had been entered into his firmware that restricted his free will. It was true that he could see and feel the difference. Instead of blind rage, there was simple worry and anger. Also, there was a good bit of fury at Ratchet for the hacking, justifiable or not. He honestly wasn't sure it was justifiable. Ratchet had ripped through his firewalls against his will.

He didn't think he liked Ratchet much.

But ... he'd touched something, during that sesson.

The very pulse of his spark slowed at the thought of that feeling. He'd touched a _Matrix._

The Elders said that the Primes were a myth. He'd always been told that Cybertronian mechs had invented the concept as a way to control the masses, and that an elite ruling class had used religion to control the commoners. The war between factions was a war between the rich, wealthy, and powerful Autobots and the common mechs that comprised the Decepticons. The Autobots had treated the Decepticon faction so badly that they'd _created _a monster, an enemy even harsher and more violent than themselves. And that enemy had destroyed Nebulos.

And then he'd touched a Matrix. A real Matrix. And the Order of the Primes had spoken to him.

The Primes were real. Chosen by holy artifacts, guided by the memories of millions of years of dead leaders, spoken to by the spirits of those past wise ones, they were _very _real.

And they were nothing like he could ever have imagined.

Ratchet was a Prime. He was sarcastic and a bit defensive, but under that there had been a self-sacrificing nobility and a deep and abiding love for his fellow sentients. He was a mech who would die to save those he cared about, who would repair even his worst enemy out of a respect for life, and who had devoted his life to medicine and to the good fight. He would do what was right even when it was personally inconvenient, and he had absolutely uncompromising integrity.

He was _not _what t'Tamis had ben expecting. He'd been expecting a selfish, arrogant, difficult, alien _evil. _t'Tamis would have expected a mech devoted to Primus's will to be a little less snarky, but he wasn't disputing the marked lack of evil he'd sensed.

He still didn't like Ratchet. It was pretty hard to like anyone who forcibly hacked one's firewalls.

However, he'd also been touched by the Order of the Primes. That sense of ageless good and infinite wisdom had rocked him to his core. They had said, "Chose well and make us proud," and told him that he had the capacity for great heroism.

The _Order of the Primes _was real. And they'd spoken to him. Told him he could be a hero if he chose well.

"... You okay?" Bluestreak had actually been quiet for the last several minutes. They were seated atop a low rise of ground that overlooked the river bottom.

Bluestreak was both a pit-spawned sniper who'd ruthlessly killed t'Tamis's teammates, and a startlingly nice mech. He talked a lot, but he was just _nice_.

"Just thinking about things."

"I think a lot. My processors are never quiet. Prime says it's a sign of intelligence if you're always thinking. But sometimes I worry, too. Ironhide says I think too much, that I should just slow down and stop worrying so much. But I can't. If I do, then I have a bad episode. It's better just to keep my mind busy. And I chatter a lot because of that. Sorry if I annoy you, but it's just the way I am."

"It's okay." He honestly didn't mind. It meant _he _didn't have to talk.

"You don't say much, do you? That's okay. I can always fill any silence. Really. I don't mind quiet people." Bluestreak was vastly older than t'Tamis, by more than a thousand times. However, smile that touched Blue's lipplates made him look like a youngling. "Quiet people give me more time to chatter."

t'Tamis couldn't help it, he laughed. It was the first time since arriving here that he'd been provoked into a chuckle.

Bluestreak's smile turned a little shy and soft. "I miss Nebulos, you know. We all do."

t'Tamis didn't know what to say to that. Nebulos was a legend, lost in the murkey past of his people. Only the Elders, by definition, had any living memory of it. Yet here he was, talking to a mech who had seen Nebulos.

_Does that make him an Elder? _t'Tamis wondered. Blue didn't seem like on of those ancient, dignified old mechs. He seemed young, vital, and intelligent. Had t'Tamis met him on the street, without knowing what he was, he would have guessed Bluestreak to be a kid of just a few decades.

Fortunately, Blue was true to his word in that he didn't mind quiet people. He rambled on cheerfully, "I loved the Fire Canyon wilderness. It was beautiful. The cliffs were so high, and the river so cold and clear. I wasn't an Autobot then, I was a neutral. My family were traders, and my mentor would send me to Nebulos with shipments of goods, an' after I sold everything I'd always take a planetary week or two to explore. I ..."

"I've never seen Nebulos."

"Do you want to? I can cast a holomatter illusion of anywhere I've been. I'm not as good at holomatter vistas as Prime is, and Kup is _amazing _but I'm good enough to give you a general idea, and ..."

"No." Actually, he did sort of want to see it, but his unease with the Cybertronians made him reluctant to accept the offer.

"Okay." Bluestreak didn't sound offended. "Maybe you'll be ready later. I miss my home too, my real home. I was raised on Cybertron, and my whole town and my entire family were destroyed by the 'cons when I was little. I was the only survivor."

t'Tamis couldn't stop a shudder. He snapped, "That makes me _so _confident that your people won't attack mine."

Bluestreak's expression was shocked. "The Autobots wouldn't. We wouldn't! We're not like that. We'd die defending your world and we'd never attack it, not ever. You dont understand, the 'cons were _not _like us."

"Autobots, Decepticons, you're all the same. You're all Cybertronian. The 'cons might have pulled the trigger on Nebulos, but Autobots are the _same _species."

Bluestreak snapped, "I didn't spend the last tens of thousands of years fighting and killing 'cons to listen to you tell me I'm just like them. I _hate _killing, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, but I do it because they have to be stopped, and I will kill to make sure no one else loses everything and everyone they ever loved ..."

The gunner wasn't the only one who could cast holomatter images. t'Tamis projected an image of Fangface, laughing, seated on the end of a berth, from the time he had been teasing Ratchet and Ironhide. "You'd kill him? He's a 'con."

He had expected to score against Bluestreak, to make the nervous, high strung mech flinch. Instead, Bluestreak said, with surprising emotional strength backing his words, and a small amount of humor, "I've spent the last hundred thousand years trading insults with 'cons, including that specific mech. You're going to have to try harder than that to piss me off."

Though he was not entirely sure why he trying to bait his minder into retaliation, t'Tamis persisted, "How do you know that Fang wasn't one of the 'cons who slaughtered your family? Maybe he enjoyed doing it. Maybe he _liked _killing them."

Much to his surprise, this only got him a weary sigh. "I don't know the identity of the 'cons who attacked Praxus, and I used to obsess over finding them and killing them, slowly, with great pain and much suffering, and I'll never know who they are, but if Primus himself were to point them out to me, I'd walk away now. I gave up my anger, and let that obsession go because it's time for the war to end and if it were Fangface there, I'd just have to accept it and go on with my life."

"You forgave them?" He was stunned.

"Hardly." Bluestreak snorted. "But I decided there was no point in that fantasy because it's a war and slag happens. My friend Manywinds pointed out we've wiped out entire Decepticon encampments ourselves and it wouldn't surprise me if I have a counterpart on the 'con side, the only survivor of an Autobot raid, who lost everyone he loved to our side and if so I hope he has the strength to let go of the anger too, because it's going to take both sides just letting go to end the war." Blue hunched his shoulders a bit. "It's war. Slag happens. If any of the mechs who killed my family are still alive, good for them for surviving this long, and I have no desire to kill _anyone _without an immediate need to do so, not anymore."

"You killed my team."

"You guys shot first. And, uh, if we'd known who we were fighting we might have retreated. We thought you were 'cons." Bluestreak fixed him with a keen gaze. "We _loved _Nebulos. That's the thing you don't understand. Finding Nebulans survived the war? It's a miraculously wonderful thing to us. We'd have greeted you with open arms like brothers and rejoiced and asked if we could come home with you, because Cybertron is gone and your Nebulan colony world is the closest thing we've heard of in a good long while to a world that could _truly _be home."

"You loved us enough to destroy our Nebulos and nearly wipe the sibs out."

Bluestreak's growl was very frustrated, "As far as we can tell from the intelligence we've gotten over the years, there were _three _mechs involved in the destruction of Nebulos. Megatron ordered the design of the device, Shockwave built it, and Starscream delivered it. If the 'con army rank and file had known ahead of time what Megatron had planned, I can pretty much guarantee he would have had a mutiny on his hands. Afterwards, he blamed _us _and said we destroyed Nebulos to keep it out of 'con hands."

"Any chance that's true?"

"Zero. It was three very evil mechs working together. Three people. That's it. It wasn't all of us, or even all of one faction, it really wasn't. It was just three sociopathic, evil, crazy, evil, evil, truly evil, mechs."

"How do I know that?" t'Tamis cried. "How do I know _any _of what you're telling me is true? If you're telling me the truth, the Elders are lying to us, and the Elders were _there_. Why would they _lie_? The elders love us! They created us!"

Blue replied, sounding really distressed for the first time, "I don't know how to answer that question. I know what's true because I lived it, but I don't know how to convince you of it!"

"I'm not sure I'll ever believe in anything again." t'Tamis felt like his processor was going to crash because of all the conflicting thoughts. "How will I ever know what _anyone _tells me is true?"

The gunner -- the alien soldier, who by his own admission had fought a war for a hundred thousand years, one that had nearly destroyed his people -- pointed out at the sparklings and adults in the river bottom. He said five simple words, "Judge us by our behavior."

Then Bluestreak stopped talking.

The combatants were divided into two groups. There were four children on one team plus one adult, Jazz. The other team was composed of Wheeljack, Wheelie, a human named Gallego, another named Lennox, and the sparkling Ranger. Ranger's team was closer to the hilltop and by straining his sensors, t'Tamis could hear Ranger talking.

"... they're going to come up between those two trees. See how the ground slopes? It'll funnel them up. And there's good cover for us big 'bots behind the rocks on either side of the path, and you shorter people can hide in that ditch. 'Jack, if you'll take one side, I'll take the other, and Lennox, Wheelie, and Gallego can wait out in front. Wait until they get past me and Wheeljack and then we will shoot them."

"Good plan," Wheeljack said, approvingly.

Bluestreak explained to t'Tamis in low tones that wouldn't carry, "Ranger has an incredibly high level of intelligence, and is naturally good at tactics. We're also anticipating he'll have some problems with social issues because he's so different from the typical sparklings. All of us adults are stepping in to make sure he has a place, and feels like he fits in."

"Oh."

Bluestreak made a loose gesture with one hand, indicating the developing scene. "The adults are letting the sparklings lead, if you'll notice -- they're just along to make sure nobody gets hurt. This sort of game is good for their development. And candidly, we are still in a war. We'd like them to have some basic skills as soon as possible in case we're attacked. However, for now it's just a game for them, and we'd like to keep it that way." Bluestreak shuddered. "I pray they never have to kill, never have to see someone die, not like I did ... I was too young, I was just a youngling, just thirty years old ..."

He trailed off, biting his lip.

Down below, as Ranger predicted, four sparklings ran between the trees. Everyone rose up and plastered them with paintballs, causing a tremendous uproar of disappointment from the children.

Bluestreak giggled, though. "Look at Lennox! He got it in the optics! I think that was Paladin who hit him!"

The human soldier had a pair of goggles on, and the goggles and his face were plastered with red paint.

"No far!" Paladin said, suddenly, pointing at Ranger. "We've lost four times and it's all his fault!"

"Easy, kiddo." 'Jack crouched down beside her, even as Ranger recoiled in shock. "It's just a game."

"It's not _fair_. He's better than we are and he's got all you adults with him! You'll always win! It's not fair!" She stamped her feet in evident frustration. Behind her, the other three sparklings were beginning to echo her words.

"Not fair! Not fair! Not fair!" Pulsar shook his fist at Ranger. Array, ever silent, balled her hands up and glared at Ranger from a position behind her brother.

Scanner added, "Not fair! I don't want to play with Ranger anymore! He always wins!"

"We want to play _without _Ranger!" Paladin declared. "It would be more fair. We'll always lose if he's playing!"

Jazz stepped out of the trees behind the others. "You know," he said, "Ah was going to sneak up behind 'em like we agreed and distract 'em, but you four brats didn't wait."

"We're not brats!" Paladin rounded on him. "Ranger keeps winning 'cuz he's smarter. And you said you would shoot him first, before we went through those two trees."

"Ya didn't give me a chance to get into position, sweetspark," Jazz said, mildly. "I said wait until I started shooting an' you four got impatient."

"We still don't want to play with Ranger anymore." Paladin glared at her brother. Ranger was silent, very still, not arguing and posture giving nothing of his thoughts away. "He always wins. It's no fair. I can't beat him at anything."

"You beat him all the time at frisbee," Wheeljack pointed out.

"I win 60.7% of the time at frisbee," Ranger said, finally reacting. "She's right. It's not fair. I'll remove myself from the game now."

He turned to go, face a cool mask that totally lacked emotion.

"Slag," Bluestreak whispered to t'Tamis, "See what I mean? Poor kid."

Jazz ran after Ranger, "Hey, kiddo, don' go. Why don't we do this? We'll put Paladin in charge of one team and Pulsar in charge of the other. Ya can jus' follow their orders ..."

"No." Ranger kept going, head down, plowing ahead through the grass. "They don't _like _me. Why would I want to play with people who don't like me?"

He broke into a run, face suddenly transforming into a twisted rictus of pain. He keened a sharp cry as he bolted, then he reached the road and abruptly leaped forward, transformed into an Earth vehicle, and smoked his tires as he fled. Jazz stood by the side of the road for a second, then threw his hands in the air and stalked back to the other children.

t'Tamis heard Jazz send an unencrypted transmission to the whole base, _:Hey guys, Ranger's upset. T' other brats voted him off t' island. Can ya'll make sure he gets back t' Prime okay? Ah think that's where he's probably headed.:_

_:He just passed me,: _Inferno reported, _:About gave me a spark attack before I realized who it was. I didn't know he'd found his transformation cog.:_

_:He shouldn't have _access _to his alt mode yet,: _Ratchet put in. _:Given his natural proclivities, he probably figured out how to hack my lock on it.:_

Prime put in, _:He's coming my way now. Thank you for the warning, Jazz.:_

_:Ah'm sorry about what the kids said t' him. They caught m' by suprise. It's been so long since ah worked with sparkling, ah forgot what little jerks they can be. Do ya want me 'n J'ack to mete out the punishment, or do ya want to do it?:_

_:I trust your judgment, Jazz. I'll back up what you decide to do with Paladin. They need to learn to obey their teachers.: _This was said very openly, t'Tamis noted, despite the fact that one of Prime's kids was among the offending group. He couldn't help but think that most leaders he'd known would vigorously defend their child. The children of the elite would never be publicly punished.

The comm went silent. From their vantage point on the hill, t'Tamis watched as Jazz walked back to the kids. An encrypted transmission then passed between the adult mechs, Wheelie, and likely Lennox, who touched his ear in response to something he heard over the earpiece he was wearing. He nodded at Wheeljack.

"Can we play another round? Please?" Paladin begged.

"We don't want to play with you," Wheeljack announced.

Wheelie agreed, "You guys are mean."

"Why would we want t' play with brats who have no honor?" Jazz put in. "Sore losers suck."

"We're going home," Lennox stated, sturdil.

Gallego glanced between the others, then, obviously playing along, said, "Uh, nope. Not going to play."

"But, but, it'll be _fun _now. It's better!" Paladin stamped a foot. "We can win with Ranger gone. That's more fair!"

"Sorry, hand over the weapons." 'Jack held his hand out.

"No!" She balled her fists and glared up at him.

Wheeljack calmly reached down, picked her up, tucked her under one arm, and expertly unclamped the paintball gun from her arm. He dropped her back to the ground with matter of fact nonchalance and said, "We won't be playing this game until you can tell me how to include Ranger and _still _make it fair, _and _you all apologize to him."

"I'm not going to apologize. I was _right_. It wasn't fair." Paladin had a stubborn note in her voice.

"Can we still play?" Pulsar handed his gun over more willingly. He exchanged glances with Array. "We'll apologize to Ranger. We just want to play paintball."

"Yeah," Scanner agreed. "We just want to play."

"Better talk to Paladin, then, and get her to apologize." Wheeljack crouched down. "You four were a team. The team screwed up. I think every member of the team needs to apologize to him."

"Then Jazz should be punished with us. He was on our team too!" Paladin protested.

Jazz shrugged, "Okay. Ah won't play paintball until ya'll apologize to Ranger. I'll apologize too, Ah think ah owe him one anyway."

"I'm _never _apologizing." Paladin crossed her arms defiantly. "It's not fair! He's smarter than I am an' everyone treats him special an' they talk about 'im like he's important an' nobody looks at me like they look at him! It's not fair! It's not! What did he do to be so special?"

Jazz bent down and looked her in the optics. "Life's not fair. You can spend your whole life worrying about what other people have, or you can enjoy what _you _have. We were having fun until _you _four ruined it."

"We couldn't beat him," she insisted.

"So? Who said the goal was winning? Ah just wanted to get him in the optics with some paint. That would have been funny." Jazz held his own weapon up. "Wouldn't his reaction to being shot have been hilarious? And he would have laughed too. Doesn't matter who won. The fun part was just playin' the game. But t' make it fair we could've adjusted t' number of people. Ya know, ah was going to ask Wheelie and Gallego to switch sides, an' we would have been seven against three. Much more even, and despite Ranger, we would have had a good chance. _That _would have been fair. Instead ya threw a screaming temper tantrum, ya hurt Ranger's feelings, and now ya don' get to play at _all._"

"But it wasn't fair!"

Jazz stood up. "Someday, you're going to develop that sense of justice in appropriate directions," he muttered, just barely loud enough for t'Tamis's auditory sensors to pick up from fifty yards away. The sparkling could certainly hear it, though. "Until then, you're going to be a pain in the aft."

"Hey, don't be mean!" She sounded wounded.

Jazz said, very firmly, "You are also being mean. Do you like how it feels?"

"No."

"Ya were mean to your brother."

"But that's ..."

"_Not _different."

"But I don't want to play with him! I don't like him! He's smarter than I am!"

"So apologize!"

"No!"

Bluestreak chuckled very softly. _:She's a stubborn one,: _he said, to t'Tamis. _:Jazz won't let any of those four play again until they all apologize to Ranger. He means it.:_

_:That's not fair to the other kids.:_

_:Group punishments are highly effective,: _Bluestreak said, ruefully, _:if you want the group to have collectively good behavior. She'll learn plenty from their reaction when she refuses to apologize and they get mad at her. That one's got a selfish streak a mile wide, and we're working to counteract it really early. She's got to learn to think of everyone else, and if it takes making everyone else mad at her, so be it.:_

_:Kinda unfair to the other kids.:_

_:Not really. They'll learn something from this too.:_

_:What, that one person can spoil it for everyone?:_

_:Not a bad lesson to learn, if you think about it. Nebulos was destroyed by a handful of very selfish, stubborn, angry people, and nobody around them had the guts to stop them.: _Bluestreak's tone turned soft and thoughtful with these words.

t'Tamis didn't have a response to that at all.

* * *

Ranger peeled through the hangar doorway at a high rate of speed, transformed so fast he nearly wiped out, and launched himself headfirst into Optimus's arms. He was keening wordlessly, distraught beyond measure.

Optimus pulsed a radio signal at the hangar doors to close them; they'd attached a remote to the mechanism a few days earlier that was hack-resistant. Once they were closed, and he was alone, he sat down on the flatbed trailer and pulled the crying Ranger into his lap. Gone was the dignified, reserved sparkling who seemed far more like an adult than a child. Ranger's distress was overwhelming, and it made Optimus almost keen in response.

He had known this day would come, though he had hoped Ranger would have more time to be innocent.

"Shh," he wrapped his arms around his child, and rested his chin on the sparkling's head. "I know, I know, they were awful."

"Paladin hates me!" Ranger whimpered. "She hates me!"

"Right now, she probably does." Optimus stroked his back below his doorwings, feeling the tension in the sparkling's body. "Do you understand why?"

"She ..." Ranger fell silent, likely trying to figure it out. "I kept beating her. I was having fun. I was good at the game. I was really good. I like Jazz, and Jazz said I was doing really good. We kept beating them, even though we had two humans on our team. But she didn't like it that she couldn't win. It upset her."

"That is true," Optimus pressed Ranger's head to his chest. "Do you understand why that upset her?"

"Because ... because she _can't _be smarter than I am. I am more intelligent. It's just the way I am."

"Very true." He wasn't going to deny that to either sparkling. Ranger was Ranger. Even had their processors been equal, he would have used his far more efficiently. "You are more intelligent."

"I think ... I think she's jealous?"

"I think so too."

He thought about that for a moment, then said miserably, "I wish I wasn't like this. It's no fun."

"And why is that?"

He started keening again. "It's no fun, it's no fun. The others have fun doing stuff, but I see the answer, I see how it works, I only want to do things once or twice, and then I understand. Paladin can put a puzzle together a dozen times and it's fun for her each time. I look at the pieces, I see how they all fit, and what's the point in even assembling it because I know what it will look like, I can see it, it's _boring_. I want to be like the others, I don't want to be like this, I don't ..."

Optimus cut him off with his name, sharply spoken, because he was starting to wail his words hysterically, "Ranger!"

The sparkling stopped, but he kept whimpering.

"Thank you. If the puzzles and projects and work we give you is too easy, just ask for harder things. We will be happy to help you stretch your abilities."

"But that'll make Paladin jealous!"

Optimus slid Ranger off his lap gently, letting the sparkling land on his feet before him. Ranger gave him a confused look, then wrapped his arms around his chest and looked down. Optimus said quietly, "Ranger, look at me."

Blue optics shone up at him, full of grief and pain.

"You are different than the others. You are not _better _than they are, but you are different. One thing you are already good at is insight into what others are thinking. What can you do to make Paladin less jealous?"

Ranger hesitated, looking away again. "I don't want them to hate me."

"Mmmhmm. What can you do to avoid that?"

"Make sure things are fair when we play." Ranger rubbed his face with both hands. "It would be more fun for me if they had more of a chance of beating me at games, anyway."

"That's right," Optimus said, realizing Ranger was correctly using the definition of 'fair'. Sparklings had a tendency to define fair as 'that which lets me win' and he meant, 'that which is evenly balanced.'

"I was having fun." Ranger sounded troubled by the realization that things had not been equal as he continued, "I was having fun because I kept winning. It's fun to win. But they weren't having fun. They kept losing. I knew I could win each time, because we had the tactical superiority. Everyone on my team could shoot better than they did, and they followed directions better. Paladin was trying to lead her team, and only Jazz was following her orders. The others weren't listening. I knew that, and I factored it in, and it helped me win."

"And?" Optimus said, encouragingly.

"It would have been even _more _fun for me if we were more evenly matched." He nodded firmly. "I should have suggested we shuffle the teams around so that it was more _even_."

"That's a very good idea." Optimus patted the surface of the flatbed trailer next to him. Ranger hitched himself up, and Optimus put an arm around his shoulder. "Did you learn something?"

"I did." He leaned against Optimus, optics shuttering closed. "I don't want them to hate me. I just want to be their friend."

At that moment, Jazz pinged the door from outside, causing it to slide open. Paladin walked in, saw Ranger, and stared at him. Optimus nudged Ranger until he opened his optics and noticed her.

"P-Paladin." He straightened up. "I'm ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. When we play next time we can ..."

"I'm never going to play with you. I hate you. I wish you didn't _exist_." She stomped off across the hanger to sit behind the steps where neither of them could see her.

Ranger rose, face aghast. He spoke loudly, "I'm sorry I upset you so much!"

"I hate you!"

Optimus just watched, wondering what Ranger was going to do. His sparkling gave him a worried look, then walked across the room towards his sister. Optimus followed, but kept his distance. Ranger was vanishingly unlikely to hurt her. He'd yet to show any sort of aggressive tendencies.

She was curled up in a ball on the floor. He knelt beside her and said, "I don't want you to hate me."

"Well, I do."

Ranger looked at Optimus. Optimus would later decide that Ranger's thought process was that, 'When people hold me I feel better, therefore, I'll hold her.' He could see that Ranger was thinking something through, head tilted to one side, and then Ranger simply reached out, scooped Paladin up, sat down, and wrapped her up in his arms in his lap.

She objected with words but not a physical struggle, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"I don't want you to hate me," he whispered, rocking back and forth and holding her tight.

"I hate you!"

"I want you to like me." He wouldn't let go. He was keening softly even as he spoked, a multi-toned note of distress rising around his words. "I want you to like me. You're my sister. I like _you_. I do. I want you to like me. Tell me what I can to do make you like me. Please. I'll do anything. Just don't hate me."

Optimus said softly, "Paladin, you really upset him, and he loves you."

"I hate you!"

_I know you have empathy in their somewhere, kiddo. I sensed it. _Optimus was about ready to pull them apart, because he was worried about the dynamic that was developing -- it had a chance to become abusive -- when Paladin just started whimpering, "I want to be smart! I want to be smart like you! It's not fair! It's not fair! I want to be _like _you!"

"I want to be like _you_," Ranger countered.

"But ..."

"If I was like you, you wouldn't hate me," he pointed out.

"I don't hate you," she said, softly, finally. "Ranger, don't cry. I don't hate you."

"Thank you," he whispered.

Optimus relaxed. His sparklings were going to be okay.

_:Optimus, the others want to come in. Is that okay?:_

_:Yes please. Let them in.: _He sent a video of Ranger's behavior to Jazz.

_:You realize that Prowl's mentor always told him he was better than the others and to _ignore _them if they were mean to him.: _Jazz sounded very pleased. _:He had no friends as a sparkling whatsoever, save his tutors, and that's not the same as peers.:_

_:He's far more kindsparked than he needs to be.: _Optimus sounded very pleased. _:In his tracks, I would not have apologized to Paladin. I would have offered to make changes in future games, but I would not have apologized. He did not do anything wrong, given that you and Wheeljack divided the teams up.:_

_:Mm. People always underestimated Prowl's empathy too. He didn't always show it -- he couldn't -- but ya should have heard how worked up he'd get in private. He'd vent at me sometimes, because he couldn't vent at anyone else.:_

_:I did not know that.:_

Pulsar, towing his sister by the hand, approached Prime's children. Ranger looked up and then tentatively smiled at the other sparklings. Scanner offered a quick, easy apology. 'Jack's twins traded a look, then Pulsar said, "I'm sorry. Array's sorry."

_:Think I should make Array apologize personally?: _Jazz hesitated. Normally, he wouldn't let anyone make a second-hand apology, but 'Jack had said Array only spoke to her twin and that he suspected they were communicating over a quantum level bond.  
_  
:No.: _Optimus shook his head. _:It won't do any good to force her.:_

Ranger seemed to accept the apology, however, as coming from both of them. He smiled in acceptance, and murmured, "Thank you. Next time, we will make it all even."

Scanner said lazily, "That means you against _all _of us."

Ranger snickered, "_And _the adults. I'd like a challenge, thank you."

_:Was that just humor from Scanner?: _Jazz blinked. Unsurprisingly, Ranger had figured out how to joke with others quickly, but it took most sparklings a lot longer.  
_  
:Yes, I believe it was.:_

Jazz zipped a video of the exchange over to First Aid. _:'Aid, m'friend, your little boy's hittin' his milestones real early.:_

_:He's very intelligent.: _First Aid replied, pleased but obviously unsurprised. _:And Jazz, welcome back. It is _so _good to hear you on the comms. I never thought I'd do so again.:_

Paladin, in Ranger's lap, had actually slipped into a light recharge. Sparklings cycled down quickly and seemingly randomly, particularly when they had a lot of data to process. Jazz said to the rest, "You guys take a nap, now. Set your recharge to defrag. Your mentors'll be by later to pick ya up in a few hours."

Only Ranger looked like he was going to protest. The others settled down around him, tired enough to obey without complaint. However, much to Jazz's shock, Ranger said over the comms, in a tone of complaint, _:But I am not ready to recharge.:_

Prime's eyes widened. _:You are not supposed to have access to your comm circuits yet.:_

Ranger grinned and ducked his head. _:Unlocking them was a fun challenge.:_

_:I imagine it was. How long have you been able to hear us?: _Optimus asked, probably worried that Ranger might have heard things he shouldn't have. His tone was neutral. Jazz was very glad they'd been using a high degree of encryption to discuss Prowl, though he didn't think that encryption would slow Ranger down for long.

_:I just figured it out a few minutes ago. I wrote a subroutine to work on the problem this morning. It came back with a solution just now. Was I wrong to do that?:_

Optimus rubbed the bridge of his nose. _:Stay off the internet. Don't crack any encrypted chatter between other mechs because that's very rude. Don't annoy anyone. Don't talk to the Decepticons, and don't talk to any humans talking on the radio who you don't personally know. Do not use frequencies which will interfere with human broadcast channels. You will find a readme text attached to your comm drivers listing acceptable radio channels for our communication purposes.:_

_:Yes sir.:_

_:And don't teach the others how to access their comms. They're not ready. Also, if you abuse the privilege, I will _personally _remove the circuits themselves until I feel I can trust you.:_

Ranger's blue eyes were very wide. _:I won't do anything to disappoint you.:_

_:I know,: _Optimus softened. _:It was very clever of you to figure that out, particularly by writing code to solve the problem while you focused on other activities.:_

Jazz asked, _:So, do you have anything else you're trying to do with that big processor of yours? Universe-destroying algorithms? The meaning of life? Schematics for a space bridge to another dimension, maybe?:_

_:I believe the proper answer to the meaning of life is '42' though I have yet to determine the reason why,: _Ranger replied thoughtfully, _:I'm currently devoting considerable processor power to trying to figure out how Optimus knew I would _need _this big processor before I came online for the first time, but the only answer I'm finding I am not sure I like.:_

Uh-oh. Jazz exchanged a look with Optimus. Optimus's optics widened, then grew very sad. Jazz sometimes believed that Optimus could give entire speeches just with the emotions he displayed with his optics, without ever saying a word.

_:My protoform isn't like any of the ones in the SOA, either, but it's very similar to Jazz's and Bee's on a structural level.: _Ranger told them, voice growing firmer. _:Jazz thought I was somebody else. I have weapons mounts, but they're retrofitted to my frame. However, the retrofit was done a very long time ago. My nanytes advise me that there are some very old stress fractures in the metal. These weapons mounts have seen some use, haven't they?:_

_:Yes, Ranger, they have.: _Optimus sounded so very sad. Jazz understood; Ranger would have yet one more difference to set up apart from the others.

_:And this protoform has seen damage. I have many welds, many repairs. Some appear to have been very serious injuries. Yet the age my spark chamber reports when I ping it for stats is identical to that of my frame. My processor is newer, and yet my memory core has a manufacturing date four million years in the past. I figured out how to get all of this information from my autonomic systems. I am left with more questions than I have answers.:_

_:I will answer your questions, Ranger. There is no secret.: _Optimus's words were reassuring. _:We simply were waiting for the right time to tell you.: _

_:I'm not a new sparkling, am I?: _He untangled himself from Paladin's grasp, and stood up. She didn't wake. Slowly, he approached them, until he stood a few feet from Optimus. He stared up at Optimus without a word. Optimus finally lifted a hand up and rested it on Ranger's shoulder. Ranger said, "Who ... who am I?"

"You are Ranger." Optimus's response was very firm, very clear.

Ranger lowered his optics. "Who was I before? Who was Prowl? That is what you called me, wasn't it, Jazz?"

He nodded, unable to make his vocalizer work because of the emotions that suddenly overwhelmed his circuits.

"Jazz, will you watch the sparklings?" Optimus nodded at the other children, who were in varying stages of cycling down to recharge.

"Yeah. Yeah, ah will." He found his voice.

"Come with me, Ranger." Optimus guided him towards the door with a hand on his back. "And I'll tell you about Prowl."


	71. Chapter 71

Chapter 71

* * *

"Prowl," Ranger said, as if he was tasting the name.

It was the second time in one day that Optimus had brought someone to the river for a private conversation. This was a talk he had wanted to put off much longer. He wasn't sure that he was doing the right thing, but he did know that hiding the truth from Ranger was the wrong choice. Ranger was too smart, too good at deductive reasoning, to accept anything but the complete and unvarnished truth.

"His name was Prowl," Optimus repeated, having just told Ranger that he was a reformat. Ranger had reacted with the amount of drama that Optimus had expected, which was to say none at all. "Prowl was special, Ranger, to my inner circle of officers. We lost him in a battle a long time ago."

"Who were we fighting?" Ranger asked, sounding confused, more than anything else. The sparklings didn't know about the war, or anything of their history. That knowledge would come later, but he wanted them to feel safe and secure while they imprinted.

Ranger's imprinting was fouled to the Pit and back, Optimus suspected. He saw the edges of suspicion in the young mech, and cautious regard. Ranger wasn't paranoid, by any means, but he was well aware that things could hurt him and that the world wasn't necessarily always a good place. Perhaps that was for the best, because of the times they lived in, but Optimus wished he could have preserved that precious sparkling innocence for far longer.

Optimus had settled down on the ground, and now he patted the dirt beside him. Ranger down somewhat carefully, and Optimus put an arm around is shoulders in a gesture of comfort and connection. _You are my child, _he tried to tell him with a protective, affectionate touch. Only when his sparkling -- and he was resolute in considering this odd, too-perceptive, too-mature child _his _sparkling -- was relaxing in the security he offered did Optimus say, "The Decepticons."

"I like Fangface. They were our enemies?"

"Fangface can be very charming when he wants to be." Optimus thought that Ranger probably did have the ability to understand the complexity of their relationship with Fang, but that could wait until later. He didn't want to get off track. "I will prepare an educational file for you with all the relevant details, but the simple explanation for now is that we have been at war with the Decepticons for a very long time, and we are not trying to end it. The other sparklings are, in fact, newly activated. They, and all the sparklings in the SOA are something we and the Decepticons agree upon."

Ranger was still against Optimus's side. The sun was getting low, and something ticked faintly in Ranger's body. He had been running his engines hard earlier and his body was cooling off now.

He continued a very abbreviated version of his story, "Prowl ... was taken by the Decepticons. He was infected by a virus that destroyed a substantial portion of his memories. What is left is not enough to restore anything resembling the Prowl we knew. Yet Prowl's spark was still strong in his chassis. We faced a choice. We could leave him insane from the virus, we could let him die, or we could start over and create a new person. You are that entirely new person, my child, but you have Prowl's spark."

Ranger considered that for a moment. "What did he do?"

"He was my second in command. He was a valuable officer of this army, a brilliant tactician and someone with keen insight into the behavior of others, both Autobot and Decepticon. We relied on him a great deal for many things." Optimus stroked Ranger's arm. "He was also my personal friend from a time well before the war."

"Did you adopt me hoping I would be like him?"

That question was hard for Optimus to answer. He took his time thinking about it, and Ranger patiently waited. "I was unsure how much you would be like Prowl, Ranger. As it turns out, you are a great deal like him, in many important ways, but we did not know how much of Prowl's nature was a spark gift and how much was his upbringing and early environment. I adopted you because I felt I could treat you as a unique individual, as your own person, regardless of how much or how little you resembled Prowl."

"Why did you want me?" Ranger asked, voice almost inaudible.

Optimus's fingers kept a steady rythym stroking the sparkling's shoulder. "You are a child, Ranger, and I truly love children."

"But I am also Prowl."

"No." Optimus's hand stilled. "You are your own person, Ranger, unique, special, and very much loved by me. I will never make the mistake of confusing you with him, though I warn you some may. As Jazz demonstrated, you have a strong superficial resemblance to him due to the way that you stand."

"The way ... I stand?"

Optimus made a sweeping gesture with his free hand and cast a holomatter image of Prowl for Ranger to see. Ranger was with several others; Ratchet, Jazz, Bee, Ultra Magnus, and Elita would probably be recognizable to his youngling. The rest were talking, moving with animated enthusiasm. Music played, and Bee and Jazz were both bobbing their heads to it. Elita was talking with her hands at Magnus, who was grinning. And then there was Prowl, standing still and dignified, his doorwings swept up high and his face a mask of polite attention. He stood out from the others; he was effectively a soldier standing at parade rest in the middle of a party.

"I see."

"We modified your appearance, but the resemblance is strong enough, and there are so few of us. You will be recognized."

"I can change ..." Ranger's words were very hesitant.

"No." Optimus spoke very firmly. Personally, he didn't think that Ranger would be successful at changing his body language, given the number of times Jazz had tried to coach him into assuming a stance that would stand out less in public. Prowl trying in a good-faith effort to move like Jazz or Bee had resulted in much hilarity from the troops because it had looked so fake. However, at a more basic level, he didn't want Ranger to think there was anything wrong with who he was. "Do not change yourself simply because you do not want to be like him. There is nothing wrong with resembling Prowl, there is nothing wrong with following some of the same paths in life he did."

The child leaned against Optimus for a moment, and Optimus considered what else he needed to tell him. He felt he should tell him about the memories; Ranger might as well know now. He was too young and inexperienced to decide what to do with them, but Optimus suspected he would react very badly if he found Optimus was hiding part of the truth.

"Did you adopt me because you felt you owed Prowl?"

_Primus_. That was a huge concept for a young sparkling. Debts of honor should be beyond anything Ranger could understand. Optimus wished Teletraan were here, so he could ask the ship's spark how Windy had behaved as a child.

He answered honestly, "A little. He was my personal friend. If Prowl had been the mentor to a young sparkling before he died, I would have adopted him without hesitation. Adopting you was for similar reasons. I wanted you to have every opportunity I could provide to succeed, and yes, it is true that some of my decision to be your mentor was for very sentimental reasons. However, I never want you to doubt that I love you. You are wonderful, Ranger, and I am very happy that you are mine. Watching you grow up is something I am going to truly enjoy, and you are a light in my life -- I have few enough of those."

Ranger smiled; Optimus saw the expression from an optical sensor on his wrist. He reached up and stroked the child's helm. "You may chose to follow in Prowl's tracks, or you may find a path of your own. Either choice is fine with me. You are free to become who you want in life. You are not bound by who he was."

"I'd like to know about him, though."

Optimus nodded. Here was his opening. "I will answer any questions ypu have, and I can send you some memory files I have of Prowl. I will tell the other Autobots to answer your questions as well. For now, that is what we can offer you. When you are older, however, a percentage of Prowl's memories are intact. They do not have emotional coding overlain, and are only audio and video from primary sensors. If you wish to see them, you may have them when we judge you are ready to assimilate that knowledge."

"I can't see them now?" He sounded disappointed. "I'm curious."

He tightened his one-armed hug on Ranger. "My little one, there are memories there that no child should see. I know you do not understand yet, and might not for a long time, but Prowl had a very hard life and we have lived through a horrendously brutal war. I want you to be secure in who you are before you see his memories of death, grief, and lost love."

"But ..."

Optimus shook his head, "No, Ranger."

"Why? Why can't I see at least some of them?"

"Because, ultimately, I said so." Optimus shook him a little, trying to lighten the mood. "Ranger, I know you believe you have the ability to understand adult concepts but it would be too much all at once. We believe ethically you may view those memories, but you are not ready to see them now." He waited to see if Ranger had any questions and when he said nothing he then added, "In order to determine what you should see we would need to review them. There is a privacy concern there, as while we feel _you _have a right to the data someday, I do not. Please understand that they are Prowl's memories and he was a very private person who very much kept his own counsel. The only person who has seen what those memories contain is Teletraan and he has already locked his own records of compiling the data so that he cannot recall the specifics of the files he processed for you. In order to determine what would be safe for you to see now, one of us would need to view the information in depth."

"If they belong to me, then don't I have a right to give you permission to view them?"

"You are a minor. You're not competant yet to make those sorts of decisions." Optimus didn't particularly like telling him no when he was this persistant, but he also did not want to say 'yes' in any way yet. However, he thought the kid would make a dang fine lawyer someday, and he was somewhat privately pleased by the logic Ranger was showing. He confided, "Also, I do not want to see Prowl's memories. It makes me very uneasy. He would not have liked to share them with us."

"Do you think he'd mind _me _seeing them?"

"I don't know." Optimus shrugged. "He's dead, though, and we discussed it and decided that knowing about him, knowing who _he _was, could someday be important to you to understand who _you _are."

Ranger crossed his arms over his knees and said quietly, "I'll never be like the other kids, will I?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Or most adults. I'm smarter."

A fish rolled at the surface of the water, and he heard the tell-tale click as Ranger polarized his optics so he could watch it swim under the water. After they both observed the aquatic life for a moment, Optimus said, "You are not alone. There are a few who are your equals in intellect among us still. Teletraan, Perceptor, and on the Decepticon side, Deathwheels. You will find Wheeljack and Ratchet highly intelligent as well, though theirs is a different style of data processing than yours. You will find peers."

He knew that Ranger was mulling something over. As usual, Ranger's deduction surprised him. He really needed to stop expecting Ranger to behave like a normal sparkling. Ranger's words were bemused. "I am more intelligent than you are, aren't I?"

"In raw computing power? Yes, you are. I am not unintelligent, Ranger, but you have a far greater intellectual potential. Were I to be equipped with a processor the size of yours most of the circuits would go unused. However, intelligence is only one measure of a mech's worth. My own spark gifts are well suited for leadership. Candidly, a good leader does not have to be the most intelligent mech. A good leader needs to be intelligent _enough _to understand broad concepts, wise enough to hire experts when more depth of knowledge is needed, discerning enough to determine truth from falsehoods, and morally strong enough to make decisions that are right even if they are politically inconvenient."

It was easy to admit Ranger was smarter, but surprisingly harder to discuss his own strengths. He was at his core a humble mech, despite his tendency towards dramatic speeches and love of flashy paint jobs, and he didn't feel like trumpeting his own horn to his own sparkling. He knew he had strengths beyond what he had alluded to, but he decided Ranger was smart enough to figure them out in his own time.

Ranger leaned back against Optimus's supporting arm. After a moment he said, "I found my comm circuits, and my transformation routines. There is something hidden in my processor core, however, and I cannot access it. Do you know what it is?"

"What's the address?" He needed the code's location.

"There isn't one. But there's something odd in my directory tree. It's not obvious -- at first, I thought I had sectors that were damaged because they were too small. They _report _they're the right size, but I tried to put a bunch of video in one ..."

"... why were you storing video in your processor core?" Optimus interjected, confused.

"To see if I could." Ranger grinned.

"Well, you can, but that's not the most efficient way to archive information," Optimus said, shaking his head. Memory cores were designed for the archiving and fast retrieval of vast amounts of data. Processor cores were designed to hold operating system code and to _process _the data.

"I just wanted to see if it would work." Ranger shrugged.

"I could have told you it would work, but I'm willing to bet you discovered it's an incredibly inefficient way to store big chunks of data." He shook his head at sparkling curiosity.

"The size they report, and the size they really are, is different. It's only a few terrabytes per sector but we're talking a few billion sectors." Ranger held his hands out, wide apart, demonstrating the number of sectors was large, which was something that made Optimus blink his optics in surprise, because of the connotations of that. That simple gesture indicated true abstract thought.

What Ranger was getting at was that his directory tree had been rigged to report more free space than was actually there. Someone had very cleverly hidden something behind a partition, in a way that Optimus knew most people honestly would never have thought to check. It was not unusual for the reported size of a sector to be off my a small percentage due to minor hardware glitches, and under normal circumstances would go unnoticed. However, the repeating pattern of size discrepancies clearly indicated something had been tampered with. Optimus straightened up, and let go of Ranger. In a very firm voice he said, "You probably have a hidden partition. Do _not _try to access it. Let me know if anything unusual shows up in your processor core, or if it seems like any of your systems are being tampered with."

"Sir?" Ranger sound like he was scared by Optimus's tone of voice. Optimus had never used his true command tone on his sparkling before. "What is it?"

Optimus hesitated. There were a number of possibilities, ranging from the virus itself lurking in wait to Prowl having partitioned off a copy of his own self. It sounded like a classic special ops partition, the sort that they used to hide the identities and memories deep-cover moles, though he'd never heard of one in the _processor _core.

"Ranger," he said, finally, "you told Jazz that you had tactical modules in your processor core. Where did you find them?"

Ranger frowned. "They were hidden behind a firewall. I got curious."

"Was the firewall there when you first came online?"

"I didn't notice. I didn't find them until I started exploring some unused areas."

"Can you send me some copies of those modules?" Optimus held his hand up. "Wait. Don't transmit those over the comms. We need to do this with a hard line."

Ranger's hesitation was clear; he was getting developed enough in his own psyche not to want to interface with his mentor. Younglings tended to be protective of their privacy. But then he nodded. "You'll probably want to verify what I told you."

"Yes, I do. I may ask Jazz to have a look as well."

"Should ... should I be worried?"

He couldn't lie to his child. Optimus pulled a datalink cable out of subspace and as he did so he said, "I am a little concerned, Ranger, but I promise you that we will get to the bottom of this."

The curt nod that Ranger gave him probably hid a wealth of fear. However, the mind that he touched as he initiated the connection was surprisingly stable for a sparkling. Ranger was grounded, with a sturdy, solid sense of self already developing. He was, indeed, frightened, but for all the right reasons. They didn't know what was in that partition, but Ranger had some fairly realistic guesses as to what it might be that mirrored Optimus's own.

He verified what Ranger had found with his processor, downloaded the tactical modules, thoroughly virus checked them, and then Optimus poked through his processor core a bit more, looking for anything out of place. He found several language modules, one of which was Nebulan, that he knew he had not given Ranger. He downloaded those as well. Despite his fear, Ranger was calm and patient. _:Good job, my child. Most adults would not be as rational as you are.: _

_:Do you think I am ... the way I am ... because of who I was?:_

It was a good question. Optimus could only say, _:In all honest truth, Ranger, I do not know the answer to that question. I had believed you would be a simple reformat, starting over from scratch. Your behavior and your emotional development are far beyond what I would expect of even the most advanced sparkling.:_

Ranger smiled tightly. "Thank you, I think, for a compliment."

Optimus could help but laugh as he closed the connection. Oh, Primus, did he need to laugh. His odd little sparkling's wry sense of humor was as swiftly developing as everything else about him.

Now, though, to look at the files he'd downloaded. Ranger was still plenty young enough to sit with unguarded ease with his back to Optimus's chest, and Optimus put his arms around Ranger while he poked through the files.

The tactical module was ... interesting. To say the least. It bore every hallmark of being Prowl's; the code was efficient, with no wasted lines. However, it had some fairly recent modifiers such as notes on Nebulan physiology ("shoot for the fuel tank") and some Earth-specific combat issues that mechs needed to keep in mind ("watch out for overhead powerlines").

"I can't figure out how to decrypt that little file attached to the readme text that came with it," Ranger said, sounding almost apologetic.

Optimus had already found that file. _He _could read it, but only because he had the cipher for it. It was very, very, very highly encrypted. The original file was gigs in size, due to the level of encryption, but by the time he broke it down it was only a few sentences. That particular code was one that only his inner circle of officers knew.

_"Optimus, he's a good kid. You made the right decision. Thank you. -- Prowl."  
_

* * *

Optimus ignored Ranger's questions about the file. As they walked back to the base, he seriously considered telling no one what he'd found. What would he say? What could they _do_?

One thing was immediately clear to him: Prowl was conscious, aware, and he had enough access to his systems to pass Ranger a few useful routines. That meant that Prowl could take over Ranger's systems if he wanted to, and he hadn't.

_He's a good kid, _Prowl had said. Clearly, he considered Ranger a unique person, not an aspect of himself with bad case of amnesia. Prowl could certainly claim his life back if he wanted. He could erase Ranger totally, or merge them together. He could make himself known to Ranger, too, and he hadn't said hello yet.

He needed to tell a few people, but he decided to keep this under very tight wraps. Ratchet had to know, and Jazz should, and he could not keep this from Elita. No others. He did not want Ranger to be aware but suspected keeping this secret from him would be both cruel and impossible. The rest of the team, for now, needed to be kept in the dark for Ranger's sake, and perhaps for theirs, as well.

Ranger was quiet as he walked at Optimus's side, but his optics were alert and he watched everything. A coyote trotted across their path, and he stared after it long after it had disappeared into the desert brush. A jackrabbit got similar scrutiny. Epps, out for a morning jog, earned a cheerful, "Hello, sir!" from his sparkling as they passed on the road.

Ranger heard Sunstreaker approaching before Optimus did. He looked up, giving far keener attention to the sound of an approaching mech than he had to the wildlife or the humans.

"Prime!" Sunstreaker called, zooming towards them. Optimus was proud of his ability to hide his cringe. Sunstreaker was not someone he wanted to speak to, right now. "Got a second?"

"Is it important?" Optimus asked, politely.

"Yeah."

Optimus turned his attention to Ranger briefly, "Kiddo, are you ready for a recharge period?"

"I'm not tired."

And _that _was a test of wills that Optimus wasn't about to start. He'd never been able to get Prowl to recharge regularly either. Something about very highly intelligent mechs made them resistant to regular recharge cycles, as he knew quite well from his own personal experience. As Ranger had observed, Ranger was smarter, but Optimus was far more intelligent than the average. It was sometimes difficult to shut his processor down because of all of the _thoughts _in it. Ranger would power down eventually, and trying to force him to do so before that point would simply frustrate both of them.

"Go find someone to, ah, chill with and hang out with." Optimus reached a hand out to caress Ranger's helm briefly. The slang felt strange to use. Sometimes he tried to use slang for effect, and he was trying to be casual here. Trying to sound 'cool' was probably a habit he should break. It never did work right for him.

"Optimus?" Ranger said, uncertainly, and fortunately for Optimus's dignity he didn't seem to notice that Optimus was a little self-conscious about the informal words he'd tried to use. "Who do you want me to stay with?"

Until this point, he had given Ranger very clear and unambiguous directions. Sparklings needed to be closely supervised, usually for months or years, before they could be trusted to stay out of trouble. However, there was nobody among the Autobots who would deliberately hurt Ranger, and the child he had touched was not one that would cause mischief or get himself into physical danger.

"I will let you chose who you stay with. I do not want you to be _alone_, Ranger, not because I believe you need supervision but because I would like you to get to know the rest of the team. The only thing I would tell you is that I do not want you to leave the base, I wish for you to stay within the boundaries of the Autobot Operational Area or the sparkling area, do not speak to the Decepticons, and do not interact with humans we haven't cleared for you other than polite greetings. You may speak to Sam and Mikaela freely if you chose."

His sparkling smiled. Optimus smiled back. Prowl had been very prone to isolating himself, and if not for Jazz's persistance, likely would never have left his office except for battle.

Sunstreaker said incredulously, "You're letting the brat off his leash?"

"_Sunstreaker!_" Optimus's objection came swiftly and stern. "Ranger has yet to show any tendencies towards significant misbehavior."

"He's five days old!"

"And he is less likely to get into trouble than _you _are, Sunstreaker." Optimus glowered down at the frontliner. "Should I keep you on a leash too?"

_:He'd probably like it.: _Jazz commented on an encrypted channel to Optimus. Jazz was at least a quarter mile away, but his sensors were keen, and apparently Optimus's words had carried in the dry, cooling evening air.

Optimus, barely, managed to keep a straight face. _:Jazz, be quiet.:_

:Ya know ya missed me. Want me to keep an optic on him? Discretely?:

:Which one?: Optimus was well aware that Sunstreaker was watching with impatience as he talked to Jazz. Even Sunny wouldn't be rude enough -- or daring enough -- to crack the encrypted comments, and if he did, he deserved to hear Optimus's annoyed opinions.

_:Ranger. Ah'm already keeping my sensors on Sunny and that's on his brother's request. Sides says he wants a sparkling, and Ratchet's already told him no, an' told him _why_, and Sunny knows he's the only mech on the base not cleared for it. Sideswipe is getting his kids tomorrow. I expect Sunstreaker's completely fragged off about t' whole thing.:  
_  
Apparently, it had taken Jazz all of two nanoclicks to jump right back into the his old role of unofficial morale officer. Part of what made him so good at that informal, but very much appreciated and acknowledged, role was that he took a personal interest in the team's mechs and knew all of them, and their personal strengths, quirks, and weaknesses. Then he took action as necessary.

Optimus said, _:If you want to see what Ranger does on his own, feel free. I expect he will find something either productive or educational to do. He is very unlikely to get in trouble. At worst, he may annoy someone with questions, but he seems to have his social skills well in hand.: _

Then Optimus spoke aloud to Ranger, who was politely waiting, "Go on, Ranger. I'll see you in three hours in the main hangar."

His child nodded, transformed, and drove at a polite but swift clip towards the buildings in the distance.

To Jazz, he speculated, _:As far as Sunstreaker and children, I imagine that's why he's here. I'll reiterate the decision. I don't expect him to like it, but he categorically doesn't have what it takes to be a mentor.:_

Jazz snorted, _:Might finally motivate him to let Ratch and 'Lita look at his processor core and code to see what his specific glitch is.:_

:I doubt it. One of the issues we've always had with him is his refusal to acknowledge anything is wrong.: Optimus turned his attention to Sunstreaker, "Sunny, thank you for waiting. I needed to talk to Jazz briefly."

Sunstreaker's optics lit in annoyance. "He probably told you I want a sparkling."

"And you are not cleared for it." Optimus started walking for the base.

"Ratchet _hates _me. It's not fair. He always says I'm glitched, and that's just because he medically 'faced with me _once _and I was in a bad place. I'm better now. I can _do _this, Optimus. Everyone else is getting a sparkling. Why am I being cut out?"

Optimus reflected that Sunstreaker was using the term, "It's not _fair_!" in the same way the sparklings did: something that wasn't to Sunstreaker's advantage. "Sunstreaker, the decision is final. Based on your current psych profile you would not be a good mentor."

"Frag that!" Sunstreaker exploded, throwing his hands in the air. He skated around in front of Optimus and then rolled backwards down the dirt road. "You won't even give me a chance. That's not fair! You have to let me prove myself."

He met Sunny's glare with a frown of his own. "Drop it, Sunstreaker. That's an order."

"This isn't fair!" Angry blue optics met Optimus's eyes. Sunny jerked his chin upwards, then skated off with harsh, jerky movements.

_:Owe. Bit harsh.:_

:There isn't a thing I can say to him that would make him understand, Jazz. It's that lack of insight that makes it a very bad idea for him to work with sparklings.:

:Yes. I noticed his schedule keeps him on patrol and away from to sparklings during the day.:

:I'm concerned about him overreacting to sparkling silliness. Hypothetically speaking, how do you think Sunstreaker would react if the little brats, ah, took a vote and asked him to leave the island, as they did Ranger earlier?:

:Prime, don't bother with t' slang. You're never going to be good at it.: Jazz snorted. _:And ah see your point an' I'll raise ya an observation that letting Sunny around Sideswipe's children may be a bad idea. Ah'm rememberin' the number of times he's dented his teammates over teasin'. There will be no practical way to keep him away from Sideswipe's scraplets if they're on the same base, given they're plannin' on roomin' together once we get proper apartments built.:_

:You have a suggestion?:

:Gimme a sec. I don't especially want to discuss this over the radio.: Jazz had been walking towards Optimus, and he waited until he was a few feet away before saying in a low tone that wouldn't carry, "Side's is growin' up. Ah hadn't seen him in a couple thousand years before ah kicked it. He's still a complete arrogant aft when the mood suits him, but he can turn it _off_. Ah was talking to 'im a bit earlier and he sounded all adult-like. Ah'm thinkin' the best place for me right now, strategically speakin', would be in DC. We do need a formal Autobot Lobby something fierce, an' ah'd like to take Sideswipe with me."

That would reduce the number of mechs available to defend the sparklings, but not by much. Jazz had done this precise thing before on other worlds. His ability to charm anyone or anything was a formidable weapon when it was turned to political wrangling. Having the solid support of Earth's government was as tactically important as a strong military defense.

He had planned to send Bee to Washington eventually in this sort of capacity, but now he needed Bumblebee more in his primary role of spy. They could repeat the spark-splitting procedure with another mech, but Optimus also knew that Jazz had a remarkable ability to charm all on his own. Now that they had the Power of Jazz on their side, a humanoid and human-appealing representative was less necessary.

It didn't take Optimus more than a couple of nanoclicks to nod assent. "If you think you're up to it."

"Feh, I've had two years' recharge. Ah'm more than ready."

Optimus smiled, despite his relatively grim mood. He was reasonably sure that there wasn't a thing in the universe, including apparently death itself, that could keep Jazz down for long. "In that case, I expect you'll putting in some very long hours for us."

"Don't'cha know it."

"Who do you want besides Sideswipe?" They walked together, side by side, Optimus shortening his stride to match Jazz's smaller stature. He added quickly, "I haven't given you all of our mission plans yet. Bee is going to Nebulos in three weeks' time, and has a three-day speaking engagement in two weeks. Perceptor, Mirage, Steeljaw, Beachcomber, and Brawn will be coming back with the Ark and staying here. Cosmos and his crew will be going to Nieryl Six to reinforce the troops there. We expect Cosmos to come out of subspace in the next week or so, about the same time as the Ark arrives."

Jazz considered Optimus's words. "If we're friendly with the 'cons right now, we might ask Fang to send a couple heavy-hitters to Nieryl Six too. It'd put a spanner in the works if the Nebulans hit that moon."

"Fang said he was going to send the Predaking team as soon as some of his reinforcements get here."

Jazz slid two fingers up under his visor and rubbed his faceplate. "Which conveniently gets them out of his hair. There's never been any love lost between Fang and other predacons, not necessarily because of anything he's done. He's just the latest model, an' he's smarter than his processor ought to allow for, and it makes them feel threatened. How strong is his power base, really?"

Optimus had worked with Jazz for so long that he knew instinctively that was a related question to Jazz's earlier mention of an Autobot Lobby. He discussed what they knew of Fang's current power structure, including a few of his personal opinions not in the reports.

After he'd outlined the basics, Jazz said thoughtfully, "Hnh. Ah know of Aquaregia by reputation." Jazz slowed, buying them a little more time. They were almost close enough to the base to need to guard their words more, no matter how low they spoke. "'E's a good mech, for all he chose t' wrong side. Now Astrotrain, on the other hand, is a gloriously evil bastard and that's the reason why Starcatcher was always assigned to the Nemesis."

"... Starcatcher?"

"Little medic. Not particularly important, except to Astrotrain." Jazz smiled, his expression wolfish. "If you follow my meaning."

Optimus shook his head. Jazz's mind was full of some of the most esoteric data possible on their enemies. "Fang's ordered his side to bring him to Ratch if he gets hurt, so as long as we're on good terms, he won't have to rely on Starcatcher."

"Yah, that's a good thing. Can't say as I'm all that happy with Astrotrain here, but Strika's always been able to keep him in hand, so he'll probably behave." Jazz shoved his visor up and peered at Optimus for a second before letting it slid back in place. "I want tickets t' the fight if Fang and Astrotrain ever get into it."

Optimus couldn't help the slight smile that touched his lipplates, despite the fact that he wasn't in a mood to be amused. "So who do you want for your team?"

"From our side? Sideswipe and someone short enough to fit through human doorways, and with some charisma. Doc could probably work out of DC as well or better than he can here, and I just need someone who can go inside human buildings so we don't have to meet with the politicians in the parking lot." Jazz considered for a moment. "And a 'con to represent their interests, to keep Fang happy -- of the mechs on the Nemesis right now, I'd say Swindle's the best choice."

"Swindle?" Optimus said, incredulously.

Jazz's grin was lazily amused. "Would you rather he stay here where I can't keep an eye on him? Besides, you've got to admit he knows how to negotiate."

Optimus snorted. However, he simply said, "I'd like you to take Wheelie and, when he returns, Manywinds. I was going to have Windy work with Sideswipe on the Ark, but decided to have Sides remain here to defend the sparklings. Windy and Wheelie both would benefit from some combat training from you and Sideswipe. Both of them have a strong desire to please and get along well with humans, and Windy is a xenoscientist."

Jazz's grin grew sharper. "Ah, Prime, I am enjoying this. For the first time in a very long time, we're trying to build rather than destroy. Build a new home, a new life, build peace."

Optimus hated to ruin Jazz's cheer, but they had a more pressing issue to discuss. "Jazz, would you assemble the Primes and Wheeljack at the med bay hangar this evening at ten PM? Ask Wheeljack to expedite finishing the privacy shield I asked him to build. That should give him sufficient time."

"Ah take it this meeting's not to be discussed over the 'comms? An' it's important enough to frag Ratchet off since I'm still officially on medical leave?"

"No, it's not, and yes it is." Optimus thought Ratchet would be plenty upset, but not at Jazz.

"Care t' tell me in advance what it's about?" Jazz's question was worried. As 2IC, he needed to know about trouble as soon as possible.

"I'd rather discuss this once everyone's together. It is not a threat, however, just a problem. We made a mistake and I'm not sure there _is _any good way to correct it." They were getting close to the base, and Jazz fell silent, knowing they were coming within audio range.

Optimus was just as glad not to have to explain things further just yet. Prowl had said he had made the right decision, but if that was the case, why did he feel so sick?

After Jazz trotted off in the direction of the SOA, Optimus stood for a long moment looking after him. He had no idea what they were going to do about Prowl ... or that Jazz was gone the pain returned with swift surety.

_He is my child._

And one of my dearest friends.

It hurt. _Pit _it hurt.

He shuttered his optics. He couldn't get the image of Ranger's innocently smiling face out of his mind. _He's a good kid, _Prowl had said. Optimus had to agree with that, and it broke his heart to realize that good kid existed only because they had made a terrible mistake.


	72. Chapter 72

Chapter 72

Author's notes: I promise there's happiness to come.

* * *

Prism tugged at one of the plates of armor that covered Fang's shoulder blades in play. She was doing a very good job at distracting him from his paperwork but he couldn't bring himself to mind. She'd scaled him like a monkey up a tree and had been crawling around on his shoulders and head for the last half hour.

The paperwork was literal paper. The human authorities had decided to issue his mechs diplomatic recognition (though not immunity) and/or work visas, depending on their specific function. He needed to fill out paperwork detailing their functions to get the appropriate visas. He also wanted to be able to have the Constructicons work on projects off the base, either for public relations or for work for hire, and that meant they needed a whole slew of contractor licenses and insurance. It was complicated, lawyers were going to be involved, and he had mountains of actual paper forms to fill out.

Fangface tried to ignore Prism and held a pen between two fingers -- proportionately, the writing instrument was around the size of a toothpick to a human -- and squinted at a palm-sized eight-by-ten sheet of paper. Fortunately, manual dexterity _was _one of his strong points, despite his retractable claws.

However, this was a job from the _Pit_. Deathwheels found it physically impossible to do, and had declined Fangface's suggestion that he build a waldo that could hold a pen. Fang didn't trust anyone else with the attention to detail needed, or at least, not anyone who had the hands for it and the time to spare. Really, he needed to scan the paperwork and print out new copies with the data inserted, but that meant obtaining a printer and paper and fiddling with the fragile mechanisms and just filling in the blanks seemed easier.

"Whatcha doin'?" Prism peered over his shoulder.

"Yucky work." He reached up and patted her on the head. She gave him a toothy grin in response.

"Help?" She hopped from his shoulder down on the desk, scattering papers.

"You're worse than a cat. Which I would know about." He picked her up and put her back on his shoulder. "I don't need any help."

"Bored." She got a grip on one of his armor plates and flipped over it to dangle from her hands, then turned herself around scrambled back up to his shoulder. "Puzzle?"

"How about a marker?" He offered her a sheet of scrap paper and a red felt tip pen. Odds are, the ink would end up on his armor, but at least it was easy enough to get off with a little solvent.

Prism inspected the pen for a moment, touching it with her finger and then nibbling on it. "Draw what?"

"I don't know ... oh, here, do this." He pressed the sheet of paper to the Decepticon logo embossed high on his chestplate, and demonstrated how to make a rubbing. Intrigued, she leaned over his shoulder, and balanced precariously with one hand holding the paper in place and the other gripping the pen. It tickled a little, but he managed to ignore that and while she made a rubbing of her own he completed another sheet of work.

Making rubbings of his logo amused her for all of five minutes. Then she was back to using him as a jungle gym. She swung from his elbow, scrambled up and stood on his head, and then dangled from his back plate. "Boooored!"

He flicked the back plate, lifting it away from his body and jostling her. She squeaked in surprise and then demanded, "Do it again!"

The third time he moved that plate of armor she stuck her head beneath it. Fortunately, he was watching her fairly closely because he didn't want to pinch her fingers. He froze. "Kiddo, do you have a death wish?"

"I _fit_!" she announced and scrambled under the plate.

He burst out laughing. "Yes, you do."

She was so small she'd managed to squeeze into the space between his armor and his spinal struts. Prism had to be a little squished, but she seemed delighted by the discovery. He relaxed the servos holding the piece of armor in place at the top, tightened them up at the bottom, and made her a sort of pocket to hide in. He was deeply amused as she stuck her head out a couple of times, looked over the top of the armor plate, then retreated.

"Safe."

"That it is." He considered her discovery for a moment, then said, "If you're scared, or if I say so, jump in there, okay?"

"'Kay." She moved around a bit, tucking her legs and arms in close to her body. "Take nap now."

And just like that, she went into recharge. _Typical sparkling_, he thought, amused. She probably wouldn't be offline more than an hour, but at least it meant he could get some work done.

Behind him, the office door cycled open and Death stepped through it. "Evenin', Death," Fang said, glancing up. "I've got hours of work to do yet."

"You should hire a human to do that," Deathwheels said.

Fangface turned and blinked at him. "We can hire a human?"

"I asked Optimus for the contact information for the temp agency he's using for the sparkling workers." Death put a hand down on Fang's shoulders. "You have more important things to do than reams of paperw ..."

His voice, or perhaps the vibration of his hand, woke Prism. She stuck her head out, saw him, and hissed, "BAD!" and then disappeared back under his armor.

"Prism?" Death said, startled, and then he started laughing. "Fang, you have an parasite under your armor. Do you need help removing it?"

"She's fine!" Fang said, a bit irritated by Death's tone of voice. "She's just taking a nap."

"Strange place for her to sleep. She thinking of growing up to be a symbiote?"

Fang growled, "You of all people should understand how very unfunny that is."

Death held his hands up. "Wow, you're in a cranky mood. I was just teasing."

He told himself the paperwork was responsible for his grumpiness, and he must have said something to that effect aloud, because Death replied, "Hire a secretary. Seriously."

From under his armor, Prism said, "Need help?"

"Or train that thing to do it. She's otherwise useless."

Prism stuck her head out and hissed at Death. "Not useless!"

"Yeah?" Death bent over and addressed her, voice full of laughter, "Prove it."

"Bad Death!" Prism said, and ducked down again.

Irritated at Death for reasons he couldn't even explain, Fangface said, "Death, she's two days old."

"Yeah! Child!" Prism, bolstered by Fang's words, popped up -- far enough that Death managed to grab her. She screeched and made a frantic grab for Fang's neckplating even as Death was lifting her high above Fang's head.

"Easy, kiddo," Death tickled her, earning himself a furious screech. "She's a picky little thing, isn't she? Doesn't like anyone but you, it seems. She needs to learn I'm not her enemy."

"That's _not _helping," Fang firmly kept his battle routines in check. He reminded himself Death wouldn't hurt her. "She doesn't like you because you shoved me around the other day. Let me have her, you're not going to make friends by harassing her like that."

He held his hand out expectantly, assuming Death would pass his sparkling back. She was, after all, _his _sparkling.

Death ignored him, and continued to poke at Prism. "She'll get over it. Won't you? Your mentor loves me and I'm not going anywhere, so you're just going to have to get used to me."

Prism promptly bit his finger. As bites went, it wasn't much of one -- she just wasn't capable of doing anyone much damage -- but Fang could see the fear in her optics.

"Slaggit!" He snapped his hand downward, and Prism disappeared. Deathwheels inspected his finger in irritation. "She _bit _me!"

It took Fangface half a second to realize that Deathwheels had just subspaced his child. For one moment, he nearly laughed aloud, because it was just such a classically Decepticon thing to do, and it seemed almost surreal. Death hadn't _really _just done that, had he? Then a sharp memory of the terror on Prism's face struck him, and he let his battle routines activate.

At the click and whir of his cooling fans activating, Death gave Fang a surprised look. Fang narrowed his optics, bared his teeth, and _growled_.

"Slaggit, she's fine!" Death retreated across the room in a frantic scramble. "Fang!"

Fang advanced, not saying a word. He was more furious than he ever remembered being in his life. Death, startled, exclaimed, "Slaggit, Fangface, she's fine! I didn't want to drop her!"

Death tried to retrieve her. His expression went from shocked and disbelieving to frankly terrified, and Fang _rejoiced _in that terror until Death's words registered, "She's stuck! Fang, she's stuck, I can't get her out! Stop, Fang, stop ..."  
_  
**"What**_**?_!"_**

Death finally got a grip on Prism and hauled her kicking and fighting back into normal space. "I'm sorry!" he stammered, "it was reflex, I didn't want to drop her, I didn't, Fang. I didn't think!"

Prism _screamed_.

"Let go of her." Fang was quite literally prepared to kill Death if he didn't hand over his sparkling. He couldn't _think _he was so furious.

Death dropped her.

Fang made a grab to catch her, and missed. Prism hit the ground with a loud clatter of metal on concrete, shrieked, and dove under the berth. Fang looked slowly from the dark space under the berth to Death and then back, irises dilated wide behind narrowed optic shutters. He didn't see 'partner' or even 'ally' at the moment. He was too angry.

Deathwheels took in Fang's expression and scrambled frantically away from him. He tripped over a chair, hit the ground with a clatter, and then ran out the door before he even bothered to stand fully upright. A resounding _crash _from outside indicated a second fall as he lost his footing in his terrified haste to retreat.

Only after he was gone did Fang forcibly abort his combat routines. Slowly, his thoughts returned to less homicidal patterns. It took real effort not to pursue Deathwheels, but the utter silence from under his berth was more alarming than any cries Prism might have made. He forced himself to do several systems checks to calm down before approaching her.

_I could have killed him. _Oh, he was pissed. Subspace was ... well, he'd never been subspaced himself, and he didn't personally know anyone who had, but he'd heard second and third-hand stories. It was pure sensory deprivation, and completely isolating. No sound, no light, no sensation, no sensory input whatsoever. No people. Utterly, totally alone.

He the time stamp on his memory of the event, and realized she'd only been in the subspace pocket for around thirty seconds. It had seemed far longer. Hopefully, she would be okay. Even so, he was going to hunt his _idiot _partner down and kill him personally. Slowly. Bolt by bolt. He'd never tortured anyone to death, but this would be the perfect excuse to start.

Fang crouched next to the berth, and peered under it, schooling his face into a neutral expression. "Kiddo?"

She didn't make a noise but her enormous red optics stared at him from the farthest corner, up against the wall. She wasn't moving, wasn't speaking, wasn't even crying.

He was a small mech himself, and for the first time in his life, he was grateful for that. Fang wormed on his belly under the berth until he was almost to her. She shut her optics off and waited, quivering, for his touch.

Clearly, she assumed she would be grabbed and she didn't want to be. He shuttered his own optics and waited as patiently as he could. Patience wasn't one of his virtues, however, and when she didn't immediately crawl into his arms he grew frustrated and angry. _:Death, when I catch up with you, I am going to kill you!:_

Deathwheels didn't answer.

He was about to issue some more specific threats when Prism suddenly clicked a couple of times and then dove into his arms. He held her as tight as he could without hurting her and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Prism. I should have protected you better. I didn't think he'd hurt you."

She whimpered. He wriggled out into the open and inspected her closely. She'd dented a tiny plate of armor. Death had dropped her almost twenty feet to the ground. It was entirely possible she had other injuries. He didn't see any, but he just couldn't bring himself to trust his own scans. She was so scared. She _had _to be hurt worse!

"I'm so sorry." He started to nuzzle her and she flinched away from the touch, probably from fear of more pain. Prism keened, then screamed, wordless cries of terror and pain. She shrieked and clung to him, howling her fear.

"Prism, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry, Prism!" He rocked back and forth, trying to comfort her. She wouldn't be comforted. "Talk to me! Please, talk to me. Prism, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

She wouldn't be soothed. Her absolute, incomprehending, utterly mindless fear seemed to tear his own emotions to shreds. When she finally found her words it got worse. "No, no, no no!" she shouted, "No! No! No! NOOOOO! No! No! No!"

"It's okay. I'll never let that happen again."

"No! No No no no no nonononono!!!!!!!"

_I can't keep her safe._

It was an utterly rending realization. He _could not _keep her safe. Not even from his own partner. It hadn't worked with Wheelie, and it wasn't going to with Prism, either. The Order of the Primes had said to _save _her, but they had never told him to _adopt _her. He had just wanted her ... wanted her because he knew she was special, somehow, and he realized, in a shining moment of epiphany, that he'd wanted the special one. The child that the Primes had singled out.

And he couldn't keep her safe.

He keened softly, and cradled her close. "I'm sorry, Prism. I'm so sorry."

* * *

Ratchet threw a handful of rags across the med bay and made a perfect basket with them. It was the end of a long day's work in the med bay, and he had a meeting in four hours with the other Primes. In between the meeting and now, he planned to have a chat with First Aid and Wheeljack about some bids for parts from various human manufacturers.

The sound of a screaming mech made him narrow his optics in irritation. The last thing he needed was somebody hurt. _Better be good. I do not have time for this._

Then he realized that the figure approaching the hangar was Fang, and he had his sparkling cradled to his chest. Prism had the volume turned up to eleven, and Fang looked like he was close to a breakdown of his own. Prism's screeching was drawing a crowd; he waved them off impatiently, ushered Fang through the door, and shut it. And then activated the brand-new privacy shield.

"What happened?" He demanded, curtly.

Anguished amber optics met Ratchet's worried gaze. "Deathwheels hurt her!"

That didn't compute. "Your partner?"

"_Ex_ partner," Fang said, with fury evident in his words. "I'm going to kill him."

He actually meant it, too, Ratchet realized with a cold chill. This was Fang in a mood that Ratchet had never seen before. The same mech who'd curled up with worried love next to his partner's mangled body, the same mech who had bounced with glee at every mention of his name, was perfectly ready, willing, and probably _planning _on murdering him. It made his circuits freeze in realization that Fangface really was a Decepticon, and a bloody effective one, too.

He had not become leader of the Decepticons by being Lord Friendlyfangs and charming his way to the top. Ratchet was looking a mech in the optics who had plotted the downfall of his superior officers for vorns upon vorns, with enough skill and cold-blooded efficiency to actually succeed.

The humans had a saying, 'Don't mess with the mama.' Well, Fang wasn't a _mother, _per se, but he clearly had quite few of what humans would term 'maternal instincts.' There weren't many ways to piss off a mech faster than to mess with a mentor's new sparkling.

Fangface would probably be more reasonable to deal with, Ratchet concluded, when he had been reassured his sparkling was okay. By the sheer volume of noise she was making he judged that Prism was pissed and scared in about equal measure, but not critically hurt. He held his hand out, and Fang tried to pull Prism off his armor. She stuck her fingers through the seams and refused to let go. Impressively, she also doubled the amount of noise she was making. Ratchet dialed the sensitivity of his audio receptors back by two thirds.

"Death pulled her off my back. She doesn't want to let go now because she's afraid she'll be hurt again." Fang said, stroking her thin limbs. It was clear he wasn't going to get her loose without a struggle, or, Ratchet knew from experience, a distraction.

He reached into a drawer, pulled a roll of shiny metallic stickers out, nimbly peeled one off with fingers that were far more sensitive than their size would indicate, and stuck the sticker to the back of Prism's hand. It took her a couple of seconds to notice it. When she did, she shut up and peered at it, first in confusion and then curiosity.

Fang gave him a disbelieving look over the top of her head.

Ratchet rolled his optics. He couldn't help it. Sparklings were easy, and their guardians were always in disbelief at how quickly he could get them calmed down. He toldd Fang, _:At this age, she has a two second attention span. Next time she's screaming like that, don't try to comfort her, just distract her.:_

She peeled the sticker off her hand and held it up. "Flower!"

"That's right." Ratchet smiled at her.

Seeming to really see him for the first time, she said, "Ratchet? RATCHET!"

He had another sticker ready. He held it up and said, "Want this?"

She held her hand out for it. He deftly scooped her out of Fang's arms with one hand, and stuck the sticker to her foot with his other. She was promptly occupied with trying to get the sticker _off _her foot while he held her in the palm of his hand and did a quick exam. "And what happened to you?" he asked her. _:Let her answer,: _he added to Fang, _:I want to see how she perceived the incident.:_

:He subspaced her, Ratchet!:

Ratchet glanced up at Fang, optic ridges raising, but didn't respond to that yet.

She poked at the sticker for a moment, then said matter of factly, "Death's an idiot."

"Well, yes, that's what Fang seems to think, too. What'd he do?"

"Picked me up." She pulled the sticker free and kicked her feet for a moment. "Didn't want him to. Death's scary. _Big_. I bit him. Then he put me in a dark place. I was all alone! Nobody there! Then he dropped me!"

He smiled at her. Since he didn't want to dwell on the memory he asked, "Do you like your sticker?"

"Uh-huh! Shiny!"

"Want a heart?" He stuck another sticker to her chest plate, over her spark chamber. She arched her back struts trying to get a good look at it. He lifted her high up onto his shoulder so she could see herself in one of his mirrors.

_:Was he trying to make friends with her?: _Ratchet asked, while the sparkling spent a few moments peering into his mirror at the sticker on her chassis.  
_  
:And scaring her to death in the process.: _Fang growled.

_:You're one of the few 'cons who has ever raised a sparkling. Don't forget that. You're going to need to teach him _how _to interact with her.: _Ratchet leaned against a berth as Prism lost interest in his mirror and started using his grill as a jungle gym. He cupped a hand under her in case she slipped, but he wasn't overly worried. She was tougher than she looked -- she had a proper duryllium frame -- and a few falls would teach her what her limits were.

_:I'm going to kill the fragger!: _Fang's optics didn't leave his child even as he issued the threat.  
_  
:Fang, he scared a sparkling. That's hardly a capital offense, even if it's your sparkling. She's fine. She has a dent, but it will auto-repair on its own. That's her only injury. I don't want to try to pop it out now when it's just cosmetic because that's how we end up with adult mechs that hate medics. Besides, seeing her with a dent will likely make Deathwheels a hell of a lot more cautious in the future.:_

Fang's amber eyes, lit with smoldering rage, met Ratchet's unruffled gaze.

_:Are you mad at him, or are you mad at yourself because you failed to protect her?: _Ratchet's words were pointed.

Fangface's expressive features just simply crumpled at Ratchet's words. He was very, very glad that they had a privacy shield up because Fang gave a hitching cry, wrapped his arms around himself, and looked sharply away from Ratchet. _:I can't keep her safe.:_

:Fang, look at me.: Ratchet said, and when Fang didn't move, he sighed aloud and said over the comms. _:Give me a second here_._:_

After a trauma like she'd experienced, she was probably more than ready to recharge. Ratchet caught her, and cradled her to his shoulder under one hand. She wriggled for a moment, and he swayed back and forth, while watching Fang with real concern. Fang wasn't saying a word; he just hugged himself and stared up at Ratchet with enormous eyes.

Once gently restrained it took the kid all of two minutes to cycle down into recharge. Ratchet smiled at Fang, showed him the sleeping sparkling, and then carefully set her down on his work bench. _:She's going into a defrag cycle, I think. She'll recharge soundly, now.:_

He was completely unsurprised when Fangface started to keen with heartfelt, deep Cybertronain sobs. Ratchet pinged the door lock to a higher security setting, then hitched himself up onto a berth. Conversationally he asked, "So he really subspaced her?"

"I can't believe he did that ..." Fang trembled before him.

Ratchet was torn between offering sympathy to the young leader, and telling him to get some sterner backstruts. He settled on snorting. "I can, because I did the same thing, a very, very, very long time ago. I had this sparkling, about the same size as Prism, who just _wouldn't _be still. You know how if you have your hands full you'll subspace something to avoid dropping everything? Well, I had a full beaker of solvent in one hand that I didn't want to drop, and the sparkling kept thrashing, and instead of 'spacing the fuel I 'spaced the kid."

The leader of the Decepticons stared at him absolutely incredulously.

"Fortunately, his mentor had far more of a sense of humor about it than you did, and the sparkling wasn't hurt." Ratchet grinned at a memory he could laugh about now, though as a very young physician who'd just gotten his license weeks before, he'd been keenly embarrassed. "I had him back out in about two astroclicks. He did sit still after that."

He had hoped Fang would laugh, but instead, Fang just shook his head. "I d... don't know what to do, Ratch."

"Well, stop with the drama, first." Ratchet saw trouble here. Fang had been pushing himself hard for a long time. He couldn't give Fang too much affection, however much he wanted to. He was the leader of their enemy. His instincts were screaming at him to pull Fang into his arms but that was a boundary that they couldn't cross. Not now, not here, not with the political situation as it was. On th other hand, Fang needed his support, in a big way. He was Fang's friend, and he was hurting, scared, and angry.

Despite Ratchet's sharp words, and perhaps because Fang knew Ratchet well enough to not take them to heart, Fangface took a hesitant step towards Ratchet, looking up at him with eyes that were huge and full of desperation. Had Ratchet been standing rather than sitting, he would have retreated a matching stride.

"Ratchet, I don't know what to do."

_Don't do what I think you're thinking of ... For both of us. Slaggit._

Fang stumbled forward Ratchet stood back up in time to catch Fang as he halfway fell into Ratchet's grasp. "Ratch, I don't know what to do!"

_Frag_.

He had an armful of crying predacon now, and he wasn't entirely sure what to do with him. Cuddle him? Not really his style, and there lay dangers he wasn't willing to face. He could take on Megatron himself, but he wasn't about to risk _this _threat to his own feelings.

"I can't do this anymore! I _can't_." Fang switched to his comm, perhaps so he could wail louder without waking his sparkling, _:I ... I can't!:_

:Oh, hush. Do I need to give you a sticker too?: The snark came much easier than words of gentle comfort.  
_  
:Ratchet!: _Fangface wailed. _:Please, I need ... I need ... I need help ...:_

Ratchet stuck a metallic sticker of a teddybear to the end of his nose. Fangface went crosseyed at it, and stopped keening. Ratchet snickered. _:Thereby proving you _do _have the attention span of a sparkling.:_

Fangface thumped Ratchet's grill with his fist. _:Damn you, don't make me laugh.:_

Ratchet affixed a sticker to Fang's chestplate. This one was of a smiley face. Fang's lipplates twitched in what looked like a snicker threatening to break out. Ratchet continued to attach stickers to him, until Fang finally burst out in a helpless gigglefit. Ratchet held him for a moment, until the hysterical laughter subsided, then he let go and pushed Fang away._ :Now. Are you calmer or do I need to get you a balloon, too?:_

Fang, looking a good bit better, leaned against a piece of equipment and tried to pick a sticker off his arm. Without looking up he said softly, _:Ratch, seriously, I need ... I need advice and you're about the only person I trust to give me this sort of feedback.:_

:I can't give you the shoulder to cry on I know you want. I wish I would, but Fang, I'm still your enemy. Since I'm also your friend _I'm going to tell you that we cannot cross that line anymore. It puts you in danger, and you are too important.:_

:I don't ... Death hit me. Over Jazz and you.: Fangface was _going _to confide in him, apparently, whether Ratchet felt it was appropriate or not.  
_  
:Did he hit you?: _Ratchet snorted. _:As I recall, so did I.:_

:It was different when he did it. You thought ... thought I'd desecrated Jazz's body. And you would never have hurt me badly no matter what I'd done. You're all bluster and noise, and I've known that for as long as I've known you. He's jealous of you and me and our friendship, and he was pissed I was stupid, and maybe I deserved it, but he hurt _me. I didn't think he was going to stop, for a moment.: _Amber eyes glanced up at him, then Fang returned to scratching at the sparkly stickers affixed to his armor.

Ratchet felt like he'd been punched in the gut. _:When was this?:_

:Yesterday night. And then today -- Prism was so scared ...: Fangface abruptly stopped talking for a moment, and just sent Ratchet the memory file of the incident. He sent the _whole _memory, his own emotions attached, which was really far too intimate a thing to do with a casual friend. Audio/video was one thing, even thought-overlays, but emotions were really considered private, only to be shared with partners and very close friends.

Ratchet winced at the blinding rage tagged to the memory, and at the terror. If not for Fang's raw fury and fear he would have laughed at the look on Death's face, when Death realized what he'd done and then couldn't get the sparkling back out. Likely, he hadn't been able to get a grip on her because she'd been thrashing. It was one of those moments in time that were so ridiculous that they really were funny, despite the seriousness of the problem.

Fang wasn't seeing the humor.

"Prism hates him," Fang whispered. "She's terrified of him."

"He's a 'con." Ratchet stripped the memories off the file he'd been given and deleted them, then watched it again. To his eye, Deathwheels looked frustrated and nervous. "Fang, I bet he really _does _want to get along with her, and he doesn't know how to work with a sparkling. He loves you, and she's important to you, and he wants her to like him too."

"He hurt her."

"I'm willing to bet he doesn't make that mistake again."

"You're telling me to forgive him?"

"Not exactly." Ratchet, normally, would have counseled any Autobot in this sort of situation to dump the fragger. He wasn't very comfortable with the psychology he was seeing. However, Fangface desperately needed supporters, people to watch his back, people who would be protective of him and loyal to him. Breaking up with Deathwheels would mean he would have one less ally, and that could potentially give him an enemy who had a psychological edge over him.

Ratchet finally suggested, "I believe you should set some ground rules, and demand he follow them. If he does, he can regain your trust. If he doesn't, then I would recommend assigning him to a post as far from you as possible. In that case, might want to find something with a lot of responsibility for him, and convince him that he's needed there, and give yourself some time apart from him to figure out what to do."

"I don't want to be alone," Fang said, suddenly. "All my plans ... Death's important. He was important before he was my partner. I've relied on him a lot for the last few years, ever since I repaired him and found out just how intelligent he is. Honestly, I wish I'd never let him talk me into partnering with him, but the only way I would have gotten out of _that_ was to hurt him. He was my friend, I didn't want to do that."

"He forced you?" Ratchet's optic ridges rose.

Fangface shook his head. "I could have gotten away. It wasn't forced."

Ratchet regarded the mech with a level, hard gaze. _Now _he was angry. "If I'm understanding you right, he gave you a choice between 'facing with him and _hurting _him. Fang, if that's not manipulative, I don't know what is."

"I _could _have gotten away." Fangface's eyes narrowed right back. "And I was glad I let him. He loves me, Ratch. I never would have had the courage to 'face with _anyone _if he hadn't pushed the point. He did it because he loves me, and wants me. _That _is not in question."

"A moment ago you were ready to kill him."

Fang's chin jerked up. He didn't say anything more, but his mood, ever mercurial, had turned angry. Ratchet ignored the blazing temper in those narrowed amber eyes and just stared right back. After a moment, Fang's shoulders slumped and he looked away. Fury was replaced with a frown. He looked uncertain and uneasy.

"Do you love him?"

"Did." Fangface grunted. "Maybe still. I don't know. Ratch, I just don't know what I want anymore. I thought if someone loved me like he loves me, they wouldn't hurt me, and that I could trust them, and that we'd never fight over anything. When he 'faces with me, it's so _strong. _He wants me so much, and he wants me to live up to my potential, and he values me. Treasures me. _Loves _me. But ... then he loses his temper and hurts me. And he hurt Prism. I can forgive the former, but the latter ... I dunno, Ratch. I don't know what I want to do. I can't risk having the two of them together again, though, that much is clear. Prism comes first."

The temptation to pull Fang into his arms and sooth away his pain with a hug was so strong it surprised Ratchet. He shook his head and grunted, "You can still be a complete fragger and be capable of love. Look at Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Sunny can be a selfish, arrogant, pit-born idiot, but nobody denies he loves his brother. And there are times when I wonder why Sideswipe puts up with him, but Sides apparently gets something out of it that makes it worthwhile."

Fang sighed. "The thing is, I _do _love Deathwheels."

"Honestly, Fang, I don't know what to tell you." Ratchet fought down the compulsion to turn protective and fierce, to challenge Death himself, by sheer stubbornness. "If you were one of my patients I think you can guess my advice. I wouldn't hesitate to say break if off. But ... there's no concern he'd betray you, is there?"

"Never." Fangface said, with absolute confidence. "He'd die first. He'd die _for _me."

Ratchet accepted that; he had seen nothing that contradicted Fang's assertion there. "The other option I sometimes suggest is formal counseling for all partners involved, but I'm willing to bet that there aren't many Decepticon shrinks."

"Strangely, no. Can't imagine why." Fangface rolled his optics. "And politically speaking, that would be suicide if it ever got out."

Ratchet snorted. "So either you deal with him, or you dump him."

"I'm ... I'm going to work it out with him." Fangface chuckled, a low and scary sound. "That, or kill him."

Sometimes, Fang was all 'con, particularly when he made threats like that. Ratchet wasn't naive. He knew there was a real possibility that Fang could be provoked into a deadly rage. He'd _felt _those emotions, so strong and vicious, in the file that Fangface had sent him. He wondered if Death realized he was playing with fire. Cautiously, somewhat wary of provoking that temper himself, Ratchet said slowly, "Fang, Deathwheels has not done anything that I would begin to consider a capital crime. Being a jerk to you is _not _something that deserves a death penalty. At some point, you're going to need to turn away from the killing, to reinstate laws and appropriate penalties. I know sometimes you have no choice, that it's kill or be killed, but that has to stop someday."

"I know." Fangface again looked at his sparkling. "Ratchet, I can't keep her safe."

"None of us are safe."

"I mean it. I was selfish to take her for my own. I wanted a sparkling again. I wanted _that _sparkling, because the Order of the Primes singled her out to me, but they didn't tell me to adopt her, only to save her. She's important, Ratchet. I don't know why. They said to save _that _sparkling, when I said I couldn't save them all." Fangface hugged himself, and his voice was full of emotions again. "Ratch, she has to live, she has to. And I can't do it. I can't. I love ... I love her so much, and I can't do it!"

His wail woke Prism up with a start. They'd managed to keep their tones low until now, but Fang's angst-ridden words were loud and scared her. She shouted his name as she jolted upright, "Fang!"

"Kiddo, I'm sorry." He hurried over to her, and scooped her up, and held her close to his chest for just a moment. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she was confused and scared.

He held her up to his optic level, one hand under her feet and thumb and forefinger around her middle. "Kiddo, scraplet, I'm sorry. I made a huge mistake. You deserve someone who can keep you safe, and I can't do it. I know you're going to hate me for this, and I'm so sorry."

"What, Fang?" she reached for his nose, seeing the teddybear sticker on it, and he pulled her a little out of reach. Distracted by it, she announced, "Sticker!"

He turned to Ratchet, and thrust Prism at him. Ratchet took her by reflex. Fang stepped back, eyes going somehow distant, face a mask without expressions. "She's yours, Ratch."

"Huh ... what?" Ratchet protested. "Fang, you can't just give your sparkling ... _what_?"

Prism reached for Fang, arms stretching out towards him. "Fang! Want you!"

_:Fang, you fragger, you _cannot _do this.:_

:She's yours. She likes you. If you really think you can't keep her you've got a whole base full of mechs who'd be delighted by her, I know. However, if give her to anyone else you'll break her heart twice. I just can't keep her safe, and I know _it.: _Fang turned his back on them and walked towards the door. "Be good for Ratchet, Prism. He'll take good care of you."

_:Damn you, you're breaking this child's heart! :_

Prism, seeing him walk away, started to wail his name.

_:I know precisely what I'm doing and it is one more shadow on my spark when I face Primus someday. I won't ever adopt another sparkling, Ratchet. I won't make this mistake again. I know _exactly _what it's like to lose a mentor very young. Mine wasn't even allowed to really _be _my mentor, though I know he wished he could. Love her for me, will you?:_

Ratchet held on tight to Prism, who was thrashing and screaming. He pinged the door open. Prism's vocalizer dissolved into static as she fritzed from fear. Somehow, Ratchet thought, she understood that Fang wasn't just leaving her for a moment ... he was leaving her for good.

"Shh," Ratchet hugged her in one hand, holding her against the armor of his shoulder. "Shh, little one." She was inconsolable, however. There just weren't enough stickers in the world to distract her from this sort of pain.

* * *

When Jazz walked into the med bay, Ratchet was seated in a chair, leaning back, optics off. For a moment, Jazz thought Ratchet might have slipped into recharge, but his optics flicked on. At his slight movement, a sparkling cupped under his hand and against his shoulder whimpered.

"Uh-oh, somebody hurt?" Jazz said.

_:It's Prism. Fangface decided he couldn't keep her. He _abandoned _her.:_

:Oh, that fragger_.:_

:No, Jazz. He did it out of love for her. His reasoning was flawed, but his emotions were honest.:

:Hnnh.: Jazz shook his head, as Ratchet outlined what had happened. "Poor little kid." He crouched down and held one clawed finger out to her. "Hi, there."

She hissed wordlessly at him, teeth clicking on air.

"Wow, okay, ah'll leave you alone. Ah think you'd win if we tangled." He held his hands up and retreated.

_:Sorry. I think she's just plain had enough trauma for the time being. She likes me.:_ Suddenly,

In a flash, Prism disappeared into a gap in Ratchet's armor. His face must have betrayed his complete surprise, because Jazz barked a quick laugh at him. "That could be dangerous if she actually had a weapon and was bigger than a housecat."

"Kiddo ...?" Ratchet peered down into his chest plate. Prism had found herself a cavity between his grill and his pectoral plating. She had plenty of room, and her red eyes glowed back at him. "Ah, ooookay now. C'mon out ..."

She growled.

"I've got stickers ..." He reached for the roll. "Want a puppy sticker?"

Prism lunged halfway out, managed to grab the whole roll, and then dart back behind his grill before he could completely react. Ratchet stared at his hand, dumbfounded that she'd managed to move that fast.

"Ah am going to love hearing you explain to First Aid how you got stickers stuck to your spark chamber," Jazz said, snickering.

"She can't get anywhere near my spark chamber or any of my internals," Ratchet said, stiffly. He folded his arms over his chest. "She'll come out when she's ready."

A tiny hand extended out from behind his grill and stuck a sticker of a parrot to one of his headlights. Ratchet pretended not to notice. Jazz shook his head. _:Ah don't know if ah want to laugh or go rip Fang's head off for her.:_

Ironhide walked in at that moment. Prism peered out between the transformation seams of Ratchet's grill, saw the approaching weapons master, and growled. "Bad mech!"

"Ironhide's not bad. He's friendly." Jazz's assurance was delivered between lipplates that were twitching with a barely surpressed laugh.

Ironhide grunted, "I am?"

The sparkling wasn't buying it. She squeaked and disappeared completely from view as Ironhide drew closer. Her voice was muffled when she declared, "Big cannons!"

"That's right," Ironhide said. Then he offered proudly, "Wanna see them?"

There was no answer except for a hiss from somewhere in the vicinity of Ratchet's left quarter panel. Apparently, Prism didn't have much of a sense of humor when it came to big mechs with big guns.

The rest of the officers entered, with Optimus bringing up the rear. He looked troubled, and all of them sobered instantly at the expression on Optimus's face. Prism went completely still. Jazz couldn't even hear her scrabbling around under Ratchet's armor anymore.

_:Getting her out would take dismantling my chestplate, I think,: _Ratchet said, ruefully. _:Just ignore her. She'll probably go into recharge in a minute if nobody bothers her.:_

Optimus let out a long, slow sigh as Ratchet sent him a file explaining what had happened with Fang. _:Fang and his sparkling's a problem we'll deal with tomorrow. This is ... more of a personal issue, tonight. Thank you all for coming ...:_

He turned and pinged the door closed. It had slid halfway down when an agile silver mech ducked under the descending panels, moving with precise accuracy to avoid clipping his doorwings. Ranger straightened up and regarded them with features that were a mask lacking any obvious emotion.

_Kid's looking more like Prowl every time I see him, _Jazz thought.

"Ranger?" Optimus said, but he sounded tentative. "Do you need something?"

One corner of the mech's mouth lifted up in a wry smile. It was a very unsparkling-like expression. Jazz tensed in disbelief and a little horror. He'd suspected, he knew this was a possibility, but oh, _Optimus ..._

He glanced up at Optimus, and knew in one nanoclick that Optimus was aware of what -- who -- was looking back at him. Optimus triggered the privacy shield as the door also finished rumbling shut. Silence descended as they dampening field blocked outside noise and radio signals.

"Heh." One syllable, and the difference was obvious. Prowl had a maturity to his tones, and at this moment, a dry sense of humor. "Optimus, Ranger is unharmed."

"_Prowl_," Optimus breathed out.

"Figured." Jazz would almost have preferred for Prowl to be truly dead than this. "Prowl, are you ... okay?"

"No." Prowl didn't sigh like almost anyone else would have, but there was a very slight lessening of precision in his stance. "I'm going to keep this brief, but I did want to make you aware I am here."

"... thank you." Optimus murmured.

"How?" Ratchet demanded, sounding suspicious and skeptical. "That's a whole new memory core. It's not even the same one! If this is some sort of prank ..."

"Have I _ever _pulled a prank ... like this?"

Again, there was that wry smile that was so achingly, strikingly familiar to Jazz. He snorted, he couldn't help it. "Not like this, anyway. There was that time you programmed every door on the ship to close on Sunstreaker as he walked through."

"That was not me." The denial came with the faintest smirk of amusement.

"Mmm-hmm."

"It was simply my idea." An optic ridge lifted. "_You _executed the program, and you got it into the ship's AI's programming with Red Alert's full cooperation. Does that satisfy your concern that my memories might be compromised?"

Jazz held both hands up defensively. "I'm assuming you copied yourself to your processor core. Not many mechs would have the RAM to pull that off, or the skill to hide the results from Soundwave's scans. I wasn't sure how much memory beyond the critical-tagged files you'd managed to move. Are your memories truly intact?"

"Mostly." The admission was given not so much with hesitation but with caution. "They are more complete than what Teletraan has. I'd be interested in getting a copy of what he's compiled. There are some holes from sectors I couldn't copy in time and I might find them in what he has. It was something of a race against time to move all that I am from one core to the other, and the bandwidth between them is not all that great given the amount of data that needed to be moved. Also, you will find I am very slow at some things, such as memory recall."

"Prowl," Optimus said, finally, voice breaking with anguish. "I am _so _sorry."

Prowl turned to face Optimus and said simply, "Don't be. Ranger's a good kid. I've always wondered what it would be like to have my life to do over, to grow up in a better environment than I had. You are a wonderful parent, Optimus, and Ranger loves you with all his spark even though you've scarcely gotten to know each other. Do not regret this."

"But ..." Optimus's optics shuttered. "But what about _you_?"

"Me?" Prowl shrugged. "Do not worry about me."

Again there was that wry smile. Jazz knew that there was darkness behind that expression, however. Hot Rod, who had until now remained silent, said, "Can't we _do _something? What about spark splitting like Bee?"

Wheeljack shook his head, even as Prowl said, "No. That requires quantum-aligned cores writing to the same memory bank to work properly. We'd end up crashing both our processors if we tried that, or Ranger would have full and unfettered access to my memories, which I do not desire and I believe would be detrimental to the kid."

Ratchet snorted agreement with that. Jazz tried to remember if Ratchet had ever had to medically interface with Prowl, and realized that there was a good chance he had. For all his skill with coding Prowl was notorious for crashing his processor, and he'd needed medical help on a few occasions to reboot.

"Believe me when I tell you I've spent the last few days trying to figure out a way to handle the programmatical end of that, of splitting us into two bodies, and I see no solution. Our spark could be _separated _into two halves, of course, but all things considered, I'd rather not. The last mech I saw with half a spark was crazy, and Ranger's sane."

Optimus sat down on a chair that was a few sizes too small for him. "I was going to have a brainstorming session with my officers to try to figure out what to do. Prowl, I suppose we can simply _ask _you. What do you want us to do?"

The tactician didn't say anything for a minute. Finally, however, he smiled a real smile, albeit a small one. "Raise Ranger as your own, Optimus, as you have been doing. I will make Ranger aware of my presence in the morning, and explain this to him in terms he will understand. I will also teach him, immediately, how to block me out of his thoughts. He's developing quickly and he is old enough to need privacy now."

"He is five days old," Optimus said, "yet he seems like he has years of experience. Is this your doing?"

Prowl folded his arms, perhaps a bit self-consciously. "It is nothing deliberately. Optimus, we share a single spark. As we are normally both conscious at the same time, there is some inevitable bleed-over. It's at a subliminal level, but it is real. I am trying to keep it to a minimum."

"I see," Optimus said, gravely.

Prowl smiled faintly. "I suspect he would be far more advanced than any other sparkling his age you've ever met even were I not an influence. However, as it stands, he is operating at the level of an advanced youngling. -- Ratchet, he would be a good medic. He has the patience and attention to detail."

Prowl had once told Jazz that _he _had wanted to study medicine and engineering, and his mentor had pushed him into military tactical analysis as "better suited to his abilities and processor." That was true enough; medicine didn't require his vast parallel processing abilities. Prowl's mentor had spent a fortune on that upgrade, and had been insistent that Prowl go into a field of study that would use it.

"Prowl," Jazz burst out, "what about _you_?"

Level blue optics met Jazz's for a moment. Jazz tried hard to read what Prowl was thinking, and couldn't. Then Prowl turned back to Optimus and said quietly, firmly, "You made the _right _decision, Optimus. Do not feel guilty for this. I am very glad to be rid of Barricade. I am glad to see all of you, alive ..." he smiled at Jazz, "... after all this time. The decision Optimus and Ratchet made was the right one, based on the information they had at the time. I am _glad _for it."

"But if we'd known ..." Ratchet started to protest.

"If I'd avoided Thundercracker's shot, I would not have been injured nor captured." Prowl's expression turned wry again. "If I'd been a little more suspicious, Soundwave never would have tricked me into believing he was you, Ratchet, and I never would have lowered my firewalls and been infected by a virus. We _cannot _dwell on the past. We can only move forward, we can only forge a new future for ourselves -- those of us who _have _a future."

"Prowl ..." Jazz said, as the others reacted with a mix of gasps and soft denials to Prowl's words that implied he had no future.

He shot Jazz a look, but added, simply, "Would you have me kill a child to live myself? Ranger is a real person, in his own right, a child, innocent of this war and the crimes we have all committed."

Optimus started to reach a hand out, to brush his fingers in comfort over Prowl's shoulder, and Prowl took a step back. "I am sorry, Optimus. Before the last few days it has been thousands of years since I've felt a friendly touch."

_And he was never the most touchy-feely of mechs_, Jazz thought. He knew he'd annoyed Prowl on occasion by resting a hand on his shoulder or poking him. He'd done it deliberately, just because he could usually turn Prowl's irritated glare into a smile by continuing to tease, once he had Prowl's attention. The fastest way to get Prowl's attention was to harass him.

Prowl, however, surprised him. He looked up at Optimus and said, "Ranger likes being held. My mentor ... never touched me. Not even when I was very small. Because I spoke in complete sentences and carried myself like an adult, he treated me like one. Don't forget that Ranger is a child. It is important, and I do _not _mind."

Prime nodded slowly. "I understand, Prowl. We will follow your wishes."

"There's some intelligence you need, too." Prowl nodded, going businesslike. "Prime, I just e-mailed you, Ironhide, and Ratchet a report on the 'cons. I learned ... unfortunately, I learned a lot about their inner workings while watching through Barricade's optics. There are things Fang doesn't know that he should, and things that Fang hasn't told us that he should."

"Thank you."

"And ..." Prowl hesitated, then turned an even gaze to Jazz. "If you don't mind, I'd like to speak to Jazz for a bit. Alone."

There was a silent moment from the other officers as they exchanged looks. Jazz suspected they wished for more time to tell Prowl how much they missed him, to issue heartfelt apologies and express their emotions about this. Jazz knew Prowl was generally uncomfortable with public displays of emotion, and was likely cutting this short to avoid that sort of embarrassment. Optimus, who knew Prowl every bit as well as Jazz did, didn't argue. He simply nodded. "Just make sure Ranger stays in recharge."

"He will." Prowl sounded confident of that. "He doesn't need to witness ..." the tactician trailed off.

Once they were alone, and the privacy shield back up, Jazz said softly, "Well, this sucks."

"That it does."

"I won't try t' hug ya, Prowler, but it's good to talk t' ya. For what it's worth. I jus' wish Fang'd woke me up first, before they onlined Ranger. Ah wouldn't have given up on ya. Ah know you're too clever to let a virus win."

"Jazz?" Prowl said, softly, taking two steps forward. "I've missed you so much."

He resolved not to reach out to Prowl, not to try to hug him, even when they were so close that he could hear the soft hum of power through the other mech's circuits. Prowl, however, had other ideas. With a small cry, he stumbled one last step forward. They were almost the same height, but Prowl seemed to fold in on himself as he reached for Jazz. Jazz's arms went around him reflexively as Prowl buried his face in Jazz's shoulder armor.

"Prowler?"

"I missed you." His voice, far from the firm, confident note earlier, was _broken_. "Sometimes missing you was all that kept me going."

"Oh, Primus ..." Jazz sank down to the ground, taking Prowl with him. "Ah wish I'd known. We had intel that you were glitched, from one of t' moles, but we didn't know who they made ya, or what ya looked like, or we'd have gotten ya back. We shoulda guessed. We shoulda _guessed _it was that pit-spawned damned Barricade, but he never seemed like a glitchhead, just crazy."

"My influence." Prowl whispered. "I kept him saner than most. We shared a spark. There's transference, completely involuntary, of emotions."

"Oh, Primus. You shared his spark." Realization hit Jazz like a bucket of cold water.

"Yes, I did." Prowl clung to Jazz. "Jazz, for _four thousand years _I've watched everything through Barricade's optics. I don't think I'm entirely sane anymore."

"Prowl, you sound mighty sane t' me." He stroked that shining, elegant helm.

"No. No, I'm not o-okay. Jazz, I ... I wish ... you asked me so many times to be your partner, and I always said that I would continue to say no as long as we were in the same chain of command. I thought it was was unprofessional. And I wish I had agreed, now. I am so sorry."

"Shh." Jazz just held him, stunned by Prowl's words. "Shh, it's okay."

"I felt ... I felt what Barricade felt. As he killed. Mutilated. Destroyed. Exalted in it. He did. Sometimes, I did. Too. Sometimes. Sometimes with friends. He tortured. He loved the power. He tortured Blades to death. He tortured Sunstreaker and Bluestreak. He loved it. They screamed, they begged, he loved it. I ... loved it. Because I felt his emotions, and they were the only joy I had, for a very long time. I learned to love it. I am not the Prowl you knew."

"Shh." Jazz just held him, unsure what to say, but not entirely believing Prowl. There was too much horror in Prowl's broken and choppy words for him to have truly enjoyed it

"I was isolated. No way to talk to anyone. No way to communicate. I couldn't even let _him _know I was in there. If he told Soundwave, I would have been deleted. My only ... my only social contact was _listening _to people I hated, and listening to his twisted thoughts, and never responding. Four thousand years and there was never a smile turned my way, never a gentle touch, never the laugh of a friend. I couldn't tell anyone I existed. I couldn't talk. Couldn't smile. Couldn't laugh. Couldn't get a response, for good or ill, from anyone. I was so alone. Input only. No output. No answer. No response. No response. No friends. I was alone. Alone. Alone."

Prowl keened. It was the first time, in the entire time Jazz had ever known him -- and he'd known Prowl since he was a young mech, and Prowl a youngling sent to the university far too soon -- that Prowl had ever made a noise like that. Prowl didn't cry. He just didn't.

He was crying now.

"Alone. Alone. So alone."

"Shh. You're not alone now."

"I thought about deleting myself, but you would know. I thought you would know. That someday you'd find Barricade, and find the audit trail in my logs, and know I'd deleted myself. I had to stay alive. For you. for you. Because I wanted to tell you. Had to."

"Tell me what?" He felt dizzy, like his gyros were damaged. He wanted to fix it, to make it better, for Prowl. There wasn't any way to do that.

"Only thing kept me going was the fact I missed you. I ..." a long keen broke his sentence up, "... love you. Have for most of my life. Never could tell you. First I didn't think you wanted me, I mean, you were playing the field and flirting with everyone but me, and then the war came and it wasn't appropriate. And you asked, and I said no, and I should have said yes."  
_  
He loves me like that. _He'd known Prowl had loved him because Prowl had actually admitted it, on a few occasions when Jazz had cornered him and coaxed a confession out of him. He'd also gently but firmly declined every offer Jazz had made to take their relationship to the next level and 'face. Jazz had accepted that, and had regular casual and occasionally not-so-casual relationships with others, most of whom were dead now. For a dark period of many years it had seemed like every time he found a lover, the lover was promptly killed in battle. Jazz was not a mech meant to be alone, however, and he'd grieved and then picked himself up and found a new person -- or people, a few times -- to share his life.

Prowl, always intensely private and reserved to a fault, had loved him like _that. Without _ever 'facing with him, he'd used his attachment, so very deep and so often unspoken, to give himself the strength to survive. It stunned Jazz, and for long moments, Prowl was racked with shuddering cries, Jazz just held him with his chin rested on the top of Prowl's helm. "Ah'm right here, Prowl, and I'm hearing your words now."

"We can't be partners now. It wouldn't be fair to Ranger. I kept myself going with this dream that someday you'd capture Barricade in battle and realize I was in here, still _me_, and save me, and I could offer you a proposal of a true partnership and ... and now it will _never _happen. Never! I'm so alone."

"Shh. I know." He stroked the arch of Prowl's cheek with a finger that wasn't really made for gentle touches. Prowl looked up at him and Jazz saw his expression was simply shattered. Jazz suspected the look on his own face wasn't much better. It took him a moment more of struggling with the truth of the matter before stating, "We can't interface. Ah agree with ya that it's not fair to Ranger. But Prowl, there's more to being partners than 'facing. Ah've had more than my fair share of lovers. It's fun. It's a good way to get to know someone. However, ah _know _you. I don't need to 'face with ya to know just how strongly ah feel about ya."

"Do you know me now, though? I ... would be dangerous, without Ranger." Prowl drew his legs up towards his chest, armor sliding with a metallic whisper across the cement. He looked down. "Barricade ... Barricade was _me_, and through his optics I saw terrible things and felt myself revel in them. I was split in two at the time that Soundwave planted the virus in me, a branching of my very identity into two people. Barricade, who became dark and evil and twisted, and me, who watched through his eyes as he rejoiced in evil. I felt his joy, and came to know it as my own."

Jazz shivered at Prowl's words, and Prowl's body language. Prowl, always so proud, so stern, so strong, was fractured to the point of curling into a ball with his head on Jazz's shoulder and crying.

Prowl continued, "Ranger ... sees the world and loves it. His joy, his happiness, is so real, his sorrows so innocent. He reminds me of what I used to be, and what I always wished I could be and was never allowed. In a small way, he restores _life _to me. I cannot be separated from Ranger, Jazz. Do not even dream of it. I need him. Alone, I will degenerate into madness. And yet I must teach him to wall his thoughts from my perceptions. I do not want to spy on his innermost private moments without his permission. The right thing to do is to let him grow up on his own. And yet I do not want to be alone. There is evil in me, and part of me thinks it would be better to share his very mind than be alone again."

Prowl was shaking with emotions. Jazz pressed a finger under his chin and urged him to look up again. "Prowl, m' friend, if you were evil, if you were even _normal _and not the hero I know ya to be, you would be demanding that we delete Ranger, that we give ya your own body back. It was yours first, after all. Instead you're worried about the kid that was mistakenly given a life that should be yours. Prowl, you are not crazy. And you are no longer alone."

"I will be once be blocks me out." Prowl shuddered. "I will teach him to cut all contact off, even my the ability to see and hear. There will be times when he will want to block me from even seeing and hearing what goes on around him."

Jazz stroked Prowl's jaw with one deadly claw. "We'll give you a comm of your own. A second set of circuits. You can talk to people. Maybe run tactical simulations and the like in the background while Ranger does his thing."

"No." Prowl shook his head against Jazz's shoulder. "I don't want to remind Ranger he's not alone and he would sense my transmissions even if I encrypted them. I also don't have the processor power in my own partition to do much beyond basic cognition. It's a _small _partition, Jazz. I had to hide it. And it is best if he grows up, develops, as normally as is possible in this situation."

"Primus, Prowl ..." Jazz wanted to argue. It took everything he had to accept that Prowl was right insomuch as this was in Ranger's best interest. He couldn't help but think it wasn't in _Prowl's _best interest, but it was Prowl's decision to make. "Then come see me when he sleeps. Surely he can come to accept that ya will sometimes walk about while he recharges."

"I should say no." Prowl rested his head on Jazz's shoulder. "But I've missed you, and I've been so alone."

"Don't forget that Ranger wouldn't exist if not for ya," Jazz pointed out. "He can compromise a little. Anyway, he seems like a sensible fellow. A lot like another mech ah know and love."

Prowl said nothing, for a moment, then he repeated quietly, "I've missed everyone, but you most of all. Never doubt that, Jazz."

He rose, pulling free of Jazz's arms. "I'm going to get some recharge myself. I'll tell Ranger about me in the morning, when Prime's with him. I don't expect any drama from the kid, but he'll probably need Optimus. There's a bond between them forming that I wish I'd had with my own mentor."

"Your mentor was an aft."

That smirk was so achingly familiar. "That he was. Jazz ... thank you. For being you."

Jazz rose too. "Prowl ... thank you. For being so strong. For surviving. For telling me how ya felt. Ah can't imagine what you've been through, but ah know it must have been pit-slagging hard and ah'll never forget ya did it for me."

Prowl's cool, strong mask was slipping back into place as he regained control of the emotions that had temporarily escaped his control. He said, simply, "I'll meet you tomorrow, when the kid recharges." A smile touched his lips. "I don't know what time that will be, though. He's already decided he hates recharging and is frustrated by the time it takes."

Jazz scratched his head with one finger. "Yeah, ah just realized if he's like you, you could have a problem. What was your record for time between recharge cycles? Thee weeks?"

"Twenty days, and we were in the middle of a pitched battle the entire time, so that doesn't count."

"Well, _ah _managed to sleep!"

"Yes, because you're crazy!"

Prowl's peevish tone was familiar. He'd missed teasing Prowl, and he found Prowl's retort encouraging. He continued, smiling with relief to see a faint ghost of Prowl's sense of humor light in his optics. He said, with a broad smile spreading across his face, "You're the only mech I've ever know who _actually _managed to fritz himself unconscious due to fragmentation errors from a lack of recharge. More than once, as I recall. Yes, we could have a problem here."

His best friend snorted expressively. "Aren't you supposed to be our morale officer?"

"You're smiling, aren'tcha?" Jazz poked him in the ribs.

And for a moment, just for a moment, everything felt right. Because a hesitant smile was touching Prowl's lipplates, and Jazz knew that Prowl was _strong_. He would be okay. They both would.

_And hopefully the kid is too. _


	73. Chapter 73

Chapter 73

Author's note: Chapter contains the mech equivalent of attempted rape.

* * *

Mikaela had two giant bags from the dollar store in her hands when she walked in through the med bay doors. Ratchet was busily grinding a rough spot on a welded piece of metal smooth. Sparks flew in an arc ten feet long across the cement floor. She called, "Hey, Ratch!"

He turned to face her. "Since when do you call me 'Ratch?'"

She stopped short and stared up at him, unafraid but worried by his tone. "Everyone else does ..."

"No," Ratchet said, with a grunt, "only a few do."

"Do you mind?" She grabbed a ladder from the rack on the wall at human-height, propped it against a berth, then after doing that and after he didn't respond, rephrased her question, "Do you mind the nickname?"

First Aid, who was up to his elbows in the internals of a seeker model across the room, said, "Only people who get to call Ratchet 'Ratch' are his friends. He objects if anyone else does it."

She felt like she'd been sucker punched, for half a second, just as Ratchet said, "I don't mind. I'd just never heard you use a nickname for me before."

Mikaela smiled and shrugged and vowed to use it in the future. "So who are we overhauling today?" She stared up at Ratchet's grill as he came closer. "Ratchet, you have stickers all over you."

Ratchet's lipplates twitched for a minute, then he said, "Prism? Do you want to come out and meet Mikaela?"

There was a slight movement behind his grill. A red optic peered out. Mikaela burst out laughing. "Fang's kid?"

"Apparently, she's mine now," Ratchet's voice held a certain note of pissed anger that made Mikaela's laughter instantly stop.

"Is Fang okay?" She'd seen how the transformers were almost ferociously protective of their children. She had a hard time imagining one of them giving one up voluntarily.

"Fang? Fang? Where's Fangface?" Prism popped out from behind Ratchet's grill and looked around. "Fang ...?" her voice started to quaver.

"Fangface is fine. I spoke to him this morning." Ratchet caught her between two fingers and plunked her down on the table next to Mikaela. She was knee-high to Mikaela, and bore more than a casual resemblance to both Wheelie's original form and the 'con medic Rivet, to Mikaela's eyes -- her facial features were very similar, and she had the same proportions. Ratchet added, sourly, "He did the same thing with her that he did with Wheelie, but she's a lot younger and she just has no prayer of understanding why."

"Awww." Mikaela sat down with her bags on either side of her. She dug in one, considering the assortment of contents, and finally pulled out a generic "fashion doll" modeled on Barbie. "Here, kiddo. What do you think of this?"

Ratchet leaned against the berth, smiling a little now, and said, "You know, in all the excitement, I don't think anyone's thought to buy the kids toys other than that Frisbee that Optimus found somewhere. And the paintball guns."

The paintball guns had been promptly co-opted by the adults, and the N.E.S.T. soldiers. Bee and Sam had spent several hours yesterday evening down in the river bottom with half the rest of the base. Then all three of them had spent half an hour washing paint from Bee's mech half's armor. If not for the fact that Sam's mother had come over to visit she suspected things might have gotten ... interesting ... after that.

She also suspected Sam had been somewhat relieved by the interruption. He still hadn't done anything with Bee beyond kissing him, and that somewhat nervously. Mikaela thought they might not take it to the next level before Bee left. Bumblebee wasn't pushing, and Sam just wasn't ready. That made her a little annoyed at Sam, but Bee assured her he was fine with Sam taking his time.

Sam was, at least, on speaking terms with his mother. She wasn't entirely sure he'd even _seen _his father in the last week.

"Bee said you guys do like toys when you're little." Mikaela handed Prism a pack of doll clothes for her doll.

"Prism, what do you say?" Ratchet nudged her with a finger.

"More?" she eyed the bags of toys with greedy interest.

Mikaela cracked up. "Yeah, she's a little Decepticon."

Ratchet rolled his optics. "She's three days old. Prism, say thank you."

"Thank you," Prism said, though it was clear that she didn't understand _why _she was saying thank you.

"You," Mikaela said, "Are adorable."

Actually, she had Wheelie's facial structure, too. 'So ugly she was cute' might be a better description but by Ratchet's broader smile, _Ratchet _thought she was adorable.

"Thank you," Prism said with a sweet smile.

Maybe she did get it.

"Do you like stuffed animals?" Mikaela decided another toy might not hurt. The kid had just been abandoned by her parent.

"Thank you."

And ... maybe she didn't understand the concept of 'thank you.' Ratchet shook his head and explained to Prism, "You show gratitude for a gift by saying 'thank you.'"

"Why?"

"Because it's good manners. If anyone says something nice to you or gives you a gift, you say thank you." He poked her with a finger, making her giggle. "Let's try it. Mikaela, do you have that stuffed animal?"

She'd found an imitation Beanie Baby of a kitten in the bag, and held it out. Prism grabbed it, inspected it, and said promptly, "Thank you." She turned it around in her hands a moment longer before adding, "Designation Fang!"

Ratchet sighed. "Yes, you can name him after Fangface. Mikaela, wI need to drive into town and I don't trust this imp to stay in her seat yet. Will you come with me?"

"Oh, sure."

When Ratchet stepped two strides away from the berth to transform, Prism screeched, "RATCHET! Ratchet, don't go, don't go! Don't! No no no no no!"

Ratchet transformed, then said, "Want to go for a drive with me, kiddo?"

Prism bolted head-first down the ladder at a very high rate of speed, scampered across the floor, and launched herself through his open rear door. Mikaela, laughing, followed at a more sedate speed. She was, however, somewhat surprised to see a child safety seat in the rescue hummer's passenger seat. It had, apparently, been formed out of the material of the seat itself, via whatever process it was that Transformers made their interior upholstery out of.

"That's ... appropriate." She hadn't realized Ratchet was talking about a car seat when he'd mentioned keeping her strapped in.

"It's a legal requirement, given her size and age." Ratchet said, with a snort. "Also, it will keep her from running around all over my interior. Technically, it should be rear facing and in a back seat, but I seriously doubt she'd consent to riding in the back and she wouldn't actually be hurt by a vehicular collision in any position. I would be more concerned about her causing _you _damage if she hit you during a wreck. In any event, she'll be happier if she can see where we're going."

"C'mere, Prism." Mikaela patted the seat. "You need to sit in this."

Prism gave the seat a dubious look. Mikaela caught her, ignored her squeal of protest, and plunked her down in it. Having gone mano-a-mano with Wheelie a few times she was completely confident she could handle his little sister.

"Fang!"

She'd dropped the toys. Mikaela handed her the stuffed animal, put pseudo-Barbie in her purse, and took advantage of Prism's distraction with the toy cat to buckle the straps and pull them tight. Prism hissed at her. "Don't like you."

"Oh, but you like the gifts I gave you, is that it?" Mikaela buckled her own seat belt on the driver's side, then said, "What does Little Fang think of me?"

The kid hugged the toy tabby to her chest and said, "Fang thinks you're scary."

"And why's that?"

"Because you are!"

"I bet everyone's scary right now."

Prism nodded hesitantly, staring down at her stuffed animal. "I want my big Fang."

"He's not here, kiddo," Ratchet's voice came from the radio as he started his engine and headed for the door. "But you're safe. We're with you."

"I was bad," Prism whispered. "I made him mad."

"Oh, honey." Mikaela caught the child's fingers in her hand. "I'm sure he wasn't mad at you."

"If I'm bad, will everyone else go away?"

Ratchet said, very firmly, "Sorry kid, you're stuck with me. I'm not going anywhere."

"Liar." Prism hunched down in the seat, and buried her face in the toy's side.

"Distract her, will you?" Ratchet asked Mikaela.

Mikaela pulled the Barbie back out. "What's her name?"

"Human!"

"That's what she is. What's her name?"

Prism took the doll and held her up next to "Little Fang." She observed "Taller ... Death!" and threw the Barbie away. It hit the windshield with a thump. "Death bad! Death scary!"

Mikaela had seen Deathwheels from a distance and couldn't argue with that. However, she retrieved the doll and when inspiration struck she suggested, "Ratchet's taller than Fangface too. You could call her Ratchet."

"Oh. Okay. Designation Ratchet!"

Ratchet grumbled, "She better not call that doll 'Ratchet' in front of _anyone _or I will hold you responsible, Mikaela."

She grinned at the dashboard. "You're so screwed."

"And watch your language around the children," Ratchet grumped. "She's already picked up enough improper words to make Ironhide embarrassed."

* * *

First on the list of Ratchet's errands was a stop at a hardware store. "There's a credit card in my glove box with your name on it," Ratchet said, "for official purchases. I need twelve large bottles of WD-40, a gallon of muriatic acid, some mousetraps for the cargo containers, three bottles of hot pink spray paint ..."

He proceeded to rattle off at least a dozen more items, while she scrambled in her purse for a pen to write with. And wondered what in the hell Ratchet wanted hot pink spray paint for. "Ratch, there's no _way _I'm going to remember all this."

"Well, repeat it back to me."

"Ratchet, that's what a pen and paper are for. And I didn't know I'd need one."

"I remember!" Prism boasted. "Mikaela _stupid!_"

"Mikaela's mind works different than ours, and she is far from 'stupid'." Ratchet corrected. "There's some things she's better at, such as non-linear thinking, and making connections between data sets that aren't immediately obvious. It is, however, true that we are better than humans at factual recall. Mikaela -- why don't you take Prism in with you?"

"She might be scared," Mikaela objected.

"She'll be fine." Ratchet said. "I think she's decided you're a friend. And make sure that paint is the most obnoxious shade of pink you can find."

"Err. What's the paint for?"

"You don't want to know, and you didn't buy it."

Her eyes widened. "I don't want to know, but you'd better show me the video later."

"Good girl." Ratchet chuckled darkly.

"How about it?" Mikaela unbuckled Prism. "Want to go shopping with me? And you can help me remember what we need."

"Can Ratchet come?"

Mikaela balanced Prism on her hip. "He'll be right outside. I promise."

Prism considered, then wrapped her arms around Mikaela's neck in a somewhat bumpy, hard-angled hug. "I like Mikaela."

Mikaela grinned. She had a few small cousins, and Prism wasn't that much different than any human toddler she'd met, minus the need to change diapers or feed the kid.

"Watch that she doesn't climb anything, and remember she likes to hide in small places," Ratchet said, though he didn't sound particularly worried.

Inside, the store was quiet -- it was early on a Thursday morning, and there wasn't anyone else in the small Ace Hardware. She got a cart and plunked Prism down in the shopping cart's seat, buckling her in. Prism was undressing and re-dressing her Barbie (and making the occasional comment about 'Ratchet' looking like 'Mikaela') and paid no attention to her surroundings. Mikaela got most of the shopping done, but the spray paint was locked up in a case. She needed an employee to get it out.

She approached the customer service desk where another customer -- the first person she'd seen in the store -- was already talking to the clerk. The customer was a woman with a boy of about three or four years at her feet, and Prism took one look at the kid and went, "Ooooooh!" and launched right out of the seat.

Apparently, Transformers were just as good as human toddlers at unbuckling seat belts.

"Prism," Mikaela said, following after her with the cart, "you can't do that. You need to stay in the cart."

Prism reached the boy, who stared at her with wide eyes and said, "Robot!"

His mother turned around, saw Prism, and laughed with surprise. "That thing's amazing looking."

Prism was standing a few feet from the boy, staring at him. "Short!" she announced, and held up her Barbie. "Look! Ratchet!"

"Wow, look at how smooth it moves." The woman, apparently oblivious to the fact that Mikaela was grinning in amusement, crouched down. "It's like a little model of the aliens. Kinda creepy, actually, how much it looks like them."

"Not creepy!" Prism reached for the woman's glasses and managed to grab them off her face. "Lenses!"

"How did it do that?" The woman said, in confusion, as she tried to reclaim her glasses.

"Prism, give them back," Mikaela said, sternly.

"Want glasses!" Prism giggled, and tried to fit them on her face.

Mikaela took them away from her, prompting Prism to squeal a protest. She handed the lady her glasses back. "Sorry, we're still working on manners. Prism, unless you want to find out about time outs, you _will _listen to me."

Bee had commented that any transformer sparkling who misbehaved would be corrected by the first adult in their social circle to see the misbehavior, not necessarily their mentor. She assumed that meant Ratchet wouldn't mind -- and might even expect -- her to deal with bad behavior from the kid.

"That is the coolest robot I have ever seen. Are they selling them here?" The woman reached a finger out and poked at Prism's face, making Prism blink and back up. "I've never seen a toy robot that moves like that, and it seems to understand what we're saying. And it knew what glasses were ..."

The clerk, who was leaning over the counter, said mildly, "You realize, lady, that the aliens come here all the time buying stuff? I believe you're looking at the real thing."

The woman recoiled.

Prism giggled. So did Mikaela. Prism showed her Barbie to the boy. "Look! Designation Ratchet! Ratchet likes Fang!"

The clerk snickered. "She _didn't _name the Barbie 'Ratchet'?"

"Oh, yes she did. Apparently, she's Ratchet's kid now." Mikaela grinned back at him. It seemed the man knew Ratchet, which was not a big surprise. This was the closest hardware store to the base. Ratchet was probably a regular. "I am _so _waiting for the Barbie-doll marriage of Fang," she held the stuffed kitten up, "and Ratchet. I might just encourage that, so we can post the video on Youtube."

"Fang!" Prism reached for the toy. She dropped the Barbie, and the little boy bent to pick it up. Prism saw him reaching for it and screeched, "Mine! Don't touch!" and slapped at his hand. Her blow connected, but there wasn't any real intention behind it, and the boy didn't even react in alarm. He just looked at the doll in disappointment.

"Prism! No!" Mikaela scolded. She grabbed Prism around her torso and plunked her back in the seat, and took away both toys. Prism went silent in surprise and looked up at Mikaela with large, startled eyes. "Sit. Stay. We do _not _hit. You may get up after two minutes."

She glanced at her watch. Prism whined but didn't argue with the time out. She'd seen both Optimus and Wheeljack use time outs (with apparent good results) on their children, and Bee had put Paladin in one just this morning, after Paladin had ignored his shouted order to stay away from the runway.

Meanwhile, the boy's mother had yelped and snatched her child up. When Mikaela looked over at her, after scolding Prism, the woman snarled, "That thing shouldn't be in here! There are rules! You shouldn't have an alien in here, that's worse than having a dog in here! It _hit _my _kid!_!"

The clerk protested, "Oh, c'mon! She's eighteen inches tall."

"I cannot _believe _you let those things in here! She hit my kid!"

"She's three days old." Mikaela rested a hand on Prism's shoulder, when Prism started to whimper. "He wasn't hurt."

"She could _hurt _him!" The woman backed away, "She hit him!"

Yanking her cell phone out, the woman hurried out of the store.

"Sorry about that," Mikaela said, shaking her head.

The clerk smirked. "She was trying to convince me to take a return on a drill that looks like someone's been beating on it with a hammer, so _I _don't mind. Hey there, kiddo."

Prism peered at him. "Hi."

"She's really an alien robot baby? I heard they brought a bunch of kids to the base, but never thought they'd let us see them. I figured they'd be really protective."

"Ratchet's out in the parking lot," Mikaela jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm sure he's watching everything as we speak."

"Still ..." The man hesitated. "You are so ugly you're cute."

"Not ugly!" Prism protested.

The clerk held his hands up defensively. "I'm sure her parents think you're adorable."

Mikaela affectionately patted Prism on the head. "They grow on you. They online at about the level of about a three year old human kid, with some variations of a few years in either direction. The Autobots are really clear that they want their kids exposed to humans as much as possible when they're this age -- they say it'll help them integrate with our society. That's what they want, you know, just to be a part of our world."

He said thoughtfully, "It's kinda sad, when you think about it. It sounds like they don't have much left of their own world at all. Intergalactic refugees, I guess you could think of them as. Yet they did it to themselves. I dunno how sympathetic I am ..."

Mikaela snorted. "I'm tons of sympathetic when I realize the bad guys were trying to destroy this world, and the Autobots fought them to a standstill to save Earth, and that the Decepticons _did _destroy Nebulos."

"You really believe all that?"

"I was in Egypt. I was _there_." Mikaela nodded back towards the spray paint cans. "And now I need some pink paint, because one of the Autobots who saved this world, who's lost everything, who's seen almost everyone he ever knew die, who's been a doctor to a dying race for longer than we've had cities, wants to play a prank on one of his buddies."

"Mikaela?" Prism said in a worried tone, "You mad?"

"No, kiddo, I'm not mad."

* * *

The clerk helped her carry what turned out to be several hundred dollars worth of supplies out to the waiting medic, and fearlessly loaded the bags into Ratchet's back. "Hey, Ratchet," he said, "How's it going?"

"It is going well. However, I believe we will have a visit from the police in a few moments. The woman in the store called the authorities."

"She what?" Mikaela said, astonished.

"She didn't!" The man rolled his eyes. "Over what?"

"She was claiming that Prism struck her child. I presume you will be a witness to verify that Prism did him no harm? I did not hear the boy cry," Ratchet said, even as a cop car pulled into the lot and whoop-whooped once before shutting off its lights and sirens.

The woman emerged from her car and hurried towards the officer. Loud enough for everyone to hear she complained, "That _alien _hit my kid!"

Officer Davis stepped out. He studied the four of them from a distance, then walked over with the woman walking close on his heels. "Good morning, Mikaela. And -- Ratchet, correct?"

Ratchet grunted. "That's right."

"It _hit _him!" The woman pointed at her kid, "It hit my son! No provocation!"

"Ratchet hit your kid?" Davis's gaze traveled from Ratchet's bulk to the human toddler, who was now buckled into a safety seat in the back of the woman's car. Then he looked back at Ratchet, where Ratchet had a child safety seat of his own in the passenger seat of the vehicle.

Before the woman could correct Davis, Mikaela said with forced good cheer, "Oh, not Ratchet, Officer. He was outside the whole time."

"Cop!" Prism, in Mikaela's arms, held her hands out towards Davis. Mikaela, feeling particularly inspired, passed Prism over to Davis, who took her automatically, balancing her on one hip. He then looked at her in surprise, clearly unsure _why _he was holding a robot, and confused all to hell.

"This is Prism, who is, apparently, now Ratchet's kid." Mikaela dug in her purse, found Ratchet-the-Barbie, and handed it to Prism, who promptly bopped Davis on the head with the Barbie. "She's three days old."

"Three days, twenty hours, forty-nine minutes, thirteen seconds," the child corrected.

"As she says." Mikaela grinned. Apparently, that was the alien robot version of, 'three and a half!'

"That thing hit my son! There's rules! They can't bring them out in public!"

Davis regarded the ten pound, eighteen inch tall child in his arms. Prism reached for an American flag pin on his shirt, probably curious about the shiny metal. Over her head, he looked at the woman and said, "Really. Rules. Seems to me the law says they have all the legal rights humans do."

Mikaela said helpfully, "You might consider it aggravated assault, sir, but then the little boy would need to be charged with attempted theft. He tried to pick her Barbie up. Her kid wasn't hurt, though. Prism just smacked his fingers, and then I yelled at her and put her back in the cart for a time out."

Davis shoved his sunglasses up his nose and turned his attention on the woman. "You called 911 over _this_?"

"You can't let them out in public like this! It's the principle of the matter!"

"Was your child hurt?" Davis's voice hit a low, annoyed tone that made Mikaela wince.

"No, but it's the principle ..."

He turned to the store clerk. "Was there any disruption in the store? Any trouble at all?"

The clerk nodded at the woman. "Only what she caused. She was causing trouble _before _Miss Banes and the little transformer showed up."

"Ma'am, do you realize that you can be charged with a crime for misuse of the 911 system?" He sounded pissed. "

"It's an alien. Have you _seen _the videos online of some of the damage they've done? They're dangerous!" The woman's voice hit a high screeching note that made Mikaela wince.

Davis pointed at the chartreuse and red Hummer behind her. "Now, that's dangerous, if he wants to be." He pointed at Prism. "This, you could punt like a football. Not that I would recommend it, because that," he pointed at the Hummer, "could punt _you _like a football."

"Football?" Prism said, "Play football!" and giggled. Mikaela wondered if she was envisioning Ratchet kicking the woman, or if it was just the idea of a game that had her interest.

The woman's eyes were enormous. She said, "I want to talk to your supervisor. This is ridiculous."

Davis shifted Prism on his hip and said cheerfully. "Ma'am? I can give you his contact information if you like, but I really wouldn't recommend it. One child swatting another child without harm is not police business. Calling 911 when there's no crime and it's not an emergency is illegal."

She huffed. "Can I go? I'm going to call the _media_."

"You do that." Davis smiled brightly at her. "Before you go, though, I need your information."

"_What_? Why do you need _my _information?"

Davis handed Prism back to Mikaela and escorted the woman back to her car. Mikaela started to open the Hummer door to put her in her seat, but Ratchet wouldn't let her. He said in a very low tone, "Let Prism watch the officer. She needs to learn that the human authorities on this world both _have _authority, and will often side with us if we do not do anything wrong ... besides, we will need to give a report too."

"Police report. Right."

After the woman had left, Davis wandered back. Prism, who seemed to be growing rapidly more comfortable with humans in general, held her arms out to him again. "Officer Davis!"

He grinned and took her. "You are the friendliest little thing. Hold on a second, I have something -- Ratchet, is it okay if I give her a teddy bear?"

Ratchet said, "Certainly. We want her to like humans."

He popped the trunk on his cruiser with a key fob and retrieved a teddy bear from a bag of similar toys in the trunk. He explained to Mikaela, "I hit the dollar store for little toys like this -- I like to have a stuffed toy for kids at accidents, kids afraid of cops, that sort of thing."

"That's where I got her the kitty and the Barbie," Mikaela grinned at him, and he responded with a smile back.

Prism inspected the bear when he offered it to her, then declared, "Designation Davis!"

"You have a namesake," Mikaela laughed. "And thank you."

He shrugged. "People like that woman just make my job harder. Don't worry, if the 'bots were really in the wrong, I'd be testing their promises to obey human authorities and trying to figure out to how to arrest a vehicle -- we've joked about needing to call a tow truck -- but it doesn't sound like you guys did anything wrong. If she thought the alien robot was dangerous she shouldn't have let her son try to take the Barbie away."

Ratchet spoke up, "I need to thank you too, Officer Davis. When I overheard the woman calling the police I was not sure how this would work out. However, I didn't think it was prudent to leave."

"Not a problem." Davis watched Prism inspecting the bear for a moment. It had a removable vest and she'd figured out how to unsnap it and take it off. "I have two chilren of my own, you know. They're four and five years old. She reminds me of them, it's weird. Doesn't _look _like a kid, but she acts like one."

Ratchet spoke with uncharacteristic hesitation, "Would you ... like them to meet her? We are truly trying to socialize the sparklings to humans. It would be good for her to play with human children her own developmental age."

It was clear from his expression that Davis was wary. Ratchet was obviously concerned about his reaction, too. Finally, Davis said, "I'd have to talk to my ex-wife about that. I've got custody, but I don't want her to freak ..."

The medic replied, "If I am to raise her, I will make certain that she has ties to the human community. That means friends, interests in human culture, activities with humans."

"Oh, screw it." Davis shook his head. "The ex can deal. My kids will _freak _to meet you guys. They really want to meet the one that looks like a big dinosaur, but ..."

"Grimlock!" Prism yelped and dove out of Davis's arms, and straight for Ratchet's passenger-side window. She clung to the door, fingers jammed down into the seam between the glass and the metal, and scrabbled for purchase with her feet. "Ratchet, Ratchet, let me in, let me in! Grimlock! Grimlock! No, no no no no!

"Grimlock isn't here," Ratchet said, though he obligingly rolled down the window. She shot through the opening before there was more than three inches of space and disappeared into one of the cabinets in his back.

Ratchet sighed. "Sorry, Davis. Did she scratch you?"

"No -- what happened?" He picked the stuffed bear up off the ground and handed it to Mikaela.

"She's scared of every mech on the base except for me and Wheelie, but the large, aggressive mechs frighten her more." Ratchet sighed. "And she's got a pretty good imagination. She probably imagined Grimlock being here and scared herself. However, she doesn't even like other sparklings at the moment."

"She okay?"

"Physically unharmed? Yes, fine. Mentally? Only time will tell if she'll ever be comfortable with her own kind." Ratchet grumbled. "She's had a lot of trauma for one so young. However, it is good that she likes humans -- and I suspect she will benefit a lot from playing with children her developmental age."

* * *

Ranger woke late, and was a bit confused by that. He was certain he'd set his recharge cycle for six hours, and he had recharged for a full nine, with a complete defrag. He was not alone in the hangar -- Wheelie was sweeping the floor, and probably keeping an eye on Pulsar and Array. Both children were sound asleep in a corner.

_:Optimus?: _He said, over the comms. _:You in range?:_

:Here. I'm on the gunnery range with Ironhide.:

:Can I join you? I need to talk.: He needed to tell Optimus about the discrepancy in his recharge cycle. Something had changed his settings, and he wasn't sure what.  
_  
:Meet me down at the river.: _

_:Yes sir.:_

Optimus made it there first, and was seated on a rock as he approached. His mentor looked grave. He also had a couple new dents in his armor.

"Were you in a fight?" He asked, concerned by the damage.

"Just sparring. We train a few times a week." Optimus vented a sigh. "You'll be joining us immediately, by the way, starting with our next session the day after tomorrow."

"Me?" He was just a kid.

"You're ... probably going to need it, Ranger." Optimus sounded sad. "If there's an attack, the other sparklings will have orders to hide. We're going to be building blast shelters here very soon, now that the humans have agreed to let us create a defensible base. You have the cognitive abilities to handle yourself in a battle, possibly better than many soldiers who've millenia of experience. We may need every gun we can get, and it would be foolish of us not to take advantage of one more capable hand."

Ranger was pleased by the praise. However, he said, "I don't know if I could pull the trigger."

"You would regret it." Optimus regarded him levelly. "Ranger, I asked you to come here, where we have a little privacy, because last night we learned what -- who -- is in the partition in your processor."

He was not entirely surprised to hear there was a 'who' there, in retrospect. Someone had given him files and routines that he'd needed. Someone had altered his recharge cycle. "Who is it?"

"I will never regret having you as my child," Optimus said, quietly, and Ranger thought he sounded shaken. "I will never regret _you_. But Prowl is alive behind that partition, Ranger."

Ranger felt like the ground had been swept out from under his feet. "But you said he couldn't be recovered!"

"We didn't find him ... he hid himself too well, in an effort to hide from Soundwave and from the virus itself." Optimus closed his eyes. "If not for our mistake in underestimating him, you would not exist, Ranger."

"He's in there?" Ranger whispered. "Is he ... aware?"

"He can currently see and hear through your sensors. He's watching us right now." Optimus looked miserable. "I'm sorry, Ranger."

_Oh, Primus, he doesn't regret me, but this is Prowl's body. It was never meant to be mine. He said he was sorry. Now is when he tells me they need to delete me, all apologetic ... We're still at war. Prowl was his second in command. That means he was probably brilliant, and they still need brilliant officers._

:Ranger,: A firm voice said in his head, _:You are not going to be deleted. If anyone tries, I will fight them every step of the way.:_

He knew who this was. The other mech's voice was very much like his own mental thoughts. It was reassuringly familiar, yet somehow older and wiser.

"Optimus?" Ranger said, uncertainly. "I can hear him."

"I know. He told us he was going to introduce himself. He's also going to teach you how to block him from your thoughts, and from your sensors." Optimus waited for a moment, blue eyes regarded Ranger with concern. "Ranger, you will be able to block Prowl from all contact with the outside world, including from _you_. That is a very effective way to drive a mech insane in very short order. Prowl is a good mech. I agree with him that you may need privacy, but please ... consider him in your actions, too."

"You're not going to delete me?"

Optimus's eyes widened in shock. "No! Primus, no!"

"But it's _his _body!"

_:It's your body, too,: _Prowl said, even as Optimus rose off his rock and pulled Ranger into a hug.

"You are my child. I am fervently glad that I do not have to chose between Prowl and you, Ranger, because I could not make that choice." The strained tone of Optimus's voice compelled him to look up into Optimus's optics. "You two will need to work together to find a life that allows _both _of you some freedom and individuality."

Optimus started to let go, and Ranger clung to him. "Don't go. Don't leave me alone."

"Very well." Optimus sat down, and Ranger curled up next to him. He could hear the thrum of power through Optimus's circuits, a reminder of just how much physical power the mech who called him 'my child' had. He felt safer with Optimus there, even though his logic told him that this stranger in his head could probably reformat his cores before Optimus could do a thing.

_:I'm pretty sure Optimus would figure out a way to stop that if I tried,: _Prowl's voice held dark, dry humor. _:I learned a long time ago to never underestimate a Matrix bearer.:_

"You'll always protect me?" Ranger said, to Optimus, not meaning protection from Prowel so much as 'protect against the world in general', but Optimus's reactions had made him realize just how deep Optimus's feelings ran. He was Optimus's child, and Optimus took that duty very seriously.

"I cannot protect you from all of the universe's evils, my child, but I will do everything within my power, everything that is just and fair, to ensure you are safe." It was a big explanation, and Ranger struggled to understand it.

_:You had fifteen brothers and sisters,: _Prowl said, _:They're all dead now. One turned 'con, and Magnus killed him in battle. The other fourteen, Optimus sent to war, and eventually, none came back.: _

The implicatins shook Ranger to his core. Would Optimus someday ask _him _to go into a battle he would not return from?

_:Perhaps. One hopes you will have time to grow up first.:_

:Prowl,: It was the first time he'd directly acknowledged the stranger in his head, _:This must be terribly hard.:_

:All things considered, I prefer your company to Barricade's. However, I do need to teach you to block me out, for your own good. You deserve privacy, and you deserve to grow up on your own.:

Optimus's presence was a reassuring bulk next to Ranger as files began to flow into Ranger's memory core. He examined them. They were complex, and he had to ask a few questions to understand what he was installing.

_:You wrote this?:_

:Yes. I always wanted to go into medicine, but was never given a chance to study it. I suspect I would have been good at it.: Prowl corrected a mistake Ranger had made when making a change to his operating code. _:Don't forget to change the permissions to allow that script to run. You'd put yourself in an error state the first time you tried to block me out, otherwise.:_

:Why are you doing this?:

:Because it's your life now, not mine.:

Suddenly, he was irritated. _:Don't you want anything for yourself?:_

:A pony.: The response was fully of snark.

_:Prowl, this isn't fair.: _

He had the block between their minds activated, so Prowl could no longer read his thoughts. Prowl, therefore, misunderstood. _:I know it's not, kid, but I'm not willing to delete myself just because it's your body now.:_

:No, I mean it's not fair to you_. Why do you think I have more right to this body than you do?:_

:There's legal precedent, kiddo. Ultimately, I'm sworn to uphold Cybertronian law. Simply because all that's left of the Cybertronian legal system is Optimus Prime and a handful of senators like Ratchet doesn't mean I don't have to uphold the law. Even if -- or especially if -- it directly concerns me.:

:Legal precedent?:

:I was Optimus's Head of Enforcement long before I was his second in command of the Autobot Army. The Department of Enforcement made sure the laws of our world were followed, and arrested and prosecuted lawbreakers. Think of them as somewhat like Earth's FBI and Secret Service all rolled into one. Jazz was my second in command. I can't think of a case identical to this, precisely, but I know there were a few incidents where mechs were reformatted and then complete memory files were found or recovered. In one case, a parent didn't like the career his youngling had chosen -- the mech had taken a position on an interplanetary exploration vessel and intended to be gone for tens of thousands of years -- and the mentor simply pulled the child's memory core and installed a factory new one and started over. In every case, the younger personality was given preference.: Prowl's words were steady, though Ranger detected quite a bit of anger during the last few sentences. That must have been a case that thoroughly pissed the mech off.  
_  
:Why would the child be given priority?:_

:Because children are sacred to us. There were so few children among us, even then, because no civilian child would be sparked until someone else died, that every child was a treasure.: Prowl hesitated. _:The wrinkle here is that I'm conscious. In all cases I saw we simply had an offline memory core, or, in one case, a copy of a mech's memories made during a core upgrade. The offline mech never knew his fate was being weighed in the courts.:_

_:Oh.:_

:Also, who wants to look a trusting child in the optics and tell them you're going to execute them?: Prowl sent the mental equivalent to a sigh.

_:Prowl, this really isn't fair to you. You are in here. This is your body.:_

:Would you have me delete you?: Now he sounded irritated.

_:No, but we can share. More fairly.:_

Silence, from the other mech, that ran on and on. Optimus was motionless next to Ranger, providing silent moral support and more comfort than Ranger though his mentor could possibly know. Still, for a moment, Ranger felt utterly alone in this.

_:What do you have in mind?: _There was hope in that voice, for the very first time.

_:Let's split our time in this body equally. Half and half. I can recharge while you operate it, right?:_

:Yes, I can, but I was concerned you would find that worrisome.:

:Just don't break _me.: _Ranger chuckled. He felt good, now, and knew he was making the right decision. _:We should probably have some sort of visual cue so people know who they're talking to. We can change our paint nanytes depending on who's driving.:_

:Do you like the silver?:

:Quite a bit.:

:I'll be white, with black trim.: Prowl sounded pleased by the suggestion, but then he pointed out, _:Even if we both recharge a full nine hours, there will be times we overlap in consciousness.:_

:We can assume a twelve hour shift for each of us, and just deal with the overlap.:

:Hnnh. There may be times when you want more than twelve hours. I don't have the processor power in my partition to really do anything but maintain basic consciousness and reason ... you can make far more productive use of your time than I can.:

:Oh, we need to fix that problem with you having such a small partition.: Ranger let a bit of bossiness touch his response. _:You fix it, or I'll figure out how. That's _really _not fair that you've got so little space. I'm willing to bet you're like me, given we share the same spark. That's got to be torture.:_

:Hnnh.:

:Partition my memory core and move back in there. There's plenty of room, and we can expand it down the road if we need to. Then expand the partition in the processor core so you can actually function.:

:That'll reduce your abilities to process data.:

:Feh. And then if there's really a need, I just say, 'Hey, Prowl, will you crunch this data for me? I'm full up.': Ranger let his irritation transmit with his words, and Prowl surprised him with a dark laugh.

_:We are a great deal alike.:_

:We are the same spark.: Ranger snorted back at him. _:Seems to me if I hurt you, I'm hurting myself.:_

:Kiddo,: Prowl replied, sounding awed, _:Kiddo, this is far more than I expected. I believed you would react negatively to me.: _  
_  
:We are the same spark. How would you react if our roles were reversed?:_

:We are the same spark, but we are not the same mech. I would react very badly if our roles were reversed. I do not trust easy, and I do not like ... emotional bonds ... with those I don't trust.: He could almost see Prowl's frown. _:Your innocence ... is refreshing. Your sense of justice familiar, but you do not have my cynicism.:_

:But I'm right _that we need to work together_._: _He was sure of that. _:The best thing for both of us is to share. Besides, I suspect I'm not your typical sparkling because of your influence, right?: _How he knew that he wasn't sure, but it was true. _:I'm somewhat grateful for that. I think I'd have died of frustration if I was stuck playing games with the little ones for the next several years.:_

A mental snort greeted that last pronouncement. Apparently, Prowl agreed with the appeal -- or lack thereof -- of sparkling games. _:Yes. However much I try to prevent it, you will pick up thoughts and feelings from me, via the connection through our shared spark.: _

_:That's somewhat disturbing. Is that why I think Jazz is the hottest mech on two legs I've ever seen, and I'm reasonably sure I'm too young for those thoughts?:_

:Oh, Primus.: Prowl growled. _:You are _way _too young for those thoughts.:_

:And just what _are you going to do with our body and our cores when I recharge?:_

:Oh, now you're teasing me.:

:Because you're squirming more than I am.: He _was _teasing.

_:This is very disturbing. You are far too young!: _Prowl wasn't laughing.

_:Don't worry. I'm not actually interested in him. My actual response was ...: _He dropped the shields so Prowl could see and feel that he _had _reacted with interest, shortly followed by mild horror at the thought of anyone but his mentor accessing his memory core. And he had a pretty strong reluctance even to allow Prime to do that. He wanted privacy, as was age-appropriate; younglings instinctively avoided interfacing while they developed their own senses of self.

_:Yet you're letting me in,: _Prowl snapped. _:Stop that. You're too young to 'face with anyone, and that includes me. Effectively, when you drop your barriers that _is _what you are doing, and I do not want it and can't stop it. You'd see everything I am thinking if I dropped my barriers too.:_

_:Oh. Sorry.:_

:Yeah. Let's keep this to an internal comm link, please. I don't want _to know your thoughts. The only time I'll access your cores is to do work on them.:_

:Yes sir.:

:And don't call me sir. I am not your superior officer. You are not a soldier.:

:Yes ... Prowl.: Chastened, apologized, _:Sorry.:_

:Hnh. If you're serious about sharing your cores with me fully, I need you to get Optimus's permission also. You are a minor. Legally, he gets quite a big say in what another mech is going to do in your mind.:

:Okay.: He was reasonably sure Optimus would agree. In fact, this idea might make Optimus a little less sad. He hated the thought that Optimus was upset over this. "Optimus?"

Optimus glanced down at him, and tightened his arm around Ranger's shoulder in a warm hug. "Are you doing well?"

Ranger nodded, a little shyly. Suddenly, he was worried that Optimus might object to their agreement. It felt so right to share with Prowl. "Prowl and I ... came to an agreement, but he says you need to agree to it too. We're going to share. Equally. He's going to create a sector in our memory core for himself, and enlarge his share of our processor core."

"That wasn't what he discussed with me." Optimus sounded concerned.

"It was my idea. It's not fair for him to be locked up in a tiny little partition while I live my life. We'll share time, too. Equally, fifty-fifty."

"I see. You thought this was fair?" The pressure of Optimus's hug increased. "I'm proud of you for thinking of him."

"What he was suggesting didn't feel right. I wanted it to be _right_."

"You have a profound sense of justice." Optimus nodded slowly. "Very well, Ranger. I agree, and I trust Prowl to make the modifications safely, and without damage to you. However, I have one request, and that is for the foreseeable future that your time is not evenly split. Ranger, you are young. You need time to explore the world and learn your place in it. Prowl has lived a good long life. He may have the nine hours in twenty-four that you _should _be spending in recharge for his own purposes. You will have the other fifteen for yours. Prowl, do you agree?"

_:Use the comm to talk to him,:_ Ranger suggested to Prowl, over their internal link.

_:Yes sir. That sounds sensible.: _Prowl's relief was audible.

Ranger didn't like it, however, and said so.

Prowl, however, assured him, _:It's okay, kiddo. With the amount of processor space you're giving me, I can do quite a bit of work even when you're driving.:_

"He'll need a comm of his own, too," Ranger suggested. "One for each partition."

_:I specifically told Jazz I didn't want to do that, because I felt it would make you uneasy. It will remind you I'm here.:_

Ranger said, quite honestly, "Well, if I had my wishes, I wouldn't have someone else sharing my cores. But since you _are _here, I'm going to deal with it fairly. I also know you're in there -- it's not like it would make any sense to pretend you're not. And it still doesn't feel right not to share time evenly."

_:No, Optimus is correct.: _Prowl sounded very firm.

"Ranger, you can share evenly with him when you're an adult. For now, you need that time to be a child, and to grow up."

"I don't feel much like a child," he said. He felt like he had to make important decisions that affected others, that he had to be _responsible._

"Well," Optimus said with a small amount of amusement, "If I ever tried to hug Prowl like this, he probably would have glared at me until I desisted. You've got a lot of youngling in you yet, Ranger. And that's a good thing. Enjoy it. You are only a child once."

* * *

It took Deathwheels almost all day to come slinking back in to Fang's office.

Fang had called the temp agency to request a human secretary. The temp agency had informed him he needed to fill out a packet of paperwork. He had the packet on his desk, and was trying to figure out what level of education he needed to specify. Why couldn't he just say, "Send me someone competent?" and have them do it.

Oh, no. They wanted him to be specific with the set of skills that his temp worker would need.

_Large, macho, and unafraid of alien robots. Able to follow orders. Maybe I can just borrow a human soldier._

Hah. Fat chance of _that_ happening.

For education level he made a note, "Appropriate to the job." Presumably, the humans could figure out what education level humans needed to fill out papers, run errands, and not scream and die of fright when Deathwheels loomed over them, as Death was now doing behind Fang. It was amazing how someone who had crept almost silently into a room could _loom_. Fang's auxiliary optics showed him Deathwheels was actually one step from the doorway, had his armor pinned tightly to his frame with fear, and was waiting nervously to be acknowledged.

Still, he felt like he was _looming_. Maybe that was just because Fangface was terrified of speaking to him. Not exactly because he was afraid of Deathwheels, but because he didn't want to face this.

Deathwheels apparently concluded that Fang wasn't going to acknowledge his presence, because he turned to silently go.

"Wait." Fangface's words were sharp in silence. He set the toothpick sized pen down, and stared straight ahead, out his office window. TC and Skywarp were chasing each other across the sky, looking more playful than engaging in any serious war games.

"Fang ... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Death rushed forward. He dropped down to his knees before Fang, then prostrated himself. "I am _sorry_, my lord."

"Oh, get up." Fang sighed. "I'm not going to kill you."

"How ... how's Prism?" He sat up, cautiously.

Fangface shrugged. "Ratchet says she keeps asking for me, but it's probably best I don't see her."

"... I don't understand. She's still with Ratchet?" Death was very still, eyes very wide. "Was she that badly hurt?"

"No, Death." Fang rose from his chair and turned his back on Deathwheels. "I cannot keep her safe here. I ... gave her to Ratchet."

"You ... _what_?" Deathwheels was staring at him. "Fang, that's insane. You cannot give away your sparkling to another, just like that! Shes not a pet!"

"I could, and I did. I never should have taken a sparkling to begin with."

"But you were the one who brought her online. She's imprinted on you!" Deathwheels balled his fists. "You can't do that! You'll traumatize her for life!"

"Not necessarily. Ratchet will take good care of her. The Autobots will love her. She will heal. Better that she grieve than she die." Fang turned to face him. "I couldn't even keep her safe from _you_."

"I'll _never _do anything like that again." Deathwheels was clearly horrified. "You can't ... I made you give up Prism. I'm so sorry."

Insanely, he felt guilty and responsible for Death's reaction. Fang found himself trying to soothe Death's upset feelings when he said, "It wasn't just you. You just showed me how easy it would be for someone to hurt her. Prism deserves a chance to grow up surrounded by people who love her, not be raised among us, always needing to look over her shoulder and watch for danger. You didn't really mean to hurt her, but there are those who would. I've seen Skywarp tease the micromechs like Prism to the point of hysteria, just because he thinks it's funny."

"'Warp isn't entirely responsible for his own actions." Death had done a deep scan of Skywarp's core, but was still stumped about how to fix it without completely reinstalling his operational code. That was a possibility, but there were mental health reasons why that was an undesirable solution.

"He might not be competant, but that doesn't matter to the mech being tormented. Rivet tells me Skywarp glued him to the ceiling once and Starscream found it funny, and it took his partner _days _to get permission to take him down." Fang had found Rivet to be a snarkily funny little guy, and was seriously considering giving him an officer's commission. He liked Rivet.

"Fang, how are you going to explain what happened to Prism to the others? Strika adored her."

Fangface shrugged. "If anyone asks, the official story is that she proved to be completely useless in all ways, and the Autobots wanted her when I didn't. I'm ruthless. Everyone knows it."

Death snorted. "I suppose that will work, though I feel sorry for the kid if she hears that story from anyone and believes it. However, I wish you hadn't given her to Ratchet, of all mechs. I told you that you need to stay away from him, and now you have one more reason to see him."

Fangface took a swift step forward and poked a claw at the middle of Death's chassis, reaching up to do it. "Don't you _dare _tell me who I can, and cannot, be friends with."

"It looks terrible! They won't follow you if ..."

Fangface said, short and sharp and savage, "It looks terrible or it looks very _good_. Take your pick. On the one hand, it looks like I'm consorting with the enemy. On the other, it's leading by example. We're supposed to be _stopping _this bleeding war. It's got to start somewhere. The war won't stop, it'll just be on hiatus, if we're always two camps with a no man's land in between."

"It's to _soon_!"

"And you don't trust me."

"Fang, I've 'faced with you. I've seen your thoughts. I know you'd 'face with Ratchet in a heartbeat ..."

Fangface planted a hand in the middle of the much larger mech's chest and gave him a shove. He had to reach up to do it, and Death outmassed him by several times, but Death did take a step back. "You don't _trust _me. Slag you. That's not true. That's you putting _your _interpretation on my feelings. Just because I'd _like _to do it doesn't mean I ever will!"

"How can I trust you when you feel like that about him? And yet you're jealous of _me_ when I just have a moment of _caring _for another." Deathwheels countered, folding his arms.

"Haven't you told me I don't feel love like other mechs?" Fangface snarled. "That I'm _damaged_?" He balled his hand up and smacked that fist into Death's chest armor. "And then when I _do_, you get mad at me! What do you _want _from me, Deathwheels? I don't even understand what you _want_!"

"I want you to stay away from Ratchet. He's bad for you."

"Maybe he's not. Maybe he's the one person in this world I really, truly trust right now." Fang spun away.

"I'm your partner. You should trust me." Death hesitantly tried to put his hand on Fang's shoulder, and Fang shrugged it off. When Death tried a second time, Fang took a long step away. "Fang, c'mon. He's an Autobot, and he's temptation on two legs for you. You committed to me. Stay away from him. Please. For me."

"You got mad when _I _was jealous, and I wasn't going to act on it or say a thing. I can't help my feelings, Deathwheels, but I respect yours." Fangface wasn't going to turn around. He was afraid he would either cry or lose control of his temper if he did. "I have absolutely no intention of cheating on you. None. If you can't see that, then maybe it's _your _problem."

"You _gave him your sparkling_, Fang. If that doesn't indicate a pretty profound level of connection between two mechs, I don't know what does."

"All it indicates is that I know he'd be a better parent than I am, and that he's caring enough to agree to it."

"Stay away from him _for me_, if nothing else."

Fang whirled at last. "How _dare _you ask that of me. I am _not _going to cheat on you ..."

"Yes. You are." Death spoke with quiet conviction.

Fangface threw his hands in the air in absolute frustration. "No, I'm not, because I'm breaking this off. Now. Here. Screw it, Death. Get out of my office. I've had it! I've got enough stress to deal with, without dealing with _your _drama too!"

"But Fang ..." Death was clearly stunned by this. "You can't. I mean, you _can't_."

Fang felt free, for half a second. And then he was terrified, like he was falling with no net. Who was he going to turn to when he needed advice? Who was going to give him tactical analysis, who was going to do his research, who was going to watch his back? How was he going to survive? He'd relied on Deathwheels to be his bodyguard and brains both. Without Death, he'd be all alone, and he had no one he trusted to step into Death's tracks.

He wished he could take back those savage words. He wished he were less impulsive, less prone to firing off his mouth. A leader should be able to guard his words more, he thought, but then again, this was the Decepticon army. Compared to Megatron and Starscream, he was the epitome of discretion. If being controlled and cool at all times were a primary job requirement, _Soundwave _would have led the 'cons.

"Slaggit!" Death took a step forward, and Fang's attention abruptly jolted from his wandering and self-critical thoughts back to Death's very large, very looming presence. "I can't let you do this."

"Can't _let _me? What are you going to do, force me?" Fang flung that at him through bared teeth. "It practically _was, _the first time."

"You consented!"

"Yes, I did." Fangface stood his ground, even as Deathwheels physically loomed over him. "I thought I could trust you. But you... you _manipulated _me. And I won't be manipulated again, not by anyone."

"I didn't mean to." Death growled. "I just _wanted _you. And I wanted to make you better than you are! Fang, you're ... you're weak. You're damaged. You have huge dreams, but you're not going to see them happen unless you listen to me. I'm the one with the intelligence. I'm the one who's good at tactics. I'm the one who can help you win. And I'm the only one you can really trust right now. Who are you going to trust besides me. TC? His partner's tried to kill you twice, and you killed his other partner! Strika? She's always had her own agenda. Aquaregia? I swear he's got to be hiding something, nobody is that _noble _in the 'con army. Rivet? He's less than two feet tall. Astrotrain? He'd frag you soon as look at you."

Death reached a hand out, lightning quick, and grabbed Fang by the arm. "Don't you understand how much I _want _you? How much I'm the _only _one you can trust?"

"I've 'faced with you, remember?" He remembered that intense desire, and the burning pleasure it had created in him, with keen clarity. Interfacing with Death, when they weren't fighting, was intense and fierce. Death _wanted _him, and Fangface had never known anyone else's desire for him before in his life. It had affected him on a profound level.

"Let me show you again." Death produced a datalink cable. "Let me remind you. Please, Fang. Don't do this. Don't ..."

He was so very tempted, for a moment, recalling those feelings. He knew they could regain that intimacy, that connection, and he almost said yes. However, he was convinced that if they did they would fight again. There was nothing in this world that would change Deathwheels because Death refused to believe he needed to change; he was completely convinced he was right in all things.

Death reached for his dataport cover. Fang tried to push his hand away, gesture quick and definite, and Death, who was far stronger, simply ignored Fang's resistance. In one shining moment, Fang realized that he _did not _want the relationship to continue. Thoughts of running the army, of what his future might hold, of how much he _needed _his tactician vanished.

"No!" He said, sternly. "No, Death!"

Death disregarded that clear, unequivocal _no_. "You'll understand. You've got to _see _how I feel ..."

Strong fingers pried at the cover, forcing it open. He cried out at the sharp pain of breaking latches and bending hinges. Fear crushed his spark in his chest, fear and a sense of real betrayal.

"I want you to see! You need me!" Death insisted.

Fang thrashed, still resisting the idea of _hurting _Deathwheels. Then the datalink cable snicked into place and rather than a polite request for access what hit him was a battering assault of code. Death hadn't even _tried _to seduce him. This was a full-on attempt to hack. Death said, sounding desperate, "You'll see! I'll make you see! You've got so much potential, I love you so much, but you need to _heal_, and you can't do that if you won't let me help ..."

_Slag him! _Fang thought, and made a clear decision to fight back. He'd simply had enough. He lunged forward, rather than trying to pull away, Death froze in place as Fang sank his teeth into Death's arm, punching his fangs through armor and into Death's struts.

His attempt to hack Fangface abruptly stopped.

_:You will let go of me or I will remove your spark from your chest.: _Fang had a mouth full of armor. He issued the threat over the comms, not caring who might decrypt it. _:Get out of my sight before I kill you.:_

And _still _Deathwheels argued. "You won't _do _this, Fang. You can't."

_:Watch me.: _Fang was in a bad position to claw through Death's chest armor, but he caught a back foot against Death's pelvic plating and kicked. Death screamed in pain and shocked as Fang ripped through one of the hydraulic lines that powered his left leg and severed a number of sensory wires. He staggered off balance, and Fang, still latched onto his forearm, growled a clear threat.

When he opened his mouth, his partner -- his ex-partner, because Fang was never letting Deathwheels near him again -- retreated so quickly that the datalink cable ripped out with damaging speed from Fang's side. Fang hissed in pain and then transformed into his very deadly alt mode. _:Get your aft out of sight. Be glad if I don't decide to execute you for this. And if you say you're sorry, I swear I'm going to tear your head off.:_

Death stared at him, shocked. "I didn't mean ... I _am _sorry."

Fang took one step towards him, fully intending to carry out his threat.

**_:ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! INCOMING! INCOMING! INCOMING!: _**Obsidian's voice shouted over all general comm channels. **_:ALL PERSONNEL REPORT TO BATTLE STATIONS. INCOMING SHIP. INCOMING SHIP. REPEAT, ALL PERSONNEL REPORT TO BATTLE STATIONS. WE HAVE UNIDENTIFIED INCOMING, FIFTEEN MINUTES ETA.: _**

"Oh, _frag_." Fang threw his hands in the air. "Death, this isn't over!"

Telemetry followed. The incoming ship was approaching hot, steep and fast, and was _big_. He wasn't sure if it was Nebulan, if it was Cybertronian (perhaps one of the commanders he'd worried about), or 'other' -- this was such a rich, tempting world and taking out the joint Autobot/Decepticon base of operations would be the first step any invading force would take. It was just too soon to guess.

However, friendlies didn't break orbit like that. That was a de-orbital path designed to limit the chances for interception. It was so fast and steep that even human ballistic missile defenses likely couldn't hit it.

He started issuing orders, ignoring the stunned expression that Deathwheels was still favoring him with. _:Thundercracker, Skywarp, go bring Astrotrain and company down an altitude to intercept. Death, calculate a teleport point and trajectory for them.:_

Death blinked at him, but did as he was told. Fang didn't have time to worry if Death would follow orders or not, and had to assume he would. He _did _have the fastest processor at the base. Fang kept issuing orders, _:Strika, keep in close contact with the Autobots. We've only touched on the generalities of battle protocol, slaggit, but comm Jazz and make sure we keep lines of communication open. We do _not _need to be shooting at each other right now! And get the Nemesis airborn _now_ and park her over the SOA. Priority is sparkling defense.:_

He switched to Astrotrain's comm frequency, pinging the encryption key to the seekers so they could hear his orders. _:Astrotrain, you and Blitzwing will directly intercept this ship with all our seekers backing you up. TC can jump you to a good trajectory. Skywarp's going to bring the Predaking team down to Earth. Kick 'em out into vaccuum so he can pick them up.:_

:Acknowledged.: 

He flipped over to human frequencies, _:Major Lennox, I just dispatched my fliers to intercept this ship and get us a combiner teamt. How fast can you scramble your pilots?:_

:On it, Fang. We've got seventeen F22's here at the moment. Silver's already airborn.:

Deathwheels belatedly spoke up; Fang realized he'd automatically used keys that Death had when encrypting his transmissions. _:Silver's too slow to intercept and won't be able to keep up in a fight at the velocity that thing's showing. Jazz, have him provide air support over the base, will you? We'll tackle this. This could get ugly if there's more than one point to intercept ...:_

They just didn't have the air support they needed. And right on cue, radar picked up a second signature.  
_  
**:Additonal incoming. Additional incoming.: **_Obsidian didn't sound like he was panicking, but he wasn't happy. The telemetry this time showed multiple radar echoes coming from a second direction.

_:Ah, slag.: _Jazz snapped. _:There's the ground assault force. They're coming in hot and hard.:_

:Slaggit! There's at least a hundred echoes!: Ironhide snarled across the radios.  
_  
:We have technological superiority if that's Nebulans. If it's Cybertronians ...: _Fang trailed off. _:Death, I need you out in the field. Go to the SOA, command from there. I'll cover the base. That's our priority to defend.:_

:Yes sir.: Death headed for the door. He was halfway down the hall when he added over a private line, _:Know that I am loyal, always.:_

:Fragger, do not _distract me right now.: _Fangface snapped in irritation. He switched to another channel for a private question. _:Ratchet, where's Prism?:_

:Behind my grill, playing with her dolls.: Ratchet's response was swift and impatient. He was probably getting ready for incoming casualties, and Fang couldn't help but think that hangar was practically defenseless. It was thin tin over a spindly steel frame. Sufficient only to keep the weather off, it wouldn't even stop a bullet. He worried, suddenly, about _Ratchet's _safety. That concern was swift and sharp, distracting in its intensity.

Until recently, he'd been led to believe that the humans hadn't trusted the Autobots enough to allow them to build reinforced blast-proof buildings.

In contrast with the Autobot way of getting things done -- which was to politely ask and negotiate for permission to do everything including changing their own lubricants, he hadn't asked for anyone's approval when setting up his own base, he'd just told the Constructicons to start digging. Some things just shouldn't require political permission. If they didn't like the fact that he'd dug in and made a defensible base, they were welcome to try to dig him out now. The humans probably had not realized just how much work a few well-motivated Constructicons could get done in four days. They'd perfected techniques for rapid construction over eons of time.

He said to Ratchet, _:Dolls? -- Nevermind. Good that she's with you. However, my private quarters are heavily reinforced for use as a bomb shelter. Send your noncombatant humans and all the new sparklings to our base. It's the safest place for them.:_

:Acknowledged. Thank you.:

That taken care of, Fang activated his battle routines and headed for the door himself. It had been a long time since he'd been in a pitched battle. In the mood he was in, he almost found himself looking forward to one. He wanted to kill an appropriate target or two.

Outside, he could hear air raid sirens wailing in the distance, in the human town of Tranquility. Over human airwaves he could hear frantic reporters giving garbled stories about an attack in progress at the base.

Somewhere, something went _whoomph _in a large explosion. He tensed before he learned it was not an attack, but rather a mech testing a weapon. _:Bluestreak's sighting in his guns. You'll hear three more blasts,: _Jazz snapped over the general comm line by way of explanation.

Fang hurried towards to top his own fuel supplies off, which was standard protocol if there was time before a fight. A line of his soldiers had formed at the energon tanks. As he approached, fight broke out between two shock troopers over who was next in line. Strika broke it up, throwing one of them to the ground and the other into the barracks wall.

To an outsider, it would have seemed like complete chaos. Other than the fight, however, this was orderly. They'd been in so many battles that everyone knew what to do.

Ratchet appeared with a roar of straining engines, light bar on top of his cab blazing with red and blue strobes. _:Do not shoot at the medic!: _Strika snarled over the airwaves, as Ratchet blew past them without slowing at close to two hundred miles per hour. He had most of the Autobot sparklings and several humans crammed into his cab, and Ranger and Scanner bringing up the rear, both transformed into their alt modes.

_:Ratchet!: _Fang made a snap decision, when his spark seemed to lighten just a bit at the sight of the medic's familiar green paint. _:Do you want to set up your trauma center here? We've got an underground bunker for our med bay now.:_

:Yes, thank _you,: _Ratchet replied, fervently, even as he skidded around a corner and disappeared in the direction of the barracks entrance. _:'Aid, 'Jack, Wheelie, Socket, Inferno, did you catch that? Grab the trauma supplies stat and get your afts over here. I'll take a blast door between my patients and the fight any day, thanks.:_

Strika protested to Fang, _:They're Autobots!:_

:Yeah,: Fang shot back at her as he ran a systems check of his laser rifles, _:And they're slaggin' better medics than any of ours! Our base, their medics. You think Ratchet _won't _fix our casualties when they're defending his aft?:_

:Point,: she conceded.

_:Ranger's got a good sized pulse cannon,: _Ratchet reappeared at a more sedate pace after dropping the sparklings off in Fang's quarters. _:Mikaela, Sam, and Ron Witwicky and Bee's human half are also armed with small pulse cannons. They can probably hold off an attack for a good long while.:_

:Ranger's six days old!:

:Yeah, well, he's got some adult guidance we didn't expect and who is running the show right now -- Ranger's exact words were that he was too scared to shoot straight when I grabbed his arm to bolt on a gun, and he'd let the adult take over. I'd clear his other half for active duty except the troops _don't know about him yet, and it would cause more confusion than we could afford.: _Ratchet's optics scanned the sky, even as the medics screamed through the base and followed Strika's directions to access the deeply buried med bay.

_:Other half ...?: _For a moment, Fang thought Ratchet was talking about Barricade, then his eyes widened. _:I gotcha.:_

:Mmhmm. Just so you know. I also unlocked Scanner's transformation routines and gave him orders to pack the smaller sparklings and the humans in his cab and run like hell if Prowl orders it. Told him to follow the human's directions and run for it. He was crying when I left, slaggit!:

At that moment, Astrotrain's voice crackled over the command comm, _:Got a visual on our bogey. Holeeee Primus, Fang, this sucker's big.:_

:Got me an identity?:

:It's not one of ours, and it's got Nebulan writing on it. I do believe our enemy has finally engaged.:

"Oh, we knew _that _was coming," Fang growled aloud, as he shoved the energon nozzle into his fuel port.

Ratchet turned to follow the other medics. His tone was worried, however, when he said, _  
:Stay safe, Fang.:_

:You too, Ratch.: He allowed himself a few klicks time gazing after Ratchet before he turned his attention back to the looming battle. He couldn't allow himself even a moment of sentimental thought or personal feelings until this was over. He started barking orders again. _:Death! You haven't fueled yet! Top your tanks off _now. _Strika, you too! Skywarp! Where's that combiner team? Get them down here _now _and I don't care how much they hate teleporting, just grab them and _jump_! Obsidian, why isn't the Nemesis powering up yet? Get her going! ...:_

There was so much to do. So little time. And the stakes were so very high. He refused to think that this was the most important battle he'd ever faced, but that awareness was twisting its way through his processor. If they lost, if the Nebulans killed the sparklings in the SOA, it was all over. This was too soon, they weren't ready, and this was so very, very pointless.


	74. Chapter 74

Chapter 74

Author's notes: There's a link in my profile to some first-person accounts and video of soldiers who were fairly close to an air burst similar to the ones described in this chapter. That video should go a long way to explaining the reactions of the characters.

* * *

Deep beneath the Nevada desert, the Constructicons had excavated a small but very well defended communications center. Fang ducked around the blast baffles and ran into the room, firing up the computers as he did. One of the first things he'd done upon arriving was set up a comm center. The comm center had come first, then barracks, followed by a rudimentary med bay. Projects intended for today had including burying the energon tanks, fortifying a network of sensors for surveillance, and enhancing radar, communications and anti-aircraft installations.

_Foolish Autobots, _he thought, _I'd never let the humans tell me I can't dig in and defend myself in a fight. Really__. Those tin shacks they call a base wouldn't stop a ball bearing fired from a slingshot. _

Optimus had been _far _too obliging, as far as Fang was concerned. He was willing to cooperate with the humans to a significant degree, but drew the line at human rules that endangered his own aft. Telling him he couldn't build a properly defensible base when they were quite possibly facing war with an advanced alien race that had the high ground advantage by virtue of being in orbit? _Right_. He was not suicidal, and human wrath scared him a lot less than giant Nebulan robots.

He didn't have all the cameras he wanted installed up yet, but visuals from various surveillance sets popped up on the monitors. The SOA had numerous cameras inside and out, the Decepticon base had plenty in and around it, and he'd stuck several dozen to various trees and geological features around the base. Only the most important camera views came up on the monitors as he turned them on, but one display showed a detailed tactical map.

_:Optimus,: _he comm'd, _:I'm pinging you the address and passkey to view our tracking map.:_

_:Thank you, Fang.: _

_:Send me the tracking strings for your troops and I'll add them to the map. We're going to need to sync up and coordinate like we were quantum tied to make this work and avoid friendly fire. Slag it, I wish we'd had more time to do some war games together.: _

Optimus hesitated for a moment, probably conferring with his officers. Then he transmitted a list of Autobot designation codes. Fang entered them into the tactical computer, and the Autobots appeared on the display. He regarded the display intently, noting it showed that they didn't have sufficient cover for the south side of the Sparkling Operation Area, and that Bluestreak's location on top of the air traffic control tower was highly vulnerable.

_:Optimus, do you want to move Blue to the top of our barracks? The building's reinforced to take a pretty good blast and the bunker below it will survive all but a nuke hit. If they start throwing explosive ordinance at us he's wicked vulnerable up there on the air traffic control tower.:_

_:Thanks, yes. Fang, have the Nemesis move a thousand feet to the south and a hundred feet lower. It's blocking the line of fire of an installation of sidewinder missiles on the roof. They're heat seeking. We don't want to have them pass too close to the Nemesis's engines.:  
_  
_:Got it.: _He sent the order. _:Optimus, are you going to engage during the battle or command from the rear?:_

_:Ironhide and Ratchet will have my struts if I fight when we have this many warriors.:_

_:Get your aft down to my command center, then.: _Fang said, _:If it won't freak your troops out too much.:_

_:Yes sir!: _Optimus's response held a wealth of irony, and a rare bit of snark that was likely fueled by Optimus's own battle routines overriding his normal reserve and dignity, but Fangface also could tell from the dopplering of his answer that he was already headed in the direction of the 'con base at a very high rate of speed.

They had ten remaining minutes ETA on the large ship, twelve to ground impact for what he assumed was strike force of enemy warriors coming in hot. He suspected the ship was going to try to hit them with heavy cannons and mortars to soften the base up, and then the ground assault would begin later. Once the warriors landed it would take them a bit of time to regroup and get into formation for a strike. Depending on how far apart they came down, and how far they landed from the base, they had anywhere from minutes to hours before the ground assault struck.

That was _their _plan. Fang's plan was to foul their plan up just as much as possible.

'Warp came over the comms. _:Predaking's down and waiting the order to combine. Where do you want me, boss?:_

_:Hold your position, 'Warp. Astrotrain, do you have a visual on that ship yet?:_

_:Big slagger, yes. It's a twenty miles behind us and coming up fast.:_

_:Watch your afts.: _As hard as that thing was deorbiting, it probably had all ports closed up tight. He'd be very surprised if they could get a shot off, as hot as the ship's atmospheric burn had to be. On the other hand, he'd been surprised by enemies before.  
_  
:Permission to nuke it, sir?: _Astrotrain and Blitzwing's typical weaponry included a variety of missiles tipped with tactical nuclear weapons. _That _fact was something that Fang wasn't about to divulge to the humans. He noted that Optimus, who was well aware of what Astrotrain could throw around, had been silent on the matter too. At least, he assumed Optimus hadn't said anything, because the humans were still squawking at him about building bunkers and fussing about drivers licenses and insurance, not screaming bloody murder about a uranium-bomb armed pair of Cybertronian warriors.

Fang's response came swiftly, after a klick of appalled silence. _:Denied! At that altitude you'll slag up half of North America's power grid!:_

_:And we care ... why?:_

_:We care because it would kill millions of humans! They're more dependent on their technology than _we _are to survive! Not to mention it would get us kicked off this world!: _He added a tactically sounder reason, _:And the radiation damage would destroy most of Earth's satellites. We rely on their comsats rather heavily at the moment.:_

Astrotrain replied, dryly and far calmer than Fang, _:Permission to nuke it _lower _sir.:_

_:Denied! Use conventional weapons!:_

Optimus ducked through the doorway at that moment, needing to nearly bend double to fit. The communications bunker had been designed for stability and defense, not for comfort. The ceilings were barely fifteen feet tall and the entrance tunnel only six feet high, with several sharp turns. Optimus's paint was scratched in multiple places, and Fang was impressed that the much larger mech had arrived so quickly.

"Tell Astrotrain to get ready," Optimus said, "We're going to need to hit that thing. I've already warned the President. I can't raise Keller."

"Astrotrain's already asking to strike it with nukes. I said no, the humans won't forgive us that." Tactically it was smart to use their heaviest weapons in this sort of scenario. Politically, he judged it to be suicide. He was torn between optiions.

That got him a snort from Optimus. "I'd personally suggest tactical nukes, but you're right about the political fallout being worse. Let's see if we can't take that ship out without them first."

"Heh. That'd frag the minds of our human allies, to hear you speak so calmly about nuclear weapons."

"I would prefer not to find out how many soldiers they have inside that ship, but I would also prefer not to test the tolerance of our human allies," Optimus replied, tone very dry, as he stared up at the camera feeds. Then Optimus pinged Fang a passkey and added, "That's to the officer's comm channel. Pass it on to Death."

"Thanks," Fang said, a bit surprised.

Optimus asked over the the command channel, _:Prowl, how are the sparklings doing?:_

_:Frightened. The humans are keeping them entertained. The three seeker sparklings are a bit agitated. Ranger's helping me by running tactical simulations in his partition.: _Prowl's response was swift. _:Optimus, do you want me here with the sparklings, or at the command center?:_

_:Stay put. We don't need the confusion of your sudden appearance right now. Remind the sparklings we know what we're doing and we've got a very good chance of winning this fight.:_

_:Understood. Fang, is there a land line between the command center and your quarters that I can jack into?: _Prowl was all business, voice flatly unemotional.

_:It's next to my berth. We don't have monitors installed yet but you can also pick up visual feeds from the line.:_

_:Thank you. Here's our calculations.:_

"Damn, he's fast," Fang said, impressed, as he transmitted a number of different scenarios across the land line to the command center.

_:Astrotrain, this is Optimus. I'm sending you and TC our command comm passkey. Fang and I are coordinating closely with each other._

_:Optimus?: _Astrotrain said, clearly dumbfounded to hear the Autobot leader addressing him directly in any fashion other than a snarled and hostile oath in battle.

Aloud to Optimus, Fang said, "Astrotrain could be a problem. I have no idea how well he's going to follow my orders. And Predaking is potentially worse."

"Understood." Optimus grimaced.

Astrotrain protested, _:Slag, Fang. Megatron would blow a circuit over any of us taking an order from Optimus, and I'm one of your best fighters. And -- Primus, this thing is _huge _and it's got to be a troop transport. I'd say it's two thousand feet long, four hundred feet from wing to wingtip and two hundred feet high. I cannot believe it's moving that fast. You sure you don't want me to nuke it?:_

_:NO!:_

A visual feed followed Astrotrain's words, showing an _enormous _craft with backswept wings and a barrel-shaped fuselage. It was leaving a trail of vapor behind it, and was ferociously glowing from the heat of atmospheric entry.

"Ayup, that's a big warbird," Fang said, throwing the visual up on a monitor for both of them to look at. "It's doing mach twelve. _Shit_. The sonic boom behind it has to be doing some real damage."

_:Firing conventional weapons,: _Astrotrain informed them.

"They've probably got thousands of troops on board that thing. That's the only reason anyone would try to land that large of a target." Optimus did not sound happy. Fang sympathized. Either they killed thousands of enemy troops by blowing that ship out of the air, or they got annihilated themselves.

"Well, that, or it's got duryllium armor a hundred feet thick in all directions and short of chucking a singularity at it we'll never be able to stop it ..."

Optimus ruled that remote possibility out. "If it had that much mass the engines would be bigger."

_:Optimus!: _Jazz snapped over the airwaves, _:Keller's here!_

_:Slag!: _Optimus snarled a rare epithet. _:Is he on the ground?:_

_:He just touched down!:_

_:Get him down here with us.: _

Fang sent a sharp command to the surveillance cameras to close their housings, leaving only one heavily shielded camera on top of the SOA pointed in the direction of the approaching ship -- which was now visible as a point of light and a contrail high in the northern sky, a hundred some miles away.

_:Bee, notify the human media. Let them know what's going on.: _Optimus wanted the human public to be aware of this fight.

_:Lord Fang, we're hitting this ship with everything we've got and we're not even scratching the paint. Permission to nuke it?: _Astrotrain came on the channel again.  
_  
:NO!: _Fangface snarled at Astrotrain.

Keller ran through the door at that moment followed by several aides. "What the hell is going on?"

"I believe the proper term is 'alien invasion.'" Fangface gave Keller a scant glance, barely acknowledging his presence. He had bigger things to worry about than the humans. Wildrider and Sunstreaker had just gotten in a fight, according to the comm channel chatter, and Ironhide and Strika were breaking it up. Now was not the time for inter-faction squabbles.

Keller snapped, "Been there, done that. Are we looking at Nebulans?"

"We believe so." Optimus had far more patience, or perhaps just more processor power to allow him to split his attention a little better. "I'll put the officer's comm on audio for you. The situation is that we have around a hundred radar echoes indicating incoming soldiers from the south, ETA to impact seven minutes. Additionally, there's a very large warship coming in at mach twelve from the north."

The Secretary of Defense said quickly, "Tell me what you're going to need from us."

_Smart man_, Fangface thought absently, as he comm'd Starcatcher and verified there were no problems in the med bay, then worked down his list of priorities from there. After eons of dealing with Megatron, the officers had a tendency not to _tell _him if there were issues unless he directly asked.

Optimus, meanwhile told Keller, "Ground all non-military aircraft. Close down the roads, issue a suggestion that civilians find shelter wherever they are and stay off the streets. They need to be indoors, away from windows. Spread the word to the leadership of other countries about this, and ask them to notify us immediately if they are attacked. An assault will likely start as either a ship teleporting in over a major population center or a rapid deorbit such as they're doing here. Any ship that suddenly appears should be presumed hostile."

"How soon until the Ark's back?"

"Ten days, at the absolute earliest, and the Nemesis needs to leave in six." Optimus sounded incredibly unhappy. "However, we'll have Astrotrain and Blitzwing here -- they're both heavily armored interstellar shuttles, with transformation and teleportation ability."

"Can you stop that ship?" Keller asked.

Optimus didn't answer.

_:Slaggit, Fang, I need to nuke this ship or it's going to get past us!:_

Fang hesitated. Astrotrain was right, but ...

_:Screw this!: _Astrotrain snarled. _:We've got sparklings to protect. _Screw _the damned squishies.:_

_:Astrotrain, NO!: _Not Fang, but Thundercracker shouted over the comms.

Fang didn't bother to ping Astrotrain for telemetry. Aloud and over the comms both, Fang shouted, _:ACTIVATE SENSOR PROTECTION PROTOCOL NOW!:_

Later, he would be amused to note that even in the depths of a bunker that warning got a response from Optimus, who flinched and briefly shuttered his optics. It was an instinctive response. Two very long seconds passed before the cameras above whited out, and even in the depths of the bunker they felt a wash of neutrinos and x-rays, followed by a faint EM pulse. The power went out and the lights briefly flickered before the base's generator kicked in. The cameras went offline when the power did; they weren't hooked into the generator yet. That had been part of the project scheduled for today.

Fang opened his comm line, cautiously, then snapped it back off as the ionizing effect of the fireball caused screeching interference. Judging by Optimus's wince he'd done the same thing. Fang's amber optics met Optimus's blue. Then Fang said softly, in Cybertronian. "You realize I _am _going to kill him."

Optimus said a very un-Optimus-like rude word, also in their native language.

"What the fuck are you two going on about? What just happened?" Keller demanded, clearly frightened -- and he was not a man who scared easily -- by their behavior. Fang realized he'd transformed into his alt mode without even consciously activating his transformation protocols. That was a defensive instinct, his armor fit him better when he was on all fours. Optimus's battle mask covered his mouth and his ear finials were buried under his cranial armor. He'd moved to crouch over Keller; Keller, to his credit, hadn't flinched from Optimus when he'd done it. They'd worked together a long time now.

_:We could let him think it was the Nebulans' fault ...: _Fangface suggested. _:Cover story, something went wrong in their engine?:_

_:And give Astrotrain leverage over you? _He _knows the truth and could use the threat of revealing what he did to manipulate you.: _Optimus shot back. _:Aside from the fact that would be a blatant lie to our allies? I believe our best move will be complete honesty. We will tell Keller the truth.:_

"No!" Fang protested, aloud, feeling his world crumbling under his feet. The humans were going to throw them off this world and then what of the sparklings? Humans were _terrified _of nuclear weapons. He'd been stuck between a rock and a hard place; his logic had been that it would be better to fight it out with the alien mechs than risk human retaliation. He wasn't sure either scenario would be survivable for the sparklings, however, and that left him both coldly terrified and _pissed_.

"One of Fang's soldiers just launched a tactical nuclear weapon in front of the enemy starship," Optimus explained, voice calm, "and it was probably the only way to stop it. If he had not done so, it would have made it down to the ground, and we believe it has thousands of enemy soldiers on board."

Keller went pale. "Tens of thousands?"

Optimus sighed. "Their plan was probably to use the starship's guns to soften us up for a ground invasion force, then land the ship here and set up a base of operations to conquer Earth from."

The Secretary of Defense rubbed his forehead with a pained expression. "How bad will the damage on the ground be?"

"They were over open desert, in an area previously used for nuclear testing -- the Nevada Proving Ground. Fortuitously, one might say." Optimus's voice was steady. "The altitude was around ten miles. From what I know of the weapons that Astrotrain typically wields -- I've been on the wrong side of them enough -- the biggest danger to humans in the area will be flash burns and retinal damage. Immediately under the fireball there may be some fatalities, if anyone's in the area. I pray no one was. The blast wave will generate damaging overpressure for about twenty-five miles in all directions. Radiation effects should be minimal; most of the fallout will be injected into the stratosphere as microscopic particles and Cybertronian nuclear weapons are designed to produce short-lived isotopes. By the time they filter to the ground they will no longer be dangerous."

Keller asked, "Can we use a cover story that it was a US military nuke that took the ship out? We'll classify the hell out of it. I think the president will agree it's better _we _take the heat than you do."

Fangface sat down on his haunches and stared at the Secretary of Defense. Keller spared him a look and said, "I'd have made the same call, if I were in your shoes. I just wish I'd known you guys were packing uranium _before _this."

"Astrotrain just arrived a few days ago." Fang wanted to giggle. And _then _execute Astrotrain. The last thing he'd expected was for Keller to back him up. After this was over he seriously needed to have a few long talks with the human, so that he understood him better.

"Do we have any communications functioning?" Keller asked.

Fang checked, and winced again. Between the power outage and the ionizing effects of the fireball, they were out of options. They didn't have a land line connection from the comm center to the outside world yet -- human contractors were so much slower than motivated Constructicons. "No."

"Damn. We need to get word out to the President about what's going on here." Kelller sounded very unhappy.

Optimus shifted, and headed for the door. "I'm going above. I'll see if the Nemesis can punch a transmission through."

Fang followed after Optimus. Keller and his aides, wisely, remained behind in the bunker, looking very small to Fang's eyes, and very worried.

* * *

Jazz squinted at the fireball twenty-five miles in the distance, and the rapidly expanding atmospheric ring that showed the progress of a Mach wave. "How much overpressure, do ya think?" he asked Prowl, who'd come above when they'd lost communications. It felt right to have Prowl standing beside him in this. He wondered, however, what Ranger was thinking. He didn't dare ask.

"There will be enough overpressure to cause structural damage when that hits." Prowl turned his head briefly in the direction of the sparkling operation area. The SOA building had survived a lot of abuse. Jazz hoped it could take one more hit.

A contrail appeared in the sky, and both of them stiffened and stared up at it. "Is that ...?"

"Could be debris. Blue's primary optics are better than ours." Prowl glanced over at Bluestreak and Strika, both of whom were crouched down behind the shelter of a solid concrete wall on the roof, and were watching the dozens of points of fire in the southern sky. Prowl rose and padded to them.

"Shouldn't you be in the bunker? I mean, somebody gave you a gun and everything, but you're still less than a week old, and aren't you scared? I mean, you're smart, but this scares even me, and you're calm, but you're a lot like Prowl, and I understand you know about him, and Prowl was never scared, and ..." Blue's words, characteristically rapid, were nonetheless fairly calm. He was focused on the enemy to the south, waiting for them to get a little closer.

"Easy, Blue." Jazz joined them. Now was not the time to break the news of Prowl's return to the rest of the troops. They'd mutually agreed that reunions could wait until they weren't distracting. Also, candidly, he was unsure of Prowl's state of mind. "Ah gave him the gun. Optimus cleared it."

Strika grunted, "Pit-slagging war, giving babies weapons ..."

Prowl's smirk of the blackest amusement, likely at that sentiment coming from any Deception mixed with a sense of I-know-a-secret-you-don't, probably would have given him away if either of them had been actually paying attention. It definitely wasn't an expression that Ranger would have worn. Jazz, however, said, "Blue, turn around and have a look at that contrail behind you."

Blue twisted to look at it, peering over the edge of the roof's wall. "Shit, that's the enemy ship, mostly intact."

"Mostly?" Prowl prompted.

Blue threw a holomatter projection of the ship up for them to view, since their comms were nonfunctional. It was blurry and distorted by the atmosphere, but it was also clear that the ship was mostly intact, and still flight-worthy.

"Slaggit!" Jazz growled, even as second spark of light and exhaust trail from a rocket engine warned them that Astrotrain was firing another warhead at the craft. They all ducked down and covered their optics as painfully intense light flashed across the terrain, followed a nanoclick later by a wash of painful heat. (Thankfully, they were far enough away that humans would find it uncomfortable but survivable.) The blast wave from the first strike hit them before they could straighten up, buffeting the building and causing the windows to break in several human vehicles below their position. A car alarm whooped, then was drowned out by the thunderous _crack _of the nuclear blast, like a thousand claps of thunder all at once.

"He used a smaller weapon the second time around," Bluestreak noted. He turned back to the glowing fiery trails of the descending mechs.

Strika grunted, "He only had one multi-megaton weapon and one in the fifty kiloton range."

"Let's hope they were sufficient ... aw, _slag._" There was the alien ship, and now even Jazz's optics could make it out. It only had one operational engine, however, out of four, and was in a flat spin. As he watched, part of a wing tore away from the structural stresses. "That's going to hit Tranquility."

He _really _wished their comms were working, but radio communication was still out of the question, and would be for hours.

Prowl rested a hand on Jazz's shoulder as they watched the ship come down. It tumbled and turned, losing bits of its hull and wings, a section of tail, rapidly decelerating. Jazz leaned into that touch -- he couldn't help it. He wanted to shutter his optics and pretend he wasn't seeing this. How often had they shot down Decepticon ships? How often had they watched Autobot ships destroyed? Some of their greatest single losses had been from destroyed troop transports. Early in the war, some of the bigger transports had carried tens of thousands of mechs, placed in stasis, in vast rows of berths, for efficient transport. They'd gone to sleep and never woken, blasted into oblivion.

The ship was going to hit Tranquility.

"It's so unnecessary," Jazz said, "they didn't have to attack us. We didn't start this. We didn't want this. We would have been their _allies _if we'd known."

"Vengeance," Strika muttered, "Revenge, a hundred thousand years cold."

Humans were going to die. Jazz did close his eyes as the second blast wave rolled across the desert towards them. Prowl's grip on his shoulder tightened. He wondered, again, what Ranger was making of this.

The blast wave and thunderous rumble of the second air burst arrived. After it had passed, Bluestreak sighted his weapon on the fiery trail of one of the enemy mechs and fired, even as everyone with ranged weapons on the base did the same, including a few humans armed with small laser rifles. He heard Fang screaming obscenities and threats. They hit a few mechs, as explosions and puffs of smoke showed, but that would mostly be luck. It was like targeting shooting stars.

"They're going to come down in the gunnery range," Strika noted, even as they first puff of dust indicated they'd started to land.

"Close," Jazz said, which was to their side's advantage. They could hit the enemy before they could regroup. "Strika, ah'd like to lead a force of every light fighter we have on both sides t' take those mechs out. Death holds the rear, defending the SOA. You and Ironhide secure that ship. It's probably not going to be _that _radioactive given that its shields held, but let's keep t' squishies away, y'know what I mean? It had an engine still lit, so inertial damping may have been functional."

"You want me to fight with _Ironhide_? Feh, I'll tell him it's your idea." Strika grumbled, even as she vaulted over the edge of the wall and dropped sixty-plus feet to the ground with a crash of armor and a howl of hydraulics.

Belatedly, Jazz remembered that the two of them had never been friends. Ironhide was military sparked, and had sided with Optimus so long ago. Strika was military sparked, and had sided with Megatron. They'd traveled in the same political circles, he a military advisor with eons of battlefield experience, and she a senator, and the bad feelings between them went back to a time before Jazz had been _created_.

On the other hand, their disagreements had always been political, not tactical. Also, he got the distinct feeling there was a fairly decent amount of respect shared between them. Grudging, but real. He shrugged off her complaint as being mere snark, and turned his attention to Prowl, briefly. "Prowler, I need ya to go back below with t' sparklings."

He saw Prowl hesitate. Communications were cut off. Prowl could do nothing but sit and wait. However, they just _couldn't _spare the confusion and chaos his appearance on the field of battle would bring. Bad enough that Jazz himself had only been back from the dead for a few days, and they still hadn't _actually _figured out chain of command issues. Who ranked whom now? He'd been Prime's second in command since Prowl's capture, for several thousand years now. But he'd been dead, and several high ranking officers were now Primes. He might need to step down and let some of them fill the role.

They'd sort that out later. Today, he was Optimus's second. He was fortunate that the mechs he was commanding were _not _likely to argue the point.

"Go." He gave Prowl a push. "Go, Prowler. Keep t' sparklings safe."

"Stay safe, Jazz," Prowl said, then hurried downstairs.

After he was gone, Blue said, very softly, "Prowl?"

"Huh?" Slag, he'd said Prowl's name -- the nickname that he only allowed his closest friends to use -- and Bluestreak had overheard. "Yeah, Blue. That wasn't Ranger driving." He crouched down for a second, with Bluestreak. "We'll explain later. We just didn't have time before all this came down. Ranger's fine, though. Ah want ya to stay up here and cover us. Ah've got to go."

Bluestreak nodded. "Be careful, Jazz. I know Ratchet has the Allspark shard and everything but we don't know it'll work a third time and anyway I guess it has to recharge and that might take a long time and we'd miss you and everything if you died again ...."

"Later, kid!" Jazz followed Strika's example in taking the quick route down by vaulting over the edge of the roof.

* * *

Fang crouched in a ravine on all fours, Wildrider behind him, Sunstreaker in front of him. Sunny had small optical sensors in his hands; he cautiously extended his fingers up to peer over the lip of a cliff, trying to judge where the enemy was.

Plasma fire washed across the ground, and Sunstreaker yanked back singed digits. Fang shook his head at him when Sunstreaker lifted an optic ridge, and made a gesture indicating Sunstreaker should move farther down the ravine. The enemy hopefully didn't know there were only three of them hidden in the shallow waterway. Sunny just wanted to charge them. Fang had counted plasma fire from at least four sources, so they were outnumbered.

Sunstreaker gave him an uncertain look, probably wondering if he was supposed to be taking orders from the leader of the Decepticons. It had just worked out that way; they'd lost track of Jazz somewhere a half mile back in a melee of a fight. Somehow, he'd ended up with the only two mechs in either army who were more impulsive than he was.

Fang shrugged, pointed at himself, and gestured in the other direction. He pointed at Wildrider, and indicated Wildrider should stay put in their current location. Then he shoo'd Sunstreaker north.

"How far?" Sunstreaker finally mouthed.

"Fifty feet."

They crept apart. Fang counted five low voices, so there were at least that many mechs above them. Quite possibly, there were more. He tried his comm again, and was rewarded by a painful screech of static.

When Thundercracker 'ported in next to him he very nearly shot the seeker in surprise. The crack of displaced air was startlingly loud. "Don't try to ambush them. There's nine of them up there!" TC hissed, "Wait for 'Warp and Silver to soften them up a bit. I'll jump them with you. They won't be expecting me to come up from below."

"Do they have any fliers?"

"Not any more," Thundercracker said, with a feral grin. He cast a holomatter image of the location of the enemy ahead of them. "We _rule _the skies."

"What's the city look like?" He kept his voice to a bare whisper, as he studied their positions. They were clumped together, not spread out, which was a complete rookie mistake. He wished he had a solar grenade to lob into their midst, but Skywarp's missiles would have to do.

"Haven't been that way yet. Astrotrain and Blitzwing are covering that. I'm out of missiles, and the Nemesis is taking some heavy fire. Her shields are up; I can't get back to be re-armed. Optimus and Strika are trying to take out the gunners that are blasting the ship."

Thundercracker might be out missiles, but he still had a pair of laser rifles and a plasma gun for close range fighting. Therefore, he'd come to support the ground troops.

"After this, I want you to 'port me out to the crash site." Fang could hear the roar of Silverbolt's engines now, as the Autobot screamed toward the knot of enemy mechs. 'Warp, traveling faster than the speed of sound, came in from another direction. He saw Skywarp coming because he was expecting him, but he hoped that the enemy didn't. Very possibly, Silverbolt and Skywarp had planned it that way as the noise of Silverbolt's props would have drawn their attention, and Skywarp, traveling faster than the speed of sound and coming down with the sun behind him, was a silent and deadly attacker.

"GO!" He shouted after Skywarp had made his ambush and Silverbolt had aborted his strafing run before he was in range of their plasma cannons.

Thundercracker, beside him, leaped forward, fired his thrusters, transformed six feet off the ground, and roared up and over the cliff with guns blazing. He blasted low over the terrain at the enemy, striking multiple mechs with that very accurate laser rifle. His approach was so low to the ground that he raised a huge cloud of dust.

Sunstreaker was a whirlwind of death to Fang's right. Wildrider ricocheted off a boulder and tore into a very large, very solid looking tank to Fang's left. Fang launched himself airborn and landed on top of a heavily armored Nebulan vehicle that had a whole battery of large missiles mounted on the top; only a few of them had been fired. Likely, this mech intended to get closer to the Nemesis and/or the SOA and do some real damage at closer range.

A focused plasma beam from the Nemesis hissed over his head and took out a smaller mech with shoulder-mounted rocket propelled grenades. Fang realized that the mech had been kneeling to fire at him even as he dug his front claws into enemy's armor, reached forward with a back claw, hooked the missile battery, and ripped. His hydraulics screamed in protest and his HUD displayed a numerous errors warning of stress to his systems, but the missiles ripped loose.

The mech snarled beneath him and started to transform. Fang shoved his back claws through a seam in the mech's armor and kicked again, then twice more. The enemy howled in pain as his shoulder came apart. Fang fired his laser rifle down into the mech's internals through the gap in his armor that this created. Sparking, instantly stasis-locked, he crumbled to the ground and Fang kicked free.

He looked around for another target. Sideswipe had appeared out of nowhere; he had a deep gash across one leg, and was leaking hydraulic fluid. Sunstreaker was now missing a primary optic. Wildrider was unhurt. Thundercracker transformed and landed. Fang determined there were no more operational enemies and no dead on his side. Sunstreaker casually killed two enemy mech who weren't quite offline; Fang managed not to wince. The Autobots could be every bit as brutal as the Decepticons during a fight -- you couldn't spare an enemy because that enemy could come back to kill you some other day.

"Optimus says they need help at the SOA," Sideswipe said. "We still don't have communications, slaggit, and they're getting hit hard ..."

An enemy mech moved behind them, and then exploded as a long-range weapon hit him. Fang jumped. Sideswipe smirked, said, "Bluestreak, probably."

"You Wildrider, go with the twins," Fang said, judging their injuries to be non-critical, "I'm going to go check on Strika and Ironhide's team. C'mon, TC."

Thundercracker scooped him up. Fang asked, as Thundercracker jumped into the air, "How's your fuel level?"

"Fuel's fine. Power cells are running low." TC said, then teleported the several miles to Tranquility. He added, as they popped out, "I've got enough for a couple more short-range teleports."

"Don't push yourself to the point where you can't defend yourself. We need to pace this out." He patted the seeker on the shoulder. "You're doing a good job. I want you to take a few minutes to let your cells recharge."

Thundercracker grinned in response to the praise.

_High _on his list of things to do was to get the medics to restore Thundercracker's power plant to factory specs or better. He'd gotten TC to give him the details of just how badly Megatron had hobbled him, and Fangface had been left amazed that TC hadn't been killed in battle because of it. He was operating with about half the power of most seekers. He could compensate in short bursts by pulling energy from his power cells, but that left him with less power for his weapons, and potentially less power to keep his spark containment operational if he went into stasis lock after an injury.

Until he could get TC's systems restored, he was being very mindful of the seeker's limitations. He felt protective of TC; there weren't many mechs he genuinely liked, and Thundercracker was one of them.

Thundercracker nodded, not arguing the point, and asked, "Are you okay? Your dataport took a hit, looks like."

"Huh? Oh, yeah." He glanced down at the damaged panel. Death had done that, not an enemy, but Thundercracker didn't need to know the truth. "It's a long way from my spark. I think I'll live."

That earned him a grin from the seeker. They landed on a street several hundred yards from the biggest chunk of crashed ship, and Thundercracker set him down. He hurried to join the first officers he saw. Ironhide and Strika were both standing behind the cover of a large building, along with Wheeljack. Broken glass crunched underfoot, and a car alarm whooped incessantly nearby.

"No significant radiation," he noted, a bit relieved.

"Not here. There's some fairly glow-in-the-dark desert outside of town, I'd guess." 'Jack shifted uneasily. "Did you _have _to authorize a nuke strike?"

"Probably the only thing that would have stopped that ship." Strika nodded at the wreck. "Thundercracker, how's the power levels?"

Thundercracker, sounding a bit irritated by Strika's question where he'd accepted the concern from Fangface, snapped, "Fine."

"He's a little low, not too bad," Fangface said, giving TC a sharp glance and wondering what his issue was. "He's grounded for five minutes while his power cells recharge. He's out of missiles, too. The Nemesis is getting hammered."

TC made a face. "I _can _fight now."

He was being very defensive. Fang shot him a warning look, wishing his comm was working. Now was _not _a time for small, petty differences to crop up. He wondered what issue Thundercracker had with Strika; he was officially her second now.

"How's it going at the base?" Ironhide asked.

"We definitely have tech superiority, and better tactics." Fangface grimaced. "Really, the _humans _have better tactics. They're trying to win with superior numbers, but I honestly don't think they have much combat experience. It's kindof pathetic. Any sign of survivors in that ship?"

"Hound's trying to get closer." Ironhide cautiously peered around the corner of the building, then froze. "Hnnh. Didn't expect that."

Fang had a look too. Both his optic ridges rose. "Heh. Nebulan squishies."

A blue-skinned, white-haired soldier had come out of the wreckage and was seated fifty feet away on a bit of rubble with his head in his hands. Fang traded a look with Ironhide. "He looks hurt."

"I am amazed any organics survived that crash," Strika said. "It had one engine operational as it came in. They may have been able to keep inertial damping online. There's no significant radiation coming off that ship, so it's possible the rad dosage stayed low enough with shields up. I dunno. He could be walking dead, too."

Fangface hesitated. "He's not armed."

"Fang, slaggit!" Strika actually made a grab for him as Fangface stepped out into the open.

In Nebulan, and loud enough for the alien soldier a hundred yards away to hear Fangface said, "Hey! Do you need help?"

The man's head came up with a startled blink of eyes twice the size of human. He scrambled to his feet, showing an obvious limp, and stared at Fangface.

"We won't hurt you." Fang took a cautious step towards him. "We don't want this fight. We never wanted this fight. It's stupid and it's pointless and I'm saying that as the leader of the ... forces here." He didn't want to tell the man he was a Decepticon.

Frightened dark eyes stared at him.

"Slaggit, Fangface!" Strika hissed behind him, "if there's anyone with a cannon in that wreckage, you're standing right out in the open!"

It was four hundred yards to the ship. Fang judged the risk was not that great; that was plenty of range to dissipate a plasma or pulse cannon blast to the point where his armor and forceshield would protect him, missiles could be dodged, and his shielding was sufficient to take a few hits from a laser rifle.

Another soldier appeared, bleeding heavily from one arm. He crawled out through one of the cracks in the ship's hull and said something in a language that wasn't anything Fang recognized. The first soldier, not taking his eyes from Fang, replied. Fangface had not a clue what they were talking about.

_Of course. They've had a ton of linguistic drift. The mechs haven't, though. Which has some interesting implications ... or maybe t'Tamis just speaks our language because somebody gave him an ancient-Nebulan language module._

"He's going to bleed to death," Fang said, worried. The first soldier apparently came to the same conclusion, because he shrugged his shirt off, helped the other soldier down, and clamped the fabric over the wound. Then he pulled his belt off and made a tourniquet.

Fang heard the whoop-whoop of human sirens behind him, and half turned to look. Officer Davis pulled up next to him. "Fangface," he said, getting out, "Jazz said this was an attack. -- Holy shit, they're Smurfs. With white hair."

"Nebulans." Fang crouched, using the patrol car for a little cover. "And watch it, I can take a hit or two from bullets or lasers, but you can't. Those are Nebulan organics, but there could be mechs in that wreckage. Probably are."

"Aliens." Davis breathed, as he crouched too. "Real life aliens."

Fangface snorted.

The first Nebulan was staring at them, shading his eyes from the sun. Then he helped the second soldier to his feet and they started trudging up the street towards Fang and Davis. The first soldier's white "hair" -- really feathery fronds -- was matted with drying blood. Fangface said to Davis, "Stay down. I'll see if they'll let me help them."

Davis shook his head. "Aren't you supposed to be the vicious, savage, deadly Decepticon leader?"

Fangface gave him a dirty look. "I'm not going to kill squishies if I can help it. Blood makes a mess of my claws."

Then he stood up. The Nebulans stopped short and stared at him. Fang sat on his haunches and stared back. After a moment, they began moving towards him again. When they were closer, perhaps a dozen feet away, Fang said, "Do you understand me?" in Nebulan.

"I speak the language of the elders," the second soldier said. "I'm Captain t'Nell."

"Ship's Captain?" Fangface said, ears pricking forward. Well, well, well. This little organic could be useful.

"Yes," the man said.

"Why the _slag _did you attack us?" Fangface burst out at him, in a low growl, ears pinned flat. "It was stupid, and unprovoked, and unnecessary! It got your people killed, it got humans killed, and for _nothing_. Do you _realize _how _very _willing my people would be to be friendly with yours? Slaggitall, man, this is so _stupid_."

Startled brown eyes stared up at him. The man clutched the blood-soaked rag on his arm. "The sibs said you were planning on attacking us."

"Sibs. Mechs?"

A hesitant nod.

"They're lying. They're lying from a place of fear because it's been coded into them to be terrified of us. _Slaggit_." Fangface took two steps forward, crouched down, and inspected the damage to the man's arm. The arm was clearly broken; that was a compound fracture leaking blood all over the place. "How many survivors are in that ship?"

The captain said hesitantly, "Thousands."

"Mechs or organic?"

"Mostly organic. The crew compliment was ten thousand. There's fifty mechs left on board." He straightened up, suddenly looking more assured. "You won't ... kill them?"

"I need you to issue an order for them to _stand down_. Can you do that? We'll get that arm treated before you leak to death and then we need you to get them to surrender." Fangface glanced at Davis. "We won't kill anyone who surrenders."

"You threw _nukes _at us." He sounded awed.

"Well, we don't appreciate being attacked." Fangface rolled his optics. "I'm pleased some of you survived being nuked. I'm less pleased about human fatalities on the ground. You've much to answer for. This was a completely unprovoked attack. But we'll resolve that _later_."

Davis slowly approached, making the captain square his shoulders and stand tall, trying to look proud and in charge. Davis said, in English, "He's bleeding bad. He needs medical care."

The police officer's jaw was set with quiet anger. Fang wondered if Davis was pissed at _him_, or pissed at the Nebulans, or both. He was being very professional, but Fangface thought he was mad as _hell_. Well, someone had just set off two nuclear devices, and crashed an alien ship the size of a couple of city blocks into downtown Tranquility. He supposed Davis's reaction was understandable.

Fang felt his own anger start to rise. He followed Davis's example and went for coolly professional.

"This is Captain t'Nell," Fangface introduced him. "He's going to get his crew to surrender. You should let the local hospitals know to expect alien casualties."

"Ah ... biological hazards?" Davis asked, after a hard stare at the captain. The cop's fists were balled. "Like, germs?"

"Not a factor," Fangface said, "their biology is not similar enough to yours for there to be cross-infectivity." He hoped. Bee claimed his Nebulan-based technorganic protoform was not susceptible to human infections, and that was probably a good sign. The chances of humans catching an infection from Nebulans were probably about like humans catching an infection from a tree. He added, "Go. You'll need to drive to the hospital. Communications are going to be out for awhile yet ..."

"Lot of human casualties too," Davis said, distractedly. "Shit. Something hit a school a couple of blocks from here."

_Slag. Children._

"Thank God school was out for the day," Davis said, making Fang sag with relief. He turned towards his vehicle and added, "But there were kids in an after-school daycare program. It's bad."

_Slag.  
_  
Wheeljack padded over, with multiple wary glances at the alien ship that loomed, smoking faintly, in the distance. "I have Nebulan medical nanytes on me, if he'll let me see his arm. Ratchet made sure we were all carrying some. We knew that there might be organic Nebulans in this mess."

He produced a vial, crouched down, and said in Nebulan, "We need to set your arm before we use this. It will hurt. Fangface, it's probably best if you actually do it -- your hands are smaller and you can retract your claws if you transform."

The captain stared at the silvery bottle of nanytes for a moment, however, and then shook his head. "Do you have enough for my entire crew? I know our med bay doesn't have enough in the vats for the injuries we have on board."

"No."

"Then use that on the ones more seriously injured."

Wheeljack said, "I can probably stop the bleeding by cauterizing the blood vessels, but without anesthesia, it will hurt a great deal."

"Do it." The man grunted. "I get the feeling if we don't surrender, you'll kill us all. And we can't win. This was _stupid_. We had lousy intel."

Fangface's smile bared considerable teeth. "I get the feeling you are a very intelligent man."

"_Damn _the mechs," he said, as Fangface's sharp claws cut away at the bandage. Beneath his blue complexion he went very pale. Wheeljack gingerly inspected the damage as blood flowed freely from the compound fracture.

"I hope you've got some medics of your own on board, because the humans aren't going to be able to give you anything but the most basic of care," Wheeljack said, as he guided the two soldiers back behind the building. There, out of the line of fire, he scanned the arm, making sure that the man would retain sufficient blood flow if he cauterized the severed blood vessels. It looked like he would, so he pulled a thermal scalpel from subspace. The same device that would cut through mech armor like butter worked dandy for swiftly burning organic flesh.

"We've medics. We'll need more supplies. Inertial dampers cut out when we crashed. There's a lot of blunt-force injuries."

"Hnnh. The Autobot medics can help a bit. We've both got some basic knowledge of Nebulan field medicine. We fought side by side with your people for a few hundred years. Doc -- who is our specialist in Nebulan medicine -- is several days away."

"You've studied our _medicine_?" The captain said, stunned.

Wheeljack grunted. "I don't know how much of your history is preserved, but our world and yours were allies. Most of us are old enough to remember those days."

"_God_."

"Now, don't move. Let me stop this bleeding." Wheeljack's tone was calm, though Fangface thought he detected a bit of anger and frustration lurking far back in 'Jack's demeanor.

The captain was a tough man. He stood stock still as they worked, though his color grew ever more chalky. After the bleeding was stopped, Wheeljack produced a splint from subspace. Fang took over, gently strapping the limb into the splint and then slipping it into a sling.

Ironhide commented, "You're either in shock or the toughest squishie bastard I've seen in a long time."

The captain snorted. "A little of both. I expected to be killed when I saw you ... I didn't get your names."

"Ironhide, Strika, Wheeljack." Fang introduced them with a wave of his hand. "Ironhide and I are Primes. I'm Lord Fangface."

"Lord?" The man's bushy white eyebrows drew down and nearly touched in an expression of Nebulan disbelief. "Primes? No such thing as Primes."

"t'Tamis said the same thing." Ironhide grunted. "I understand he's singing a different tune now."

"Lord ... of what?" The man stared at Fangface. "t'Tamis? t'Tam's alive? Thank _God_."

"Eh. The full title's High Lord Protector, I suppose, though I took the position in a coup, not an election." Fangface nibbled on a claw. "I'm taking the title seriously, though, as what it _used _to mean. Megatron never really understood what the term 'Protector' implied."

Twin snorts came from Ironhide and Strika.

_"Megatron_._" _t'Neil hissed, eyes narrowing and eyebrows lowering until they were nearly obscured. He bared his teeth in an expression of hatred and snarled through them. "The slayer of worlds. _Demon_."

"Yes, and he's dead. Grimlock killed him, and I killed Starscream and Soundwave. That's the trifecta that destroyed your world." Fangface said, a bit defensively. "They're gone. That leaves the rest of us, trying to pick up the pieces."

"What would such a ... highly ranking ... leader be doing out here in the field?" The man said, suspiciously, brows still pinned down, teeth still showing.

Fangface nibbled on a claw, annoyed by the pits and scratches in the surface left after combat. "Well, my original plan was to command from behind the scenes, but ionization of the atmosphere after those blasts ended that idea. I suppose I could have stayed in the bunker where it was safe, but that's really not my style."

Ironhide said, with a very expressive grunt of amusement, "The day that Lord Fang does the sensible thing is the day I take my cannons off and plant flowers in them."

"C'mon," Fangface said, knowing he was proving Ironhide's assessment of his temperment right, "let's go get your crew to surrender."

"They'll be treated well?" t'Nell balked, standing in place, eyes glittering with suspicion.

"They'll be treated better if they surrender than if they decide to fight back." Fang glanced at the man's subordinate, who had been silent. "Does he understand us?"

"Yes, I do." The soldier said, suspiciously.

"What's your name, soldier?" Fangface said, calmly.

"r'Illne."

"A scientist, eh?" Fangface heard the 'r' that indicated his profession. The prefix 't' was for career warriors. "I'm going to suggest this -- t'Nell, let's send r'Illne in first, and tell them not to shoot my head off when I come in with you. I'll secure the scene and if I'm on board you guys can be assured that nobody is going to attack you. Let's stop the fighting here, shall we?"

"We could take you hostage," t'Nell pointed out.

Fang snorted. "And the point of that would be ...? You're a long way from home, and you're going to be treated a lot better if you don't piss us off."

"Fang, this is crazy," Strika said, in English. "Why the hell do you _care_!"

"Because if I can get them to surrender peacefully, I won't have to risk any of _our _soldiers taking that ship." Fang shot back at her. "I'm just so sick and tired of stupid, senseless battles."

"They could kill you!" Thundercracker protested. "What about the mechs?"

"t'Nell, will the mechs follow your orders even if they really dislike them?" Fangface said.

The captain scowled. "They're professionals. r'Illne, go on. Tell them not to kill the mech."

"thank you. They're _not _going to like it when they see me." He bent down and scooped the captain up, which earned him a gasp of fear. "Oh, calm down. I'm not going to kill you unless you give me a reason to."

The man pressed his lips together and said nothing as Fang cradled him against his chest.

"Do you have someone in your crew that you can send to the base to call your soldiers off there?" Fang held him carefully as he walked, mindful of the man's injuries. "Otherwise, we're going to kill them. Your intel was _awful_. You may have numerical superiority, but we've got the tactical upperhand. And we don't particularly want to fight you, either, and we were no threat to you."

"t'Ayel. My second. He s-survived the crash." t'Nell's teeth were chattering, probably from pain and shock. "They'll listen to him. He's a mech."

"Good. We'll send him back with Thundercracker."

At the ship, Fangface realized there were a number of Nebulans staring out of a deep gouge in the hole. Most were injured; he saw quite a few bruises and a lot of red blood smeared on blue skin. r'Illne had already ducked inside. Fang could hear him explaining that they needed to hold their fire, and a few soldiers arguing with him.

"Stand down!" t'Nell's order was sharp, his shaking temporarily vanishing. Reluctantly, and with quite a few grumbled protests, the Nebulans aimed their weapons skyward. "Somebody find me t'Ayel."

Their responses were in a language that Fang didn't understand. t'Nell said sharply, "Speak the language of the ancients. Lord Fangface doesn't understand our tongue."

When they drew closer, Fang ducked through the crack in the hull. It led into crew quarters -- row after row of bunks. The ship groaned above him; starships were always made of stern stuff, but it had taken quite a beating. "Did you guys make sure your fuel was foamed after the crash?" He had not smelled leaking energon, so hopefully the fuel tanks had remained intact, but there was always a chance of a spark setting the ship afire afterthis.

"Yeah, first thing," someone said, staring at him with wide brown eyes. They all looked terrified.

Fang crouched down so he wasn't quite so intimidating, and addressed the twenty or so crew members here. "You have a choice: either you surrender, or the humans show up in an hour or two with some very heavy artillery and take you out. They don't have much experience with aliens and they're going to be very hostile. We'll help, too. I'm _pissed _about this unprovoked attack, doubly pissed because I know t'Tamis has been transmitting our repeated requests for a meeting every day. I strongly suggest surrender. Surrender, and I'll make sure you're treated humanely and sent home."

He set the captain on his feet, and said, "Please have someone find your captain a medic. He needs pain killers and a transfusion of blood products ..."

As he was straightening up there was an incoherent howl of rage, and a pulse cannon blast slammed into him. Fang was flung to the ground, hit rolling, and launched himself behind the closest cover, which was a berth.

"t'Ayel, stand DOWN!" t'Nell screamed. "That's an order!"

"MONSTER!" t'Ayel shot at Fang again, crumpling the berth. Shrapnel hit someone, who screamed.

t'Nell switched languages, but by his tone, it was clear he was shouting commands at the mech, who wasn't listening. Fang lunged behind a second berth as the one he'd been using disintegrated.

"t'Nell, call your mech off, or I _will _take him out!" Fang calculated a trajectory, and estimated his odds of succeeding as very high.

"t'Ayel, that is an ORDER!" The captain had a command voice that rivalled Optimus at his most pissed. "Stand ..."

The rest of his words were lost in the thunderous, deafening roar of another pulse cannon blast. Fang sprang before the afterimages of the thermal effects had faded from his primary optics. He launched himself over the berth, ricocheted off a wall, and had the Nebulan mech down in significantly less than a second. He disarmed him with one raking strike with a back leg (and took most of his arm with that kick) and then dug his toes into the mech's armor with both back feet and ripped him open.

He had his laser rifle pressed against the Nebulan mech's bared spark chamber when Ironhide and Strika burst through the crack in the ship's hull. Nebulans screamed, and started firing. t'Nell shouted, "CEASE FIRE!"

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Fang screamed at his side, letting go of his grip on t'Ayel's shoulder to speak. Strika listened; Ironhide glared at Fang, clearly unimpressed by a Decepticon giving _him _orders. To t'Ayel, who had frozen in place, Fangface snarled, "You _idiot_, do you want to _die_?"

"t'Ayel, do _not _move!" t'Nell said, firmly. "He'll killl you ..."

t'Ayel swung a punch with his good arm at Fang's head. Fang fired his laser rifle into the mech's processor core even as he ducked the blow. t'Nell cursed. People screamed. Ironhide powered up his cannons and said, "Nobody _moves_."

"t'Ayel," the captain said, a soft cry of protest against fate. "No ..."

Fang stepped clear. t'Nell gave Ironhide a worried look -- Ironhide's cannons were spinning and glowing -- and then hurried to his second, his fear for the mech's life leading him to disregard Ironhide's order. Ironhide made no move to stop him, likely because t'Nell wasn't much of a threat. He was barely keeping to his feet. He groaned, leaning over his officer's body, "t'Ayel ..."

"He's not dead," Fangface said, his voice loud in the shocked silence. The only other noise was the hum of their weapons capacitors and the creaking and groaning of the ship. "t'Nell, he's not dead."

"I don't understand. I ordered him to stand down." t'Nell's face was anguished when he turned it towards Fang.

"It's firmware coding," Fangface said, a low growl making his already deep voice rumble. He wanted to punch something, or shred someone _responsible _for this. "Apparently, a bit stronger than I'd anticipated. Even with orders to the contrary they're still going to attack us. _Slaggit._"

"I don't understand ... _why_?" t'Nell ran a hand over t'Ayel's crumpled armor. "He's never refused an order. We've known each other for centuries. _Why_?"

Jazz appeared behind Strika, then a couple other Autobots climbed in after him. Jazz regarded Fang, and likely drew some conclusions from Fang's dark expression. He groaned, "Ooh, boy. Ain't this _way _too much fun? We've got t' other side of t' ship covered, an' there's a whole buncha casualties at a school and a mall on t' other side of this ship. Thing's _huge, _coupla city blocks long, an' it took out almost a mile of city when it hit. An' we had to take out four slaggin' mechs that came after us when we tried t' help them. The organics are being reasonable, anyway. I think the fight's purely gone out of them."

"t'Nell, this is Jazz," Fang said, through gritted teeth. "Optimus Prime's second in command. Your mechs are not going to stand down until they are physically stopped. I'm going to return to the base and go kill some of your people now."

Furious at _everything_, Fang spun around on his heels and stalked out of the ship. "C'mon, TC, time to go."

Jazz shouted after him, "Tell Lennox we're going to need every soldier they can spare here at the ship after you finish killing the blasted berzerkers!"

He just growled. It was all so _senseless._


	75. Chapter 75

Chapter 75

* * *

Thundercracker popped out into the middle of a pitched battle, fifty feet above the ground, and the noise of his arrival instantly drew enemy fire. Fang swore as TC flung him to the ground hard and transformed. The seeker lit his jets and screamed into the sky even as a heat-seeking missile hissed after him.

The seeker's chucking of Fangface hadn't been as impulsive as it seemed; Fang landed at Death's feet, flopped once like a fish, and scrambled back to his feet even as several systems reset themselves in reaction to the impact. He was briefly dizzy and disoriented, and when he could see again he witnessed TC diving low and apparently suicidally at a cluster of enemy mechs.

His lack of munitions didn't matter; the heat-seeking enemy missile was frighteningly close to his aft. He was going far too fast to slow down; Fang grinned in anticipation as the seeker suddenly teleported out, and the missile exploded in the midst of several enemies. That was a trick he'd seen jump-capable mechs pull so often that the Autobots had long ago quit trying to shoot down enemy seekers with missiles.

Death grinned and shouted over the noise of clanging armor and explosions, "I don't think these glitches have ever fought in a serious battle before! We're winning!"

"No slag!" He took a moment to survey the battlefield.

Predaking was combined and had the full attention of a dozen enemy, all of whom seemed to be trying to take him down. At fifty-plus feet tall, and armed with some serious plasma cannons, Predaking was the biggest mech by far on the field, but but he was also slow and ponderous. It was a mistake to focus that much attention on him, and even as Fang watched, Bluestreak took out two enemy mechs. They were watching the combiner, and not paying any attention to other mechs.

They hadn't managed to eliminate Bluestreak's threat yet. Had Fang been fighting on the enemy side, that would have been the first thing he'd done. Blue kept picking off enemies with methodical precision.

Optimus was surrounded by five enemy mechs. That seemed smart until you realized Optimus was primarily a close-range fighter. He had a sword, and he had brute strength, and he had a close-range plasma cannon. He carried neither missiles nor a laser rifle for ranged fighting.

Meanwhile, nobody was shooting at Bee, who looked small and innocuous. Bee knelt, lifted his missiles out from under his shoulder armor, and in rapid succession fired four of his six missiles. The five mechs surrounding Optimus all went down; Bee took out four and Optimus cleaved the head from the shoulders of the fifth.

Some slight change in air pressure warned Fang to duck, even as a cloaked mech swung at his head with gleaming silvery weapon. Only the blade was visible, the rest was hidden. He lashed out with a back foot, tripped the invisible mech, and kicked dirt forward. The dirt covered the cloaked enemy and Fang then lunged and ripped him apart. He became visible as Fang's claws pierced into his internals. Fang ripped his power plant to shreds purely by accident and he lost spark containment with a burst of violet light.

Tasting oil and steel, he stood up and shouted at Deathwheels, "Where's Astrotrain?"

"Looking for you!"

He tried his comms. The screech of static was still painful, but slightly less. It had been half an hour since the last blast. Into that howling noise he transmitted, _:Astrotrain. Come in, Astrotrain.:_

No answer.

There were no other enemies in sight. He flicked his vision over into the infrared, and tried to pick out the telltale signs of cloaked enemies amid the thermal chaos of a battlefield. Nothing -- no, wait, there was a splash of heat across the ground from a blast, and part of it was cooler.

"Death! Turn your comm back on!"

Deathwheels did. There was too much interference to transmit a visual image, but he directed Death where to look.

_:I see ksssshhhht! Got 'im.: _Death's pulse cannon boomed and the wash of energy blew a rather large mech fifty feet backwards into rocks. Fang pounced on him, taking him out; he was stunned into immobility and Fang made the snap decision to destroy his processor core rather than killing him.

_:Death, take out their processor cores if you can. We'll replace them with spares from our stores.: _He scrambled back to Death's position so that they could cover each other.

_:I'm just fragging shhhhhh! slaggers.: _Death's response, full of static, made Fangface shake his head.

_:No! They're not responsible for this. It's coding. They go berserk when they see us, they're not even coherent.:_

Death grunted something aloud as they both looked for more targets. "Look," he said, "I'm sorry about earlier. It will never happen again."

Irritated, Fangface snapped, "Now is _not _the time to bring that up." Death's fingers brushed his back. Fang stepped away. "Do _not _distract me, you idiot."

"I've been distracted this whole fight," Deathwheels said, quietly. "It's hard to focus when I'm worried I'm going to lose you. Maybe nothing matters if I lose you."

He glanced up, feeling absurdly guilty. Death's jaw was clenched, and his optics focused off in the distance. He was watching two F-22s fly low over the gunnery range. It was hard to tell, at this distance, which two it was, or even if those were humans or seekers.

"Nothing matters if I lose you," Deathwheels repeated trying again to touch Fang's shoulder.

Fangface spun about and hissed in rage, "_Drop _it, Death. We're in the middle of a battle. I do _not need _the drama."

"I think the fight is about over ..."

Out of the corner of his eye, Fang saw a flash of light. He spun back in time to see one of the jets spiral into the ground, the other following close to his aft, and pulling up only at the last second. _:Who just got hit?:_

His only response was a spit of broken static. Someone was trying to answer, but couldn't punch the the transmission through.

"Battle over? My skinny aft it's over!" Fang broke into a run, sensors dialed up to their max to scan for threats. Someone fired at him. Death, lumbering behind him, took the threat out. He spotted a cloaked enemy as he ran past; the mech clearly planned to ambush him but he turned the tables by tagging the ambusher with his laser rifle. That knocked the cloak out of commission and Death finished the job even as Fang hurried past. They passed multiple dead or out-of-commission enemy, and somewhat to his surprise, no dead on their side.

_They have no experience with war like this. We've been fighting for millions of years. Before we imploded into a civil war we were fighting repeated wars with the Quintessons. _

The battle was nearly done. He was not the only mech hurrying to the aid of the fallen seeker. _Please don't let it be Thundercracker or Skywarp, _Fang thought, _Primus, please, I need them._

Even as they arrived on the scene, Ratchet did too. The lime green Hummer roared over a hill so fast that he caught several feet of air; he landed with a crash of armor and a protesting snarl from his engine, spun a roostertail of dirt into the air, and shot past Fang at well over a hundred miles an hour.

The seeker was Dirge; he was on fire, and crumpled into wreckage. Ratchet transformed even as he braked, and slid to a stop so quick he kicked up a huge spray of dirt. Even before he had stopped he was spraying the fallen seeker with fire foam. Inferno, a little slower than Ratchet (who was built for all-terrain speed), slammed on the brakes and added a much larger volume of foam from his tanks.

Fang dropped to a walk and approached cautiously. Ratchet knelt and swept the foam aside with one hand, then looked for signs of a spark in his crumpled wreckage. He was charred and steaming and very dead. Ratchet slammed a hand down on the ground in frustration. "I'm sorry," he said, to Fang, "there's nothing we can do here."

Fang sighed. "Did anyone take out the gunner who got him?"

"I think Predaking's on it." Inferno shaded his optics against the setting sun and indicated the towering form of the combiner, who was trading fire with an enemy they couldn't see. "These mechs are slagging _idiots_. They've made so many basic mistakes it's not funny. None of them have the armor for this sort of fighting, and their weapons are inferior."

"Did we lose anyone else on our side?" Fangface asked, feeling tired.

"Socket." Ratchet ran a hand over his face. "Two other of the Ark's crew. They have no training. We told them to stay back and defend the SOA -- it doesn't take much training to shoot at enemies from cover -- but they tried something stupid and got fragged for it."

"How bad are the casualties?"

"Most of the mechs in the med bay are Nebulan." Ratchet straightened up. He had soot on his faceplate and somebody's energon splashed across his chest. "We're putting them in stasis lock as soon as they arrive. They'll fight restraints to the point of injuring themselves if we don't."

"Use the Nemesis's med bay if you need more berths. Tell Obsidian I said to make it so."

Deathwheels rolled up next to Fang and transformed. "Slag. Predaking just comm'd me when I passed him. He says Wildrider's hit."

"Where?" Ratchet straightened up.

Deathwheels pointed towards the towering form. "Somewhere near him." Ratchet nodded, and headed towards the combiner.

"Ratch! Inferno! Be careful, I don't trust Predaking yet!" Fang shouted after them.

Death shook his head. "They know, Fang. They don't trust any of us."

Fangface crossed his arms. "Ratchet trusts _me_."

"Oh, Fang." Deathwheels sighed. "I wish that were true, but after everything we've been through? After all that fighting? How can our factions ever trust each other? He's an Autobot, and your affection for him is going to be used against you someday, I swear _._.."

"Death, don't start." Fangface jabbed a finger at him. "That's an order. _Drop _it."

Deathwheels looked like he was about to argue, but at that moment Astrotrain landed next to them, his thrusters throwing up a huge cloud of dust. The triplechanger was well over forty feet tall, and he was subspacing a good portion of his mass. Fang, who only came up to Astrotrain's thigh, said with much milder irritation than before, "We have some things to discuss after this mess is over, Astrotrain. There's a political picture here that you need to understand."

"I forgot what a shrimp you are," Astrotrain rumbled down at him, scowling.

Death tensed. Fang pinned his ears back, bared his teeth, and said, "I am _not _in a mood for petty posturing, Astrotrain. Save it for the command meetings."

"You made a bad call," Astrotrain loomed over both of them. "You should have authorized me to use nuclear weapons from the beginning. If that ship had landed successfully, the outcome of this battle would be very different."

"You don't understand the politics here," Fang snapped.

"_Politics._" Astrotrain said, scornfully. "You're not the only one who plays politics, little predacon ..."

Fang heard the whine of capacitors and saw Astrotrain raising his arm. He was at point blank range, and Astrotrain's height was beyond his maximum leaping range from a standing start. Fang was only armed with a single small laser rifle, a weapon meant to give the coup de grace after armor was rent apart, or to be used as a distraction. He could take someone's optic out with it, but against forty feet of triplechanger, it was _nothing_. He might as well have been throwing rocks at Astrotrain.

Predaking's heavy footfalls were coming in his direction. Fang heard the engine of another large flier overhead. Blitzwing.

_Oh, slag. I don't want to die._

He bolted, even as he heard Predaking fire, not at him, but at Death. Deathwheels went down hard, sparking. He ran for cover, but there really wasn't any, not with one assassin overhead, and two on the ground, and all three of them the size of multi-story buildings.

_:HELP!: _he screamed over the comms, _:Astrotrain's team's trying to kill me!:_

Mostly static answered. Then Ratchet's voice, comfortingly close, responded, _:Hold on, Fang! We're coming!: _And then Inferno, bigger, with more powerful broadcasting ability, picked up the cry. He heard Inferno yelling for backup, calling everyone to respond.

Fang dodged, zigged, zagged, trying to present a moving target, but inevitably, with a blow that felt like he'd been kicked by Omega Supreme, someone's pulse cannon struck home. He was thrown airborne, his HUD instantly awash with errors, gyro fragged, motor relays knocked offline, processor insisting he needed to reboot because of hardware glitches causing critical processing errors ... consciousness faded, despite every effort to stay online.

His chrono insisted only a few moments had passed when he rebooted. Off to his right, Silverbolt and, of all mechs, First Aid, were tangling one-on-one with Predaking. He heard the normally mild-mannered medic scream something about payback being a bitch even as the two of them made Predaking come apart into his component mechs.

Blitzwing was crumpled and motionless beyond them, and Ratchet vaulted over the body. "Fang, no!" he shouted, voice torn with horror.

Fang heard a noise. And looked up. And stared down the barrel of a plasma cannon that had a caliber wider than his shoulders.

He was going to die. He knew that with stunning certainty. It was over. Everything he'd fought for, everything he'd dreamed of, the long struggle to make a difference from within ... it was over. He'd failed. Astrotrain would take command, and he had the strength and tactical prowess to lead. The Autobots would lose. Earth would fall. The sparklings would die.

Fang knew he was going to die, and in death he would fail.

"FANG, NO!" Death screamed.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw sparking armor, and a terrible hole in Death's chest. Death flung himself at Astrotrain's cannon even as Astrotrain fired. Death didn't even scream; he just took a shot from Astrotrain's plasma cannon at point blank range and staggered and fell on top of Fang, his weight pinning Fangface to the ground. He twitched and scrabbled and Fang shouted his name. "Death! Death, talk to me!"

He couldn't see except from one secondary optic in his leg. All that showed was a charred bit of Death's armor, trembling and shaking. He could hear shouting. Combat. Predacons, snarling. Astrotrain, swearing. Optimus, his voice unintelligible with howling fury, except that Fang's name was in the mix of what he was screaming. Thundercracker, Skywarp, the remaining Coneheads. Aquaregia. Bumblebee. Inferno. Wildrider; whatever had taken him down hadn't been permanent. It sounded like one hell of a pitched battle and he was terrified it was 'con against 'bot. He could pick their voices out but he couldn't see them.

Death's leg twitched aside, allowing Fang to get his own foot underneath himself and shove. He pushed Death's body off himself in time to see Optimus drive his energon sword through Astrotrain's chest. Astrotrain staggered back, pulling free, wounded but not offlined. Fang launched himself into combat -- he heard a couple cheers when they saw he was back on his feet -- and this time, with a running start, he could make the jump to Astrotrain's shoulder and chest. There was no way he could have clawed through Astrotrain's armor, but Optimus's sword had cleaved a hole. Astrotrain tried to bat him loose, but he'd taken quite a bit of damage and his arms didn't seem to be working right.

"Die, slagger!" He discharged his laser rifle into that hole.

Astrotrain crumpled to the ground. Fang kicked free, landed on his feet, and took stock of the situation. Ratchet was crouched over Death, shaking his head. Fang forced himself not to think about that just yet. He scanned the battlefield for enemies. Most of the Predaking team was down; it looked like Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had the last member of that gestalt just about dealt with. Blitzwing was still laying on the ground, though First Aid appeared to either be giving field repairs or about to render him permanently offline -- First Aid was cutting through his armor and Blitzwing was thrashing and fighting him. First Aid's plans were rendered irrelevant when Aquaregia walked over, took aim, and fired several shots into Blitzwing's internals.

Ratchet rose from inspecting Deathwheels and walked over. Optimus was approaching from another direction, making his sword disappear as he did. Optimus asked, "Fang, how badly are you injured?"

"Minor slag," Fang growled. He hurt, but it was all little stuff -- bent armor mounts, broken coolant lines, an energon leak that was already sealing itself.

"I thought you were going to die," Ratchet said. "Death saved your life. Fang, he's ..."

"I know," Fangface said, quietly. He didn't want to think about it.

"Astrotrain's still alive," Ratchet noted, peering into Astrotrain's chest. He produced a saw and started removing Astrotrain's chestplate. "Fang, do you want me to fix him up for a trial, or do you want to execute him here?"

Optimus said quietly, "There doesn't need to be a trial, Fang. He attempted to assassinate a Prime, with multiple witnesses. That has never required a trial. The penalty for that offense has always been death."

"No!" A small figure darted between Fangface and Astrotrain. "Fangface, please, no, I know he tried to kill you, but he's all I've got, _no_! Megatron never let us be together! I tried to tell him you would, but he wouldn't believe me! He said we'd be together after this battle anyway! If I knew he was planning this I'd have said something, but please, please, _don't _kill him! He's all I have!"

Starcatcher. The little medic from the Nemesis. Fangface stared at him dumbfounded, trying to make sense of his words.

Optimus, however, seemed unsurprised. "They're partners," he explained, softly. "Jazz says that Megatron used Starcatcher to control Astrotrain. Astrotrain likely would have taken him out, otherwise, a long time ago."

Starcatcher, keening, prostrated himself over Astrotrain's body. "Please! He's all I have! Keep me as a captive and he'll obey. He will, I swear it!"

Fangface stared the other mech in the optics. Hadn't he been contemplating something similar to that with Rivet and Rivet's partner, recently? He'd done the same thing with other mechs. It was a very common Decepticon tactic.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Star."

"No!" Starcatcher screamed, "No, no, no!"

Deathwheels's body twitched behind him, armor clattering.

He tried to harden himself, to tell himself this _needed _to be done. His own grief was so strong, however, and Starcatcher was sobbing hysterically. He _knew _what that pain was like. He knew it, and he couldn't make someone else hurt the way he hurt today. He just didn't have it in him. Revenge against Astrotrain was pointless and he'd lost what little Decepticon-like appetite for death and destruction that he'd ever possessed.

Fang lowered his rifle, sat on his haunches, and said, "I've killed enough people today. Ratchet, if you would, put him in stasis lock. I'll figure out what to do with him later."

Ratchet nodded, and rose, and walked over to Fang. He crouched and said quietly, calmly, in a tone of sympathy that he'd probably gotten to practice far too often when informing mechs that their loved ones hadn't survived, "Fang, Death's dead. There was nothing I could do."

"I ..." The grief hit him full force, then. Grief, and rage, and a bitter sense of betrayal. His vocalizer hiccuped as his words fritzed.

"I don't think he felt much pain. It was a very quick death." Ratchet's words seemed to hang in the air. There was a finality to them. Death was _gone_.

Fang wanted to bury his face in Ratchet's chest and howl his pain out. Instead he stood up straight. The others were coming closer. He said, the words tasting bitter even as he spoke them, "He was a hero. I have many things left to accomplish. Because of him, I still have a chance to do them. Without Deathwheels, I would have died today."

"A hero," Aquaregia murmured.

The others took up the cry, agreeing that Death was a hero for having laid his life down for his lover. The Decepticons didn't have many heroes. Death would become a legend, Fang thought.

Ratchet's hand brushed his shoulder. "Go with your mechs. They'll take care of you. I think the battle here's done. If you need to talk later, come see me." Ratchet hesitated, then added, "You made the right call with Astrotrain. I don't have a slagging idea of what you're going to _do _with him, but the killing needs to stop."

Ratchet's approval was a tiny balm on a very large wound. He wanted to go with Ratchet. He wanted Ratchet to hold him tight. He wanted to cry in Ratchet's arms. He wanted to tell Ratchet the _truth_, and see if Ratchet could help him make sense of it all.

Thundercracker crouched beside him also, and rested a hand on Fang's shoulder. "C'mon, boss. Let's go."

He traded a look with Ratchet, wishing it were Ratchet who was offering him a sympathetic touch. Thundercracker added, "I'm sorry, Boss. I know you loved him."

He couldn't tarnish Death's sacrifice by telling everyone the truth. Only he knew what Deathwheels had tried to do to him. He'd look like an absolute fragger if he told them, _'He may have saved my life, but he tried to hack me, the slagger!' _... and the truth was, Death _had _saved his life. The least he could do in gratitude of that sacrifice was to make sure that Death was viewed as honorable and brave by those who had known him.

Yet even now, Fangface wasn't sure he could forgive Deathwheels. He was pretty sure that Death had planned on altering his core coding. That wasn't forgivable. Ever. Under any circumstances.

Death had saved his life, though, at expense of his own. He owed the slagger his life.

_Ratchet_, he thought, _I need to talk to you. I'm so confused._

TC guided Fang away with a hand on the middle of his back. "I'm sorry, boss. We'll take care of you. You'll be okay. You have all of us."

"Thank you," he murmured.

Ratchet said, "Thundercracker, I'll comm you when I'm ready to see him. He's going to need some repairs, but there's a long line of critical patients ahead of him. Just don't leave him alone -- have someone stay with him. It might be a few days before we can get to him."

"Ratchet," Thundercracker said, in a low tone, "I will stay with him personally."

TC scooped him up to teleport before Fang could react to Thundercracker's promise. They arrived on the Nemesis's upper deck, making a few people jump. The battle seemed to be over, however; he saw no signs of further fighting when he looked around from the vantage of Thundercracker's arms.

He expected Thundercracker to set him down immediately, but TC carried him through the doors, and down the hall to Thundercracker's private quarters. As Strika's second in command, he'd recently claimed the two-room suite that had once belonged to Soundwave and his symbiotes. Fang didn't have it in him to resist being carried, and the faces turned his way were only worried.

"Fang, I am sorry." Thundercracker said, setting Fangface down with his feet on a table. This put them at nearly the same height. He pinged the door closed behind them. "If you need to talk, I'll listen."

He needed to _cry_. Thundercracker must have sensed it, and known he needed privacy to come unhinged for a bit. His own quarters likely still had sparklings in them; this was as good a place as any to lose control. He crumpled forward, burying his face in the seeker's shoulder, feeling the seeker rub his backplating with a large hand. He wished this were Ratchet holding him close, but Thundercracker would do. Thundercracker _cared_. He just couldn't put words to his grief with Thundercracker. He couldn't tell TC the details. He could cry, though, as choking and bitter grief threatened to extinguish his spark.

"I'm sorry, boss. I'm so sorry. I know you loved him. I know you did. I'm sorry." TC's arms were warm and tight. The seeker smelled of energon and ozone, of dirt and smoke and the sharply chemical residue of high explosives from artillery rounds. He held Fang close, and did not show a single sign of surprise or disgust at Fang's utter emotional collapse. He'd expected it. Fang, somehow, knew TC had _expected _this, and was willing and ready to let Fang cry it out in his arms.

"I loved him," Fangface agreed, and he cried until he thought he would offline from the pain. Thundercracker stood there, patiently, murmuring sympathy, holding him like a sparkling, for a very long while.

Over and over he said, "I loved him," and TC repeated, "I know you did."

It was true. He had. Thundercracker just didn't know that Fang was grieving not just for a lost lover, but for shattered love as well. Had Death lived, it would have been over between them, forever. There would not have been a single thing in the universe that Deathwheels could have done to ever regain Fang's trust. And yet, Deathwheels had _died _for him. Fang's confusion threatened to make his processor glitch, and never in his life had he known pain and grief like this.

Much later, TC pulled back, a bit, pressed his forehead to Fang's, and said very softly, "You have my loyalty, Fang, for the rest of my life, no matter what may come."

"Why?" Fang said. "I don't understand why you are so faithful."

TC wrapped one large hand around the back of Fang's head, and coaxed Fang into leaning against his shoulder once more. "Fang," Thundercracker said softly, "haven't you figured out yet that I _believe _in your dreams? I believe in you, I believe in your vision, and I would have jumped in front of that cannon in Death's place, had I been close enough."

Such loyalty left him shaken to his core. Suddenly, he felt so very alone, and he hurt so much, and he wanted to _share _that pain, to feel someone else's sympathy, someone else's affection, to know he wasn't alone. Fang lifted his head up and whispered, "TC, would you interface with me tonight? I'm so ... I hurt so bad, and I _need _someone."

Thundercracker's arms tightened on him. Very carefully, the seeker said, "Fang, I didn't bring you here to my quarters to 'face with you. I could tell you were going to come completely undone, and I didn't want you to cry in public. I _understand_, and I think more of you, not less, when you feel things so strongly, however, there are plenty among us who would see you as weak for it."

"Th-thank you. I didn't think you planned anything improper." Fangface chuckled softly. "You're not like that. You wouldn't try to take advantage of me. That's why I'm asking. _Will _you? Please? I'm so alone. I hurt _so _bad."

"No, Fang." Thundercracker stroked his helm. "I won't."

"Skywarp," Fangface realized. "I should have ... I'm sorry. I should never have asked you to cheat on Skywarp."

TC scooped him up again and walked across the room to his berth. "Shh, it's okay."

Fang sighed, as Thundercracker settled down onto the berth. The seeker leaned back against the wall, arms loosely held around Fang's slim body. "I'm going to stay here with you until Ratchet can do your repairs," Thundercracker reminded him, "I saw you knocked offline. Why don't you do a medical defrag? I'll keep watch and wake you if anyone truly needs you."

"I should go back to the Nebulan ship, and help there ..." Fang sighed.

Thundercracker wouldn't let him get up. Gently, firmly, he said, "You're injured, and you're in no state of mind to be either diplomatic or careful. Let the Autobots deal with the Nebulans and the local officials. It's the sort of thing they're very good at. I will take you there if you really want to, but I counsel you strongly against it."

Fang wanted to argue. He wanted to say he was fine. He was tough. He was strong. He'd survived everything life had thrown at him so far. He would survive this too. "Thank you," he murmured, finally. "I don't know what I'd do if I was alone right now."

"I'm so sorry about all this," Thundercracker repeated, stroking a hand down Fang's back. "Shh. Go ahead and power down. I'll be here. I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere."

TC was right. TC's gentle words prompted a hiccuping cry from Fang's vocalizer. He was in no state to go out in public, and no amount of willpower was going to change that.

He trusted Thundercracker. He hadn't before, but he did now. He wanted to cry, he wanted to break something, he wanted someone to 'face with him so he could _really _share how much it hurt. He was so alone. And yet, he wasn't. He wasn't alone. Thundercracker's spark pulsed a steady rhythm that Fang could hear as he curled against the seeker's chest. The seeker's hands stroked his armor, soothing vibrations that relaxed taut muscles.

He would have sworn recharge was impossible, but he managed to cycle down successfully. Exhaustion claimed him, and his last conscious memory was of TC murmuring, "I'll be here, my lord. I'll be here."


	76. Chapter 76

Prowl stood to one side of the door, alert, unsmiling, radiating every bit of the public persona of Optimus's tactician that Bumblebee remembered. He was stern, tough, unamused, and ready to kill something. This was all of Prowl that most people had ever seen.

Bee had been part of the inner circle for long enough to see Prowl laugh, grieve, and throw the occasional temper tantrum of frustration. He'd also seen Jazz coax Prowl into dancing to Bee's own music, had watched Prowl reach out to Optimus when the Prime had been in his blackest moods, had witnessed Prowl talk Ironhide down out of a towering rage with a few well-chosen words, and he was pretty sure it was Prowl who'd welded Ratchet to his own berth ... he just wasn't sure _how _Prowl had pulled that legendary prank off.

When Bee had first lost his voice, millenia ago, it had been Prowl who'd sat up with him on many grim nights. Prowl didn't talk much, and Bee hadn't been able to speak aloud at all, and somehow, that had worked out just perfectly.

"Hey Prowl," Bee said, finally, trying to break the ice now, "What do you think of Earth?"

Blue eyes glanced in his direction. In the darkness of Fang's quarters, all their optics glowed brightly. The only illumination came from Scanner's headlights and the running lights on the seekers. Prowl's lights were off; if anyone blasted their way through the door, he would not want to draw their attention before he started shooting back.

Prowl's opinion was succinct. "Wet."

Bee smirked. That was a very Prowl-like answer. "What do you think of humans?"

"Wet." And _that _was Prowl humor, referring to the fact that humans were ninety-plus percent water. Mikaela laughed, getting the joke, as did Judy Witwicky, almost as swiftly. Sam looked puzzled for a moment, then he smiled too. Ron just looked confused.

"Small, fragile, short-lived, but otherwise impressive." Any other mech would have shrugged. Prowl just paused his speech for a moment. "Humans are generalists, adaptable, and surprisingly tough minded. They are curious, generally rational, and able to comprehend complex concepts. A young species I believe will go far."

"I do believe he likes us," Judy said, grinning teasingly.

Prowl quirked up an optic ridge up. "I appreciate potential allies wherever I find them. Bee, how is the battle going?"

Bee's other half was in the thick of it. He was getting better at splitting his attention. At Arcee's suggestion he had made a few small modifications to his operating system, and he now had completely separate environmental-interaction routines running at the moment, one linked to his combat subroutines for the battle that was using most of the processor ability in both of his protoforms, and a much smaller, less RAM-intensive script for monitoring the situation in the bunker. The two routines were not sharing processor resources, and that had the side effect of -- finally -- eliminating the creepy-crawly feeling of a second person mucking around in his mind.

He said, "We're winning. It's like shooting sparklings ..."

Prism whimpered in Mikaela's arms.

"... sorry, Prism. Nobody's going to shoot you." He switched to his comm to say to Prowl, _:They are very inexperienced, and not particularly talented overall. We're massacring them.:_

_:Do not forget that the mechs on our side are the survivors of a brutal war. Those of us who are left, aside from the crew of the Ark, have survived because we are _good _at combat.:_

_:That, and the Nebulan mechs just go insane when they see us. I swear, it's crazy. They won't back down even when it's clear they're going to die.: _Bee was more troubled by that than he wanted to admit. _:I just shot four mechs with my missiles to defend Optimus. The fifth had an opening to escape, and he kept attacking, and Optimus had to offline him.:_

_:Don't get distracted talking to me.: _Prowl sounded concerned.

_:Hrmm.: _But Bee followed Prowl's advise and allocated more RAM to the battle, paying only a little attention to his humans, Sam's parents, and the sparklings.

The Seeker sparklings got most of his remaining attention. They were crouched together at the back of the room, one Autobot and two 'cons, huddled in the shadows in a frightened tangle of limbs. Seekers were funny; they were equipped with fast processors and extra coding to allow them to navigate in four dimensions at speeds several times the speed of sound. However, they were military sparked from the beginning, with all the extra aggression and fast reflexes in their coding that implied. Ordinary sparklings were bad enough, but days-old seekers just made him _paranoid_. The sort of impulsive and harmless swat that Prism had delivered to someone's toddler earlier that morning over a Barbie doll could have fatal results to an adult human -- or even a smaller mech -- if delivered by a sparkling Seeker.

Mine! Splat! Was a real possibility with sparklings that young.

_Stay over there. Stay calm. _Bee thought nice thoughts at the seeker sparklings. In this form, he qualified as a 'smaller mech' -- and his humans and the other sparklings were even more vulnerable.

Prism whimpered.

"Poor baby," Judy said, reaching a hand out to Prism and stroking her head. By any human standard, Prism was ugly. Judy had taken to her with a swift maternal instinct, and Bee was unsurprised to see Prism crawl from Mikaela's arms into Judy's. Sam's mother didn't know the half of it, either, as far as 'poor baby' sentiments went -- Bee was truly worried about the little one. She'd been abandoned by Fang, then (as far as she knew) abandoned by Ratchet. Now she was stuck in a hole in the ground with frightened adults who were talking about things like 'shooting sparklings' and she was scared to death.

"Can I see her for a minute?" Bee asked, walking over to Judy. He wanted her to know that she was cared about and safe, even if her mentor wasn't here right now.

Judy, somewhat reluctantly, passed Prism to Bee. He caressed her head for a second, and then said to the child, "Are you worried about Ratchet?"

"And Fang. Want Fang too."

"They're both fine ..." Bee winced at that moment, as Fang started screaming over the comms about being attacked. "They're going to be fine," he said, even as he charged towards the fight with his other form. He asked Prism, "Do you know my name?"

"Bumblebee!"

"That's right."

For a moment, he was wholly focused on the fight, and just held Prism to his chest. Fang was down, hit by Blitzwing's fire, and he despaired for the sparkling in his arms if Fang _died_. Bee dropped his mech half to one knee, took aim, and planted his last two missiles in the middle of Blitzwing's chest even as Blitzwing was distracted by laser fire from Bluestreak.

First Aid ran past him, screamed, "Payback's a bitch!" and launched himself at fifty feet of towering combiner, with Silverbolt not far behind. The normally mild mannered medic, so quiet he was often lost in Ratchet's shadow, was snarling with rage. He also had the biggest laser scalpel Bee could remember seeing in one hand, as well as his usual weapons.

The rest of First Aid's gestalt had been killed in a fight with Predaking, Bee remembered, and he comm'd, _:Get 'em, 'Aid!: _He was unsure if his encouragement could be heard over the howling interference, but one could hope. He contributed his own pulse cannon blasts to the effort to take out Predaking. It had been awhile since Decepticons had been legitimate targets. It felt good to shoot _these _particular 'cons. He'd never liked that combiner team; they were responsible for quite a few brutal deaths.

Today, they were also outnumbered.

Fang was down, under Death's obviously and most sincerely dead form. Death had taken a plasma hit at point blank range to his torso, and his armor had already been stripped away and his force shield was offline. What was left was a twitching, melted ruin. Bee still didn't know if Fangface was still alive under there.

In the barracks, oblivious to the fight, Prism snuggled into his arms. Bee said to her, "You'll be okay, kiddo." And he held her tightly, protectively. He was fighting for her, and for the rest of them. They could not lose. The stakes were too high.

"Want Fang."

_C'mon, Fang, get up! _He thought, and then his mech half cheered aloud in the middle of the battle (and he was not alone) when Fang emerged and launched himself at Astrotrain.

"Fang's fine," he assured Prism, truthfully.

"Want Fang. No Deathwheels!"

"I don't think you'll need to worry about Deathwheels again," Bee said, wryly, then to Prowl, _:Death's dead. Dirge, too, I think, and I'm pretty sure I just killed Blitzwing.:_

_:Fang is not going to handle Deathwheel's death well.: _Prowl frowned. _:I never expected him to take a partner. I never thought he'd trust anyone to that degree.:_

_:You liked him, when he was among us,: _Bee remembered.

_:I did. He believed he had a great deal of potential. I continued to believe that every time Barricade interacted with him, and I am gratified by how he has turned out.:_

Bee watched, stunned, as Fang spared Astrotrain's life. In Fang's tracks, Bee was pretty certain he would have pulled the trigger, and he said as much to Prowl.

_:Hnnh. So would I.:_

Bee said to Prism, "I can see Fang and Ratchet. They're both fine."

"Want them _now!_"

Paladin said, irritably, "She complains a lot, doesn't she?"

Prowl snorted. "And what are you doing now, kiddo? Complaining?"

"Shut up, Ranger." Paladin glared at him. "It's not fair that you get treated special by everyone."

_:Prowl, I take it Paladin doesn't know yet about you and Ranger?: _Bee said, even as he sat down next to Paladin. "C'mere, kiddo. I know it's scary. Optimus is fine, too, though." He put his arm around Paladin's shoulders and encouraged her to lean against him. They were almost the same size because Optimus had chosen a sparkling who was big enough to defend herself from human threats. Next to Optimus's nearly thirty feet of height, Paladin seemed tiny, but she could look the average human in the eyes.

Prowl said, _:Not yet, and Optimus should be the one to explain this to her. Honestly, I don't know the first thing about how to talk to sparklings. I didn't get along with children when _I _was a child.:_

Prism hissed at Paladin from Bee's other arm. "Mine! My Bumblebee!"

Paladin growled right back.

Bee said, "Hey, girls, settle down ..."

Ron Witwicky, tone suspiciously innocent, said, "Hey Bee, it appears you collecting even _more _girlfriends."

"Daaaad!" Sam protested, pretty sure that his father had just lumped him in with the 'girlfriends' -- teasingly. He knew he had to be bright red.

Mikaela giggled. Judy snickered. Prism, however, hissed at Paladin again, and Bee dumped her on the cold concrete in reaction. She beeped in surprise at suddenly being dropped. Bee was sympathetic to a point with her plight, but he also wasn't about to tolerate aggression from a three day old baby. Coddling her would just encourage the attitude. Paladin, in reaction, looked smug. Bee told Prism firmly, "Be nice, or sit there and don't say a word."

"No!" She closed her optics, balled her fists, and wailed, "NO! No! No! No! No!"

Judy patted her leg, inviting the little sparkling back to her lap. "C'mere, kiddo, you won't have to share mine."

"Judy!" Prism, irritation forgotten, scampered across the room and dove into Judy's lap. Bee frowned, but he didn't want to make a scene right now. There _would _be time enough later to establish some ground rules with the kids. "Mine!"

Array, who had been watching everything silently from a corner with her brother, slowly stood up and padded towards Judy as well. Silently, she studied Judy, then held her arms out.

"You too, hmm?" Judy tried to shift Prism to her shoulder to make room for the bigger sparkling. Array was hip height to a human, and still small enough to fit in a human's lap, but there wouldn't be room for Prism too.

Prism hissed, and clung to Judy's jeans with pointed claws. "Mine!"

"Oh, honey, I can cuddle both of you."

"You said no sharing! Mine!" Prism glared at Array, practically quivering with outrage over the idea of splitting Judy's affection with anyone else.

Array's shoulders drooped. She turned to go back to her brother. Pulsar, who'd remained curled up in the corner, reached his arms out to his sister and said, "Array's crying. Prism's mean."

Array wasn't actually keening with Cybertronian sobs, but then again, Bee had yet to hear her make any sort of noise. Her eyes were huge, though, and her expression very upset.

"Not mean!" Prism insisted.

"Yes you are." Judy managed to pull Prism free from her jeans. She held her up in one hand, looked the sparkling in the optics, and said, "You were mean and bad and I don't want a mean, bad, sparkling in my lap."

Then she set Prism down on the ground. _Smart woman_, Bee thought. It hadn't taken Judy long to see through the brattiness.

"Want Fang! Want Ratchet! No! No! No! No! No!" Prism turned to Mikaela -- who blocked her with a hand in the middle of her chest.

"Say you're sorry to Array," Mikaela prompted.

"No!"

"C'mere, Array, kiddo. Pulsar, you too." Judy held her arms open. Both sparklings ran across the room at the invitation. Bee winced as both of them snuggled rather roughly against the woman, but Judy gave no sign of discomfort. She ended up with Array in her lap and Pulsar curled up against her side.

"Me!" Prism screamed. "Me!" Now Mikaela was restraining Prism, stopping her from running to Judy. "Let go! No no no nonononononono!"

"Okay, time out." Mikaela stood up, lifted Prism up to the edge of Fang's berth, which was shoulder height to a human, and said, "Sit there. Two minutes." And then she turned to walk away.

"Nooooooo!"

Mikaela turned back. "Two minutes start when you're _quiet_."

"Nooooo!" Prism launched herself off the berth, clattered when she landed on the ground, and scampered towards Judy. Ron intercepted her halfway, and passed her (kicking and screaming) back to Mikaela, and Mikaela plunked her back down on the edge of the berth.

"Stay."

"Noooooooo!" The moment she lifted her hand off the child, Prism was off again, this time trying to run to Bee.

Bee scooped her up. Paladin pouted. "Perhaps we'll save the discipline for another day," he said. He didn't like letting Prism get away with being a brat, but he was watching the seekers, who looked like they were getting agitated by Prism's temper tantrum. Also, watching her was taking more processor power than he felt he should be sparing in the middle of a battle. The combat seemed to be over, but he was still alert and looking for surprises on the battlefield. "Shh, Prism."

"Hah." She took Bee's attention as a victory nd made a rude raspberry noise at Judy and Mikaeala.

Bee was very tempted to plunk her back down on the ground, but one look at the seekers changed his mind. They were tense, scared, and way too young to know their own strength.

"Where's Thundercracker?" The larger of TC's sparklings asked, noticing his glance in their direction.

"He's fine. He's not hurt. He'll be here later." Bee's other half was watching as Thundercracker scooped up Fang, who looked shaken and battered but not badly hurt. "I bet Skywarp comes first, though. Do you two like Skywarp?"

"TC's partner!" The other sparkling said, excitedly. "Fun!"

"That's right."

Silverbolt's kid said, "And Silver?"

"He's fine too. He was a hero today. They all were. Your mentors kept you guys safe." He stroked Prism's shoulders, then reached a hand down and patted Paladin on the head.

"Hug?" Silverbolt's sparkling, Dart, leaned forward, bracing himself with one hand and lowering his head and shoulders to Bee's level. Mournfully, he added, "Want hug."

He had an armful of Prism (who'd gone rigid with jealous anger) and Paladin attached to his knees. Putting Prism down would probably prompt another tantrum. There really wasn't a safe way to cuddle a twenty-five foot tall baby while holding someone as fragile as Prism in his arms. He was trying to figure out how to tactfully tell the sparkling this when Ron Witwicky stood up.

"C'mere, you. I'll give you a hug. Stand still. Don't move. Okay?"

"Okay," Dart agreed. "Humans _break. _Be still!"

"Glad you understand that." Ron walked over, reached up, threw an arm around the sparkling's neck, and said, "There. Bet you miss your dad."

"I miss Silver," Dart agreed. "Good hug."

"Glad you think so." Ron patted him on the helm. "You know, you could hurt me. You have to be really careful, okay?"

"Okay."

"Hug too?" One of Thundercracker's sparklings said.

Bee retreated a bit, and watched, bemused, as Ron made them wait their turns, hugging each one, and then convincing all three to sit back down. He sat on Dart's knee, ordered all of them to remain very still, and promised them he'd tell them a story if they didn't move. And then he started in on a fairy tale. Every time they moved, he quit talking. He was making a game of them remaining very still ... which made them much safer for everyone else to be around.

_Huh. _Bee was a bit surprised by the skill that Ron was showing, but then, perhaps he shouldn't have been. Ron wasn't an idiot, and he generally did mean well. He'd hurt Sam, but he hadn't ever done it deliberately. He might have a few major and hurtful hangups regarding his son's sexuality, but he was a decent man.

Bee sat down next to Sam and said, bemused, "Your father's actually good with them."

Sam shrugged. "Thank God they're more patient than this one." He flicked Prism, who was still clinging to Bee's shoulder, in the auditory sensor.

Prism shrieked, "Bad Sam! Bad!"

"Yeah, she's going to be a handful. I don't envy Ratchet the job of raising this one."

"Ratchet! Want Ratchet!" Prism hit an ear-shattering volume.

"Shut up," Paladin said, grouchily.

"You shut up," Prism shot back.

"_You _shut up first!" Paladin snapped.

"Both of you shut up," Mikaela said, sternly. Paladin fell silent. Prism pouted.

"I want a hug too!" Scanner announced.

Prowl grumbled something under his breath. "Bee, what's it look like out there?"

"Fighting's over, I think." Bee couldn't keep a grin off his face. They were running out of adults to comfort the little ones. It looked like it was Prowl's turn to sooth a scared sparkling.

"You, get over here." Prowl looked at Scanner and pointed at a spot at his feet. "I'll hug you. You're too big for the humans to cuddle."

"I'm smaller than the seekers," Scanner observed, giving Ron a longing look. That was true enough, but Ron had the seeker sparklings calmed down and they'd probably get agitated again if he got up.

Prowl smirked. "You're smarter than a human I see, too. You want a hug or not?"

Scanner scrambled over to Prowl, plopped down at his feet, and Prowl, somewhat stiffly, put his arm around Scanner's shoulders. Bee fought back a giggle and vowed to give Jazz a clip of that video later. Prowl looked like he was afraid of catching rust from the sparkling, though fortunately, Scanner didn't realize just how uncomfortable the other mech was with touching others.

"How come you're so much smarter than we are?" Scanner asked, presumably under the assumption that Prowl was Ranger.

Prowl's response took a minute. "Sometimes, it just works out that way."

Bee abruptly lost the desire to laugh. There was something very dark and sad in Prowl's optics. It wasn't funny at all anymore.

* * *

It was several hours later, midnight, when the all-clear was sounded. Prowl, still cautious, led the way above, with Bee bringing up the rear. Jazz, looking tired, and with a plasma burn across one shoulder, met them.

_:Hey.: _He regarded the sparklings for a moment before he spoke. Prism was finally recharging in Judy Witwicky's arms. The rest of the sparklings were nearly asleep on their feet. To Prowl and Bee, he explained, _:'Our medics are up to their optics in alligators right now, dealin' with the Nebulan organics. There's around four thousand survivors we've found so far -- that ship had ten thousand on board -- and several hundred of them are pretty messed up. They're setting a field hospital up here. The humans are completely torqued off and we've had some trouble getting human medical staff to help, though fortunately, some of their medics lived.:_

Which meant that Pulsar, Array, Scanner and Prism needed somebody to mind them. Bee said, "I'm betting Optimus is pretty busy too. Judy -- if Ratchet clears it, will you take Prism home with you?"

Ron said hesitantly, "I don't know about babysitting a mech kid -- we don't know how."

Judy snorted, unelegantly. "Ron, it's got to be easier than a human kid. She doesn't eat and she doesn't poop."

"Does she have an off switch?" Ron replied, jokingly.

That prompted a tired grin from all of the other adults. Bee comm'd Ratchet quickly, _:Ratch, is it okay if Judy and Ron take Prism for the night? We know you're busy.:_

_:That's fine. Tell her it might be for a few days.: _Ratchet's response was terse, to say the least. He cut the comm.

Silverbolt's tall figure loomed out of the darkness. Seeing him, Dart squealed and leaped into Silver's arms. "Silverbolt!"

"Hey, Darter." He winced and set Dart down. "I can't hold you right now, I'm sorry."

_:You okay, Silver?: _Bee asked.

_:Damaged some hydraulics. I can take charge of Scanner, though. 'Aid's as busy as the rest.: _Silver crouched to look at First Aid's sparkling. "Hey, Scanner."

"Hi."

Silver held his hand out. "Your mentor wanted me to take care of you for a bit. Is that okay?"

A shy nod. "I want First Aid."

"You can probably see him in the morning. It's late."

"Where's Thundercracker?" Bee asked, giving the other two seeker sparklings a cautious look.

Silverbolt sighed. "With Fang. I comm'd him a bit ago and he said that Fang's pretty shook up and he's watching over him tonight. 'Warp should be here in just a second ... he's going to take Thundercracker's kids."

That idea made Bee hesitate a bit. To the other three adult mechs present he asked, _:Is Skywarp competant to take care of them?:_

_:Thundercracker thinks he'll do okay. I asked him about that. You don't have to talk to 'Warp for very long to realize how slow he can be: _Silverbolt blew a sigh out his vents. _:Thundercracker seems to think that 'Warp's aware of his limitations and can safely handle basic childcare issues. TC said he's more worried about what happens when the sparklings get _older _and realize that they can outwit him.:_

Before Bee could comment on that, Skywarp appeared, teleporting in. In the darkness, a flash of blue light accompanied his arrival, along with the signature cracking sound of displaced air. Bee shuttered his optics reflexively. When he opened them, both of TC's sparklings were tackling Skywarp in an enthusiastic and relieved greeting.

'Warp hugged them both, then turned to Bee and the adult humans. "Aren't they adorable?"

"In a very deadly way," Ron assured him.

Skywarp beamed and completely missed Ron's ironic tone. "I think so too. C'mon, kids. We're crashing in my room tonight."

That left Paladin, Pulsar and Array. Bee comm'd Wheeljack and Optimus, letting them know that he'd take responsibility for Pulsar and Array, and that, after a quick conference with Prowl, that Prowl would take Paladin. Optimus's response was swift. _:The power's still out. There's an inverter in the med bay hangar if you want to hook yourself up and provide power for your humans and the Witwickys. No sense in them suffering in the heat.:_

_:Oh, yeah, thanks, Prime.:_

_:Good job in the battle today.:_

_:We lost too many people.:_

_:We would have lost more without you. Bee, as soon as we get Silverbolt repaired, which will probably be sometime tomorrow, I'm sending a delegation to DC. I want your shorter half to go. You'll be talking to the president's cabinet and potentially the president himself about what happened.:_

_:Me, Prime?:_

_:You, Prime.: _Optimus's words were fond. _:Jazz, Swindle and Sideswipe are going as well, but the Secret Service, in the president's own words, has a cow every time he tries to convince them to let him meet with us directly. You're small and unarmed. They've agreed to let you be our liason.:_

_:Yes sir. Send me the situation reports and let me know what positions you want me to take.: _He hesitated. _:Can I take my humans with me?:_

Optimus's chuckle was openly amused now. _:Ratchet needs Mikaela, I'm afraid. However, it will be a good experience for Sam. Use him as a secretary and runner and have him tag along after you. I've an eye towards training him to be a diplomatic liason for us, and that's a good start.:_

_:Understood. I should have thought that through before I asked for both of them.:_

_:You're exhausted. You love them. I completely understand. Go recharge, Bee.:_

_:Thank you, sir. Can I say something, one Prime to another?:_

_:Yes?:_

_:You need recharge too, sir.: _Not too long ago, he would have been a lot more tactful and less direct. He just wasn't as intimidated by Optimus as he used to be.

Optimus's rumbling laugh made Bee smile, just a little. _:I'm waiting on a call from the President. He's talking to Keller right now. After that, I will recharge, I promise.:_

* * *

The sound of crashing pots and pans in the kitchen woke Judy the following morning. She lunged out of bed, heart pounding, frightened and disoriented. She'd seen dead mechs on the drive from the Decepticon base to the Autobots', and had nightmares and uneasy sleep most of the night. For one startled moment she was sure that the clang of metal was mech armor and that they were being attacked ...

"No!" Ron's voice held amusement. "Get off of there!"

"Oooh, loud!!"

Oh, the kid. They'd agreed to babysit ten pounds of alien toddler. Her life was _distinctly _weird these days ... she grabbed a robe and hurried into the kitchen. There, Ron had a firm grip on Prism with one hand, and was holding her at arm's length. She hung limply in his grip, giving him a wide-optic'd wounded look, as he bent over and picked multiple pans up off the ground. It took Judy a moment to figure out that the sparkling had somehow managed to get up on the counter and knock a dish drainer full of pans to the ground. By some miracle, nothing breakable had been in it, but the noise had been enormous.

"Good morning," she pecked a kiss to his cheek, and then rescued Prism and balanced the kid on her hip. "And how are you, sweetie?"

"Do it again?" Prism asked, hopefully. "That was fun!"

"How about we do something else fun?" She set Prism down on the table and dug a pad of paper and a red marker out of a drawer. "Do you know how to draw?"

Prism took the marker dubiously. Judy took it back from her, pulled the cap off and demonstrated. Prism's optics widened, and she grabbed for the marker. "Draw!"

"What are you going to draw?" Judy asked.

"Fang!"

"Good. Keep that marker on the paper and not on my table." Judy patted her on the head, then turned to make breakfast.

"Where's Ratchet?" Prism asked conversationally.

Judy considered her answer for a moment. "You know Ratchet's a doctor, right?"

"Medic."

"A medic, right. Well, some people got hurt, and he's making them better." Judy dug eggs and bacon out of the refridgerator. She watched Prism out of the corner of her eye, but the little sparkling seemed content to draw on the paper and not herself or the furniture.

"You should see the news," Ron said. "I turned it off when Prism woke up, but hooo boy, it's ugly."

"How bad?"

"Tell you later." He sounded grim, and she realized it was bad enough that he didn't want to talk about it in front of the child.

When she finally turned to the table with two plates of food for herself and Ron, Prism held up the pad of paper proudly. "Look! Fang!"

Judy was a bit surprised. She'd been expecting a something like a human toddler's scribble. Instead, Prism had created a rather impressively good drawing of Fangface. Fang was sprawled on his chest, head resting on his feet, eyes alertly watching something. The picture showed good perspective, was in proportion, and had a nice artistic flare. She'd captured Fang's expression perfectly. There was no shading, it was just a line drawing, but she definitely had skill.

"Huh. You're good at that. Let's show an adult and see what they think." Judy scooped Prism up in one arm and the pad of paper in the other, and walked to the door.

Bumblebee had been parked between the houses, but sometime during the night he had been replaced by Sunstreaker. Sunny had extension cords running from under his hood to both mobile homes. Judy blinked at that, and decidedly, privately, if a parked Corvette could look disgruntled without actually having any sort of expression, Sunny did.

"Hey," she said, walking over to him. "How are you doing?"

"Sore." His growl made her grin. She patted him affectionately on the quarter panel, and in a friendly tone of voice, he added, "Sideswipe's in the med bay now. I'm repaired, if you need to go anywhere. However, you won't have any power if I leave. Not that I'd mind. I'm not a fraggin' generator."

"Thanks for helping us out, though. It's really appreciated and I'm grateful." She patted him again. "I appreciate it. Hey, can you tell me something?" She held up the picture, "Is this normal for a sparkling?"

Sunstreaker was silent for a moment, as he studied the picture for a moment. "No, it's not. That would be a distinctly above-average ability, particularly given she doesn't really have a mind designed for spacial processing."

Judy, delighted with the discovery, said, "So she's likely got an artistic gift?"

"Almost certainly. That's what we call a spark gift." Sunstreaker sounded pleased too. "That should be encouraged. There aren't many of us interested in art left."

Something about the way he said 'us' made her say, "Sunny, would you like me to pick you up some art supplies?" She'd picked up somewhere that he was artistically inclined, but she'd never seen him do anything fun like draw a picture.

The Corvette coughed. "I haven't drawn anything in a very long time."

"I bet Prism would like someone drawing with her."

Sunstreaker sighed, this time, and seemed to sag on his shocks. "They don't think I should be around the sparklings. Not even my own brother's."

"Huh ... what? Why? Who?" She crouched down, balanced Prism on her knee, and peered through the Corvette's window at his dash. She was never completely sure where to look when addressing a Transformer in alt mode, but his radio was a good surrogate for his face. "Sunny, that's silly."

"Ratchet says I'm not safe to be around the sparklings. He hates me, he always has. He'd _never _let me be around his child. And I guess Prism's his now, since Fangface says she's useless and he doesn't want her."

The child in Judy's arms went very still for a moment. _And, _Judy thought, in a moment of crystal clarity, _And_ _that lack of judgment is why they don't want him around the kids._

"Fang said that?" Prism asked, then denied it. "Fang didn't say that! You're lying!

The child started keening, fingers gripping Judy's arm with painful force. "No! I want Fang! I want Fang! He didn't say that! I want Fang!"

"He told Wildrider that this morning." Sunny snapped. "Better you know it now than later, kid. He's just another nasty 'con."

"Sunstreaker," Judy straightened up. "I'm disappointed in you."

"But it's _true_."

"No." Judy cradled the child to her shoulder. Prism wasn't exactly cuddly, with her hard limbs and sharp angles, but she responded to touch exactly like a human kid. "No, that's not true."

"Fang _loves _me." Prism said, sounding angry. "I _know _it. I felt it! You lie!"

Sunstreaker was silent for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he spun his tires and roared off, with the extension cords ripping out of the house circuits as he left. They flapped behind him as he careened around the corner and out of sight.

"Slagger," Prism voiced her opinion. "I _know _Fang loves me. I felt it when he gave me my code."

"Good. You just keep believing that." Judy bent over and picked up the marker, which she'd dropped when Sunny had taken off. "C'mon. I'm glad I already fixed breakfast. Our generator just headed for parts unknown."

"Can I kick him when he comes back?" Prism wanted to know.

Judy ran her hand over the sparkling's head. "Prism, you know how you know Fang loves you? I think Sunny's jealous of that."

"Oh." Prism thought about that. "But Fang's _mine_. He's not Sunstreaker's, he's mine! Sunstreaker can't have him! He's mine!"

Judy shook her head, and managed not to giggle. "I don't think you have anything to worry about there, kiddo."

* * *

"Look!" Prism held her pad of paper up to Ron as he walked through the living room a few hours later.

Ron peered at the picture. Prism had been drawing pictures of everyone she knew all morning. She'd astonished him earlier by drawing a picture of Bee, Sam, and Mikaela from the perspective of view of an eighteen inch tall sparkling -- and then drawing the _same _picture from eye level with Bee. She'd cheerfully told him, "That's what they'll look like when I'm bigger!"

He regarded this offering for a moment and then said, approvingly, "It's a little Fangface."

Prism jabbed a finger at the sketch. "Not Fangface. Me. Fang's a cat. I'm a kitten."

Judy, who was washing dishes in the darkened kitchen, observed, "She's quite insistent. She wants an alt-mode of a lion cub."

He looked at it closer, eyebrows rising. Prism had been drawing for a few hours. Judy had found her a web site with animal pictures on it, and Prism had a picture of a lion cub up on Judy's laptop. The laptop was next to her on the table. Prism had done a rather impressively good job at translating the features of the cub into a mechanoid form: big eyes, big paws, a long tail, and a mouthful of teeth. The cub was smiling, and sitting primly on her haunches in the picture.

"Huh."

Prism held her arms out wide and shook them. "_Fit_. It will _fit _me. Dimensions are right. I need more armor to fold to make it look right. I can make it. Everything will fit."

"She's been insisting she can make herself look that way, too," Judy said, "But she says she needs more armor to do that."

He could see what she meant, too. Her armor was scanty, just covering her joints, chest, and head. To make the illusion of a cat she'd need more pieces to work with.

"Pick me up!" Prism decided she wanted Ron to hold her.

Grinning, he scooped her up. "You," he said, "are adorable."

"I'm ugly." She poked herself in the mouth. "Want to be cute."

Judy said, with a laugh, "I'd like to know _how _she figured out the difference between ugly and cute. Where'd she get the context?"

Prism gave her a surprisingly literal -- and common sense -- answer, in complete sentences. "It's in my language modules that Bee wrote. Ugly and cute are part of human communications. There are definitions. I want to be cute. Cute is positive. Ugly is negative. Bee has a picture of a kitten as 'cute' and Fang's a cat, and a kitten is a baby cat. I want to be a kitten!"

"And ... we're back to what Bumblebee thinks again. I swear, that mech manipulates everything in the most amazing ways." Ron rolled his eyes. "Don't listen to Bee. He's a fragger."

That made Prism giggle aloud. "Bee's not a fragger. I like Bee!"

"She's not supposed to be saying that word," Judy pointed out, while still marveling at the fact that this was the first toddler she'd ever spoken to who could _really _grow up to be a cat if she wanted to, and not just pretend.

Ron snorted. "And here I thought you said it wasn't a real swear word."

"Well, it's not, but Ratchet wouldn't like her to say it."

"Ratchet's not here." Prism giggled. "Ratchet's gone too. You're my mentors now, right?"

"Ah ..." Judy shook her head, "Kiddo, I think you're confused. Ratchet didn't leave you, he's just very busy helping other people. He's your guardian. Your mentor."

She made a staticky, disgusted-sounding noise. "Mentor. The person who cares for you. That's _you _right now. Mentor Judy. Mentor Ron."

"Oooh boy," Ron rolled his eyes again. "Poor kiddo's really confused. Prism, you're going back to Ratchet later. _He's _your daddy."

She shrugged and offered the opinion, "I like Ratchet. He has stickers. And balloons. I like to sleep behind his grill. It's warm and safe."

"Yes, he's pretty cool and he's _yours_," Judy said, scooping her out of Ron's arms. "And we're going to go see Ratchet as soon as we can track down Sunstreaker. Okay?"

"Okay. Then see Fang?" She bounced in Judy's arms. "I really like Fang!"

* * *

The group headed to DC for what Jazz termed a round of "political fast-talking" included Jazz, Sideswipe, Swindle (who was strongly being encouraged to think of a less-problematic nickname to use around the humans), Sam, Lennox and the last-minute additions of the Nebulan Captain t'Nell, t'Tamis, plus Ironhide to guard t'Tamis, and four N.E.S.T. soldiers to guard t'Nell.

t'Nell and his guards were the last to arrive. He looked pale under his blue complexion, and seemed somewhat groggy, though he perked up a bit when he saw t'Tamis. Bee suspected the 'groggy' was residual sedation from surgery; his broken arm had required a plate to fix it.

"Sir," t'Tamis said, then spoke in a language Bee didn't understand.

t'Nell corrected him quickly. "Speak the language of the Ancients. They don't understand the common tongue."

The Nebulan mech repeated, "Sir. I was sorry to hear you were captured."

t'Nell raised both arms in the Nebulan version of a shrug, though the shoulder of his broken arm was visibly stiff. "It was inevitable."

"Sir." t'Tamis shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Bee thought that the mech was probably thinking, _I could have told you so, _but was too diplomatic to actually say that to his commanding officer. Finally, t'Tamis did say, "They're not evil. Sir."

t'Nell pressed his lips together for a second. "t'Ayel insisted they were, that they were planning an attack on Nebulos. He insisted that they'd destroyed the homeworld a hundred thousand years ago. I'm still trying to piece together the puzzle of what's _really _going on."

The young mech glanced at Ironhide, then surveyed the rest of them. He didn't offer any opinions, probably because he didn't want to speak freely in front of his enemies.

t'Nell gestured at Silverbolt's interior. "Tam, why aren't you trying to kill them? I expected they'd need to bring you on board in stasis cuffs when Ironhide said he was going to take you along. The rest of the mechs have been outright crazy. They won't follow orders, they just _attack_."

The Nebulan mech's expression was a mirror of t'Nell's, with his jaw set and his lipplates pressed tightly together. Nebulans called that expression a closed mouth. Literally, it meant you didn't want to eat something; figuratively, it meant a strong distaste. Bee, watching, was struck by how _long _it had been since he'd used his Nebulan language modules. "They didn't tell you about the firmware coding in my core?"

"I'd heard about it, yes." t'Nell made a sweeping gesture with one hand, indicating that t'Tamis should go before him, as befitting a friend or ally of lower rank. "I assumed you would have the same issue."

t'Tamis transformed, and this was the first time Bee had seen his alt mode. He turned into a distinctly rugged looking vehicle, with large tires and a high suspension. He was bulky, taking up as much volume as Ironhide, but that was because he had a large passenger cabin capable of seating around ten Nebulans. His actual mass was not significantly more than Bee's mech half, but Bee's armor was significantly thicker and his struts far heavier.

Once transformed, the Nebulan mech quietly rolled up the ramp and squeezed into the very full hold. Bee followed t'Nell and the soldiers, and both of them squished themselves between the wall and t'Tamis to get past. Jazz and Sideswipe were both in protoform, sitting bent over and awkward in the tight space. Ironhide, the heaviest, was in alt mode and positioned over the wings, his front bumper actually in contact with Swindle's aft end. Ironhide had his tailgate down, and his bed was piled high with luggage and supplies, almost to the top of the hold. The humans were meant to sit in front of Swindle in jump seats, with more luggage and two ice chests -- it was going to be a eight hour flight, with a stop in Atlanta to pick up an expert from the CDC -- between them.

"Keep going," one soldiers shoo'd t'Nell forward, not letting him talk any longer with t'Tamis.

Sideswipe bristled a little as t'Nell passed, which was partly just Sideswipe being Sideswipe, but his reaction was probably also influenced by the still, silent form of a sparkling situated between his feet. The sparkling had originally been meant to be Deathwheel's, and his maintenance had already been completed. Sideswipe was next in line to get a child, and hadn't been picky about the sparkling's form other than it "not be a midget."

Sideswipe's kid was about Doc's size -- solid, sturdy, about four hundred pounds in weight, and not much taller than most humans. He planned on bringing the child online after they were settled in DC. Bee suspected that the thought that the Nebulan mechs would have offlined his kid without even hesitating was making him hostile towards the Nebulans in general. They were under explicit orders to treat the Nebulans professionally, and with courtesy. Sideswipe hadn't once violated those orders, but he still managed to give off a definite air of contained fury.

The simple truth was that all of them were pissed at the Nebulans. Bee himself was far more ticked at the _organic _Nebulan officers than the mechs. He figured the mechs weren't responsible for their own actions, but the organic Nebulan officers were a different case. t'Nell had trusted t'Ayel's intel a bit too much, and had not asked enough questions himself, at a very minimum.

And yet ... they were the survivors of Nebulos, and Bee personally couldn't escape a deep sense of obligation to Nebulos. The result was a great deal of conflict in his feelings. These Nebulans had been criminally stupid, at best. He personally felt they should be held morally responsible for the deaths of every single human on the ground and every single subordinate under their command.

And yet, there was a bigger picture he had to keep in mind: Earth could not afford a war with Nebulos. They could not condemn a world's entire people because of the actions of that world's military. They needed to send the Nebulans home with a strong message: Earth was peaceful but well defended. Earth's people wanted no fight with anyone, but anyone who attacked Earth was likely to regret it. Bee _knew _that was the wisest course of action, but he didn't know if the humans (or even his own people) could be convinced of the wisdom of this.

Sam was already sitting down, and Bee claimed a jump seat next to him. t'Nell settled stiffly and painfully into the seat beside Bee, after a glance back at t'Tamis.

He was a prisoner, and the humans had made it very clear that he was _their _prisoner, not a Cybertronian prisoner. The politics and public perception of the whole mess were making Bee's processor threaten to fritz from frustration.

The media had been extensively been covering the huge uproar this morning. Congress had called an emergency session and there had already been one completely unanimous resolution passed condemning the "unprovoked alien attack" by the Nebulans. Bee was not sure what good that resolution was going to do, but it probably made the politicians feel like they were accomplishing something. A huge charitable drive had already begun for the human victims, and one prominent charity had declared that _no _aliens would benefit from its work. Likewise, the State of Nevada claimed it didn't have the funding for their medical care, and, when he'd woken up this morning, Cspan had been covering a rather vigorous congressional debate about using federal money for it.

The badly injured Nebulans -- and there were _lots _of badly injured Nebulans -- were in dire straights. Not being human, they didn't even qualify for legally mandated emergency medical care and Ratchet (and Bee himself) had been enraged when an ambulance with two critical patients had been turned away from a human hospital the night before. Ratchet had ended up paying a private clinic to do life-saving neurosurgery on both of them, and he'd had to send First Aid to help the human surgeon with anatomy. The surgeon in question, a friend of Doc's, had insisted somewhat frantically on anonymity.

Public opinion polls were also completely polarized about the Cybertronians themselves.

Half of the country blamed the Transformers for the attack and the devastation in Tranquility. Human loss of life was estimated to be in the hundreds of people. The ship had plowed a swath through town that was a quarter mile wide and two miles long. They were fortunate that a chunk of that crash site included a park, a school ballfield and playgrounds, and a largely empty business district. If it had crashed during working and school hours, the loss of life would have been much higher. If it had hit more houses, it woud have been far worse too. As it was, the dead included an entire after school program of school-age children, and for that, Bee wasn't sure he could forgive the Nebulan commanders.

_Idiots_, he thought, savagely, with fury and cold, sick grief.

The other half of the humans polled basically seemed to believe that Cybertronians had saved the world, again, and should be knighted, sainted, and gilded.

_This particular Cybertronian is tired of saving the world at such a high cost, _Bee thought, grimly. And he also thought that t'Nell needed to see the results of his complete stupidity. Making the captain feel guilty was more acceptable than hitting him over and over until Bee's knuckles were bloody. With that strategy in mind, with as calm of a voice as he could muster, Bee said, "Sam, can I borrow your laptop?"

After a somewhat puzzled look, Sam passed his computer over. Bee was perfectly capable of surfing the internet in his head, and Sam knew it. Bee logged on to the internet with the laptop using a wireless signal he generated from his own comm, clicked through some news pages, and found video shot the afternoon before at the scene of the crash.

"I assume you understand English?" He asked t'Nell.

The captain, somewhat to Bee's surprise, said simply, "No."

"Oh, _Primus._" Bee's estimation of their intelligence, both their military intel and their actual lack of genius, went several levels lower. With a growled, "Stay here!" he rose, worked his way back to Ironhide's truck bed, and retrieved one of his bags from the towering pile of luggage.

When he returned to the jump seats, Silverbolt announced, "Please buckle your seatbelts. We're about to take off."

He absently strapped in, even as one of the N.E.S.T. soldiers hooked tie-downs to the rest of the mechs' frames. Bee rummaged through his bag even as Silver accelerated into flight, found a datacube, quickly plugged it into the port on his arm, and earned t'Nell's surprised look when he did.

"You're technorganic. I didn't know humans had the tech levels for that."

"No, they don't," Bee said, then clarified himself. He had to force himself to be polite. "I'm not human, I'm Cybertronian. This is a technorganic protoform. It's designed specifically for working with the humans. Humans aren't this good yet at wetware interfaces. We intend to help them with that."

"You're not human," t'Nell said, flatly.

"Nope."

"I'd wondered how a human had become fluent in the language of the Elders." t'Nell's lips pulled back into a grimace. "I never considered you weren't human."

"Humans don't have datajacks, or wetware processors." Bee handed t'Nell the data cube after downloading the language module to it. "Here's English."

t'Nell held it in the palm of his hand for a moment. Bee could feel the faint electromagnetic buzz of the induction scanner that every Nebulan he'd ever known had implanted in his wrist during infancy. t'Nell handed the cube back after a second then said, with real surprise, in accented English, "You wrote this module?"

Bumblebee nodded.

"Our mechs are exclusively warriors. I've never known one who was anything but a fighter." He switched back to Nebulan. It would be harder for an organic mind to integrate a language module immediately, though Bee assumed that t'Nell had extensive cerebral upgrades.

Bee was dumbfounded by his question. He'd heard nothing from the medics who'd examined the Nebulan mechs to indicate their sparks were any different than his own."We can be both fighters and other things too. I was raised by a musician, and music is just another language. The processor coding that made me a good musician myself helps with linguistic abilities, though I'm also spark-gifted with interests in that direction."

The captain _stared _at him.

They were still in range of Ratchet. On impulse, Bee comm'd Ratchet. _:Ratchet?:_

_:Yes?: _Ratchet's response was terse, to say the least.

_:Got a bit of potential intel for you. t'Nell is stunned into silence by the fact that I'm a musician and linguist. He says their mechs are exclusively warriors.:_

_:Hnh. I didn't poke around in t'Tamis's secondary coding too much. He was traumatized enough by what I did do and the Order of the Primes was being distractively interactive. I'll keep that in mind. I assume they're likely to have some fairly in depth behavioral coding. I'll have to look at that later, though__.:_  
_  
:Understood.: _He paused, then added. _:You know, you have one of the better hackers in the entire Autobot army at your disposal now. You might put him to work studying the cores of some of the dead mechs.:_

_:Prowl. Right. Good idea.:_

They were out of range of comms now; the connection dissolved into static. Bee started to dial Ratchet on his cell phone card, then had a 'duh' moment and comm'd him from his _other _half. His mechanoid protoform was staying in Las Vegas. The link between his two halves was unbreakable and unlimited in range, due to quantum-level sync between cores. _:Ratchet, do you need any help?:_

_:Your tall half could make a run to Phoenix to pick up some supplies from a pharmaceutical warehouse there. We need IV fluids and IV sets desperately.:_

_:Will do. Email me a list of what you need and where to go.:_

The list arrived seconds later. Ratchet didn't verbally add anything else; he was likely very busy.

He turned his focus back to t'Nell, who was still staring at him. Bee said quietly, "We believe your mechs have some ethically questionable coding."

"Ethically questionable?"

Bee blew a sharp breath out. "t'Nell, tell me about your Elders, will you?" That was a good place to start. He wanted to know who the Elders were, and what role they played in Nebulan society. That the ancient Nebulan language was referred to as the language of the Elders made him both curious and suspicious of their nature.

Silence, from t'Nell, was his only response. The Nebulan looked profoundly unhappy.

"Right. You're not going to give me anything I could _possibly _use to attack your world, because your glitched second in command insisted we and the humans are planning an assault." Bee ran a hand over his face. He also spoke in English, and his words prompted some sounds of disbelief from the humans.

"What are we going to do, fly there with F22's?" Lennox shook his head in open disbelief. "Are all aliens that stupid, or just the smurfy ones?"

Bee could tell from t'Nell's expression that he had no intention of discussing even the most mundane details of his world with his captors. It was likely that a few people among his crew could be convinced to talk, but this particular Nebulan was going to be quietly uncooperative.

"Here." Bee shoved the laptop into t'Nell's hands. "This is what you did. Unprovoked, on an innocent world, to a people who were _not _planning on attacking you and barely knew of your existence. Moreover, as we've said repeatedly, we Cybertronians would have greeted you with open arms."

The news clip was a report on the daycare that had been destroyed. The video was of a mech -- Inferno -- lifting rubble off a child. He picked the small, broken body out of the rubble, held the small boy in his palms, and stumbled out to street. He handed the body off to a firefighter, who cradled the child to his chest, expression stricken, even as Inferno sank to his knees on the asphalt and buried his face behind his hands. Inferno's keening cries were audible. The firefighter had tears in his eyes.

_Damn them. _Bee couldn't watch. Guilt at their own role in the crash ate at him. He wished there'd been a way to deflect the ship away from Tranquility. He turned his head to the side, and met Sam's gaze. Sam was pale, silent, and had not said a word so far.

t'Nell was frozen in place, staring at the screen, until the laptop powered itself down as a response to inactivity some fifteen minutes later. Only then did he fold it shut, hand it back to Bee, and close his eyes. He didn't say a word for the rest of the flight, but Bee, monitoring his vitals, was well aware that he wasn't sleeping, either.


	77. Chapter 77

Chapter 77

* * *

"How's that feel?"

Fangface, flat on his stomach on Thundercracker's berth, considered the question. The literal answer was that Skywarp had done a surprisingly good job at mending some snapped tension wires in Fang's back. That was a basic repair that most mechs knew how to do; tension wires broke pretty regularly during combat or any strenuous exercise. Once broken, they caused painful errors.

However, he gave a more abstract answer, "It feels better than the times you tried to kill me."

Skywarp patted him on the shoulder. "TC threatened to break up with me if I ever hurt you again."

His partner was seated in a chair, with his sparklings curled up on either side of him on the ground. He absently stroked Updraft's helmet, fingers sliding over smooth metal. Flare, his brother, was recharging comfortably and oblivious to the world. Thundercracker smiled affectionately, "Fang, 'Warp will never admit it, but you've grown on him a bit."

Fang pushed himself up into a seated position with difficulty. After he'd woken from recharge he'd realized he'd blown out multiple seals on his hydraulics. He regarded the two seekers with a somewhat fuzzy focus that had more to do with his mental state than his pain levels. He found it hard to think, difficult to formulate complete thoughts, much less give orders. "You should be out .... helping. Something."

"I told you," TC said, "I'm not going to leave you alone until Ratchet gets here, boss. You can order me away if you want, but otherwise, I'm staying here."

At that moment, Ratchet's ping from outside the door made TC smile. Thundercracker shook his head, "I never thought Optimus's CMO would be running around the Nemesis doing repairs. Comm me if you need me. I'll go take the kiddies out to play for a bit. C'mon, Skywarp."

"I'm not a kiddy," Skywarp protested.

"Thank Primus for that," Thundercracker gave him an effectionate pat as he walked past. "I'd lose my favorite 'face partner if that were the case."

"I'm your only interface partner," Skywarp said, in confusion.

"See? Means you have to be my favorite or we're both in trouble." Thundercracker waved as he left, followed by both sparklings and Skywarp.

Ratchet leaned against the door jamb for a moment, then shook his head and entered. After the door swished shut and Fang activated the room's privacy shield, Ratchet said, "You know, I'm not sure I ever expected I'd be walking around the Nemesis openly, fixing Decepticons, and listening to Thundercracker and Skywarp flirt, or whatever the hell that was. I think I need to apply solvent to my processor after listening to that."

"That was definitely flirting," Fangface confirmed. "I'm probably stopping them from 'facing themselves into oblivion by hanging out in their quarters. They always get intimate with each other after a bad battle."

"They really 'face?" Ratchet seemed fascinated by this, despite his earlier complaint. "Skywarp's ..." he trailed off, clearly realizing there was no diplomatic way to describe Skywarp's lack of intelligence.

Fangface slid back down to lie on his chest. He was so low on hydraulic fluid from multiple leaks that he couldn't support himself without his pumps running flat out. Sitting up required as much effort as a full-out battle, and he wasn't designed for endurance. Also, it hurt. "Skywarp's mentally limited, but emotionally, he's still the mech that Thundercracker partnered with two hundred thousand years ago. TC loves him." Fangface considered the issue, then added, "Also, it's entirely possible that Thundercracker's letting 'Warp borrow a bit of his processor power during 'facing."

Ratchet quirked an optic ridge upwards. "I never thought about that."

"TC interfaces with him any time there's anything really complicated that needs to be conveyed to Skywarp. I've never asked, but that might be one reason they 'face before battles as well as after. Or he may just be showing everything to him in simple terms that he knows Skywarp will understand. 'Warp _does _have the ability to understand fairly complex concepts, if you take your time and walk him through things step by step." Fang nibbled on a claw for a second, then sighed. "Ratch, I didn't realize it during the fight, but I blew out a bunch of hydraulic seals. I can barely keep hydraulic pressure up to move. TC stayed with me the entire time, partly because he was worried about my emotional state, but I think also because he was guarding me."

He was scared. He hated being vulnerable, and he was now. Ratchet said briskly, "Well, at least that's a fairly easy fix."

"You're going to need to take me offline to get to some of the seals because you'll need to pull my powerplant."

"That's still an easy fix. It'll take me an hour, at most." Ratchet unsubspaced all the parts necessary, setting them down on a table. "I'm going to do it here, and not in the Nemesis's med bay, for your security. I don't want certain mechs on your crew knowing you're out of commission, and it would be just as bad if we waited until the Ark returned to repair you in her med bay. You can't hide in Thundercracker's quarters forever."

"How's Prism doing?" He changed the subject.

"She's with the Witwicky boy's parents."

"Humans?" He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"Good parents, mostly. They brought her by to see me earlier because she was convinced I'd abandoned her too." Ratchet scowled at Fang. "You hurt that kid, Fangface. I'm not sure you really understand how badly."

Fangface sat up, damaged hydraulics be damned. The noise of his pumps running flat out, and his power plant kicking up to maximum output, was very loud in the room. He told himself the reason he raised his voice was to be heard over that din. "I know _exactly _how badly it hurts, Ratch. I was three years old when the only mech who ever _truly _cared about me as anything other than a war machine left me. And he wasn't allowed to bond with me like we both would have liked."

He almost vented more, telling Ratchet just how badly it had hurt to be abandoned by that long-ago scientist. At least Prism had people who loved her and would look out for her best interests. He had been left utterly alone. He slumped back to the ground, rested his head on his legs, and shuttered his optics. "Get on with the repairs. I'm not in any mood to be lectured by you."

Ratchet was silent for a long moment, not moving and not speaking. His response, to Fang's surprise, was to finally state, "I care about you, Fang."

Fang lifted his head back up, surprised. Ratchet wasn't usually the touchy-feely-emotional sort. Oh, he had a very strong urge to just unload on Ratchet, to tell him everything about Death, to try to convince Ratchet to hold him while he cried his griefs out, but he suspected if he tried, Ratchet would smack him upside the head and tell him to quit being such an idiot. He snorted in reaction to Ratchet's words. "Yeah, yeah, you're a sentimental Autobot."

"So do your seekers, if I'm not mistaken. And quite a few of the rest of your crew." Ratchet's hand descended, gently, to Fang's shoulders. "Fang, I need you to transform. Do you think you can?"

"Yeah," he sighed, and tried, and promptly failed. He didn't have enough fluid left in his hydraulics. Worse, he got stuck halfway.

Ratchet hissed static at him. "You are the biggest idiot sometimes." He started pushing, pulling, and tugging Fang's parts into place. His hands were gentle, despite his words, but when Fang was finally lying on his back in a pool of hydraulic oil, Ratchet frowned down at him. "Fangface, I'm proud of you. I'm amazed by the distance you've come. I'm pleased to call you a friend. And if you ever try to claim I only think of you as a war machine, I swear I'll dissassemble you myself. The _reason _I'm here, and the reason you're high on my priority list for repairs, is we need every medically trained mech in the med bay. I was hoping I could talk you into helping out."

"Oh." He shuttered his optics. "I'm probably needed for politics too."

"Probably. Politics comes secondary to saving lives." Ratchet tapped Fangface's chestplates with his finger. "Off they come."

He tried to release the plates. His left-hand plate came off easily, but the latches were bent on the right hand side. Ratchet scowled. "Isn't this the plate that Wheeljack just made for you?"

"At least there's enough of it left to repair," Fangface said, as Ratchet slid a laser scalpel through a seam and cut through the latch. He winced at the sharp pain as a few sensors were also cut.

"Hnh." Ratchet shook his head. "This alloy gets brittle when it's worked. This is weaker than your original plate. I'm looking forward to Perceptor's ideas on how to handle your alloy better. He's a chemist and metallurgist, and a damn good one. Not much on social skills, but he grows on you."

Fangface smiled. "Like somebody else I know, huh?"

"Oh, I have social skills. I just chose not to use them. They take too much time." Ratchet scowled. "Slaggit."

"Slaggit?" That sounded worrisome when it came from a medic who had his fingers in Fang's internals.

The medic made a staticky noise of disgust and annoyance. "Ah, you're a prototype. They only gave you one dataport. Production models would probably have some internal 'ports too, but I don't believe you were every actually intended to see combat yourself. Your program was cancelled and they just sent you to war as one more disposable shock trooper, right? No point in giving you redundant systems if they expected you to die in your first few battles anyway."

"Yeah." Fangface didn't want to remember that. Eventually, the "disposable" part had caught up with him. The fierce pain of being literally thrown away still lingered even now. "They weren't even interested in putting my cores in a new protoform. I wasn't even worth saving that way."

His friend was very still for a moment, then he said briskly, "Good thing we felt different, eh? And you sure proved them wrong." Ratchet tapped another plate of armor, this one encircling Fangface's damaged dataport. "This needs to come off. I'll need to replace your 'port to take you offline safely."

He froze, purely a psychological reaction. Ratchet was going to be _messing with his dataport. _It had to be fixed, but he didn't want anyone near it.

"What happened to your 'port, anyway?" When Fang didn't undo the latches, Ratchet simply slid two fingers underneath the plate and popped them manually. "This doesn't look like concussive damage."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Death had saved his life. He owed Deathwheels not just his own spark, but very possibly the future of his people. If Astrotrain had taken control, that would have been very bad. He couldn't bring himself to taint Deathwheel's memory. He wasn't aware, however, that he'd made a soft, keening cry until Ratchet's hand stroked his head. Ratchet's expression had changed, and he knew he'd given something away with his reaction.

Ratchet crouched down, and said in a very different tone of voice, "Was it someone on your crew?"

"Y... yeah. It's dealt with." Fangface shuttered his optics. He couldn't look at Ratchet. He wasn't telling Ratchet the complete truth. He wanted to, but he was afraid, now that he'd had a recharge period to process the events, that Ratchet might react with hatred towards Death. He couldn't bring himself to hate Deathwheels now, and he didn't want anyone else to. He owed him forgiveness, at least.

"I am going to need to do a deep scan of your code," Ratchet said, gently.

"No. My firewalls never came down."

Ratchet's voice was very firm as he insisted, "Fangface, I need to scan you."

"My firewalls _never _came down."

"There are viruses that will alter your memories. You would remember fighting your attacker off, but in reality, he succeeded in hacking you." Ratchet's hand stroked Fangface's jaw. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the medic's blue eyes, which had gone gentle, worried, and somehow very calm. "I _need _to deep scan you. I cannot clear you medically for duty without doing so. Your own medical staff will agree."

"Oh, slag, Starcatcher. He's got to hate me."

"No." Ratchet ran a hand over his own face, breaking eye contact with Fang. "We judged it best that _I _work on you, not Star, but Star does not hate you. Far from it. I think you've earned his eternal gratitude."

"I don't know what I'm going to do with Astrotrain." He'd been obssessively worried about that problem. Really, he should just offline Astrotrain permanently with a reformat if not an outright termination. He'd never had a problem killing enemies before. He wasn't sure why he was so sentimental now.

Ratchet snorted. "There's always Optimus's solution, which is to simply avoid the problem. Just put him in storage. Have a trial sometime in the distant future, when we have proper judges and can put together a penal system. And all that aside, I _still _need to deep scan you. You're changing the subject."

"Gee, Ratchet, I always thought you'd be more romantic when proposing to interface with me."

That earned him a glare. The glare made him wince. He hadn't intended to frag Ratchet off, but he was feeling weirdly defensive and out of sorts. He sighed. "Ratchet, seriously. I wasn't hacked. I _know _I wasn't hacked."

Ratchet voice's was very quiet. "One early symptom of viral infection is for a mech to insist he wasn't hacked, and to be very resistant to the idea of a scan. I haven't made the mistake of believing someone when they said they weren't hacked since I was a medical resident a _long _time ago. A virus can play tricks on your mind, Fang. I _need _to do a medical interface, immediately. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but we _will _do it."

The medic had been resting a hand on Fang's shoulder. Now that grip tightened. "I care about you too much to believe you ..."

Fangface reacted on pure instinct. He snapped a clawed back foot up and tried to kick Ratchet away. "No!"

His hydraulics were nearly useless. All he succeeded in doing was flopping his foot against Ratchet's chest. Ratchet, very calmly, pushed his leg away, then sat down on the berth next to Fang. "Fangface. I can do this the hard way. You know I can. I don't want to, but I will, and I need to be quick. I hadn't realized someone tried to hack you, or I would have done this yesterday, on the battlefield, before I ever let TC take you away."

"You're an Autobot." Fangface ground the words out in frustration. "I'm not going to let an Autobot hack me. Are you _insane_?"

The medic ignored that and poked around Fang's processor core for a moment, then said, "Huh. That's odd. Your processor core's datestamped with an installation time almost a week after your spark chamber." Ratchet slid a hand deep into Fang's internals, inspecting his memory core. "Same with your memory core. Fang, did anyone ever say anything to you about being a reformat?"

"... There's only a week's discrepancy?"

"Yes, but the dates should be the _same_. I never noticed that before. I wasn't looking, and your dates are hard to see because of the layout of your internals." Ratchet patted him on the shoulder. "You're a prototype, so they may have just had some sort of hardware conflict that caused a terminal crash. That's not unheard of when dealing with radically new designs."

Fang grunted. "Maybe."

"Now, about scanning you. Yes, it's entirely possible that I'll pick up sensitive information about the 'cons, but I'm not going to go looking for it. If I _do _find anything critical, like, oh, you're planning on betraying us and assassinating Optimus, I'd have to act on it. Otherwise, I'll consider it medically confidential. Is there anything that sensitive in your memory core?"

"... No."

"Good. I imagine you do have a lot of stuff in your head you'd rather I don't know. You should understand that I've medically interfaced with many mechs, Fang. I've had some ugly surprises. I found out a mech who I thought was a good friend was just using me and really hated me with a rather intense passion. And let me tell you, I could have done without seeing what goes on in Sunstreaker's head ..."

Fangface snorted a laugh, despite himself.

The medic's skilled fingers started patching a severed coolant line. "Fangface, I am not expecting any surprise like that from you. I expect you've got some darkness in you that you don't show the world, but it won't shock me, and I'll still care about you."

"Ratch," Fangface shuttered his optics. Ratchet's matter-of-fact attitude had convinced him. "Do it."

"I'll make this quick." Ratchet snicked a data cable home. "I'm going to leave your motor functions online. Normally, I'd cut them, but I don't want you to feel completely helpless. I trust you not to panic on me."

That was a consideration he hadn't been expecting, particularly given how quickly he could kill Ratchet if he _did _attack him. He reached his hand out and closed it around Ratchet's wrist. "Ratch. Thank you. For caring. For trusting me."

"Mmm. Lower your firewalls, Fang."

Ratchet's presence was as clinical and emotionless as a datapad. Fangface was surprised by how tightly the medic was shielding his own thoughts. He could feel Ratchet poking through his processor, checking audit trails and measuring sector sizes, but there was no sense of personality or emotions.

"It would be unprofessional if I weren't completely shielding my feelings," Ratchet said, aloud. He'd picked up on Fang's thoughts. "This is medical. It isn't for our jollies."

Fangface wondered what a true 'facing with Ratchet would be like. Did Ratchet like him that way?

Ratchet's hand rested on Fang's shoulder, and squeezed. He didn't comment on Fangface's line of thinking. "You're clean. I'm sorry I insisted on this."

He wished it had been ... less dry. He wished he could 'face with Ratchet. He wanted Ratchet. He wanted to be held in Ratchet's arms, comforted, told he was valued and loved. Ratchet didn't think about him that way, but he wished it were so.

The medic's fingers were very still now.

"Look at me, Fang," Ratchet said.

Fangface opened his eyes.

Ratchet said quietly, "I wish I could too. But we _can't._"

He suspected the medic thought it was too close to Deathwheel's loss, and that he would be trying to replace Deathwheels with someone else. Nobody knew how bad it had really been. He was so close to coming apart. He needed someone to help him, so very desperately.

_Frag_.

Unbidden, the memories surfaced. Death, trying to hack him, to force him. Telling Deathwheels it was over, and meaning every bit of it. Death telling him that life wasn't worth living without him. And then Death throwing himself in front of Astrotrain's cannon. It hurt. It hurt so very bad. He wanted to scream, and couldn't. He wanted to offline forever to make the pain stop, but he didn't have the courage to do that. He wanted ... he wanted ...

Howling incoherent grief seized him. He tried to stop it, but couldn't. He hadn't wanted anyone else to know. They needed to honor Death's memory and his sacrifice. He'd broken up with Deathwheels, and then Death had saved his life at a cost of his own.

Dimly, he was aware of arms going around him. He was being carried from the berth to the chair, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. _Nothing_. Just for a moment, he lost himself in the pain.

_:Shhh.: _A voice said. _:Shh, Fang.:_

Ratchet's voice, and oh Primus, the medic had stopped shielding and had lowered some of his firewalls. Ratchet felt _nothing _like Deathwheels. The sense he got from Ratchet was impatience tempered by experience, quite a bit of self-confidence, and a _lack _of need. Ratchet didn't need anyone. He was strong, stern, and quite confident in himself. He wasn't looking for approval from anyone, and he was completely happy with who and what he was.

He was a _good _mech. That made Fang feel worse. He'd wanted ... he'd wanted Ratchet so badly, had desired Ratchet's love for thousands of years, but Ratchet had never needed him, and Fang would have brought Ratchet pain and grief and trouble. Fangface knew he was needy, and selfish, and his lack of confidence was hidden behind bluster and bravado. Inside, he was always scared, uncertain, and confused. He wanted to do what was right, but he wasn't always sure what that was.

And Death had died for him. He hadn't been worth Deathwheel's sacrifice.

The pain felt like it was going to consume him whole.

_:Fang,: _Ratchet said, finally, _:This is how you see yourself, but your self-image is not accurate. You are one of the bravest, brightest, most courageous mechs I have ever known. You are not perfect, but none of us are.:_

Deathwheels had tried to hack him. Death had _died _for him. He was so confused.

_:Shhh.: _Ratchet had Fangface in his lap, and held him close. _:Shh. Fang, tell me about it. I'll listen.:_

He had wanted, desperately, to do just that. He _wanted _to pour out every single thing he'd ever felt. Oh, how he'd ached for this opportunity to show Ratchet what he was _really _feeling, and why. Yesterday he'd begged Thundercracker to 'face with him because he'd so desperately wanted someone to understand, and TC had said no. He'd longed for Ratchet then, and had only settled for Thundercracker's company when Ratchet had not been available.

Now he had that wish. Ratchet's firewalls were down. He could feel Ratchet's concern, his _love _-- and there was love there, strong and true, but not like Deathwheel's intense, demanding desire. That contrast left him confused. Ratchet's emotions were so _different_ than Fang's own, and lacked the intense need that Deathwheels had enveloped him with.

_:I'm listening,: _Ratchet repeated. _:Tell me what you want me to know.:_

Now he found he couldn't express his thoughts coherently. Instead, he just battered Ratchet with wave after wave of grief and anger. There were no thoughts to his words, and no real explanations. He couldn't tell him _why _he felt so bad, just that he did. He was so confused, his thoughts so chaotic, that it occurred to him that maybe he had been glitched. _That _was his first thought that involved real words, and it was so strong he scared himself.

Had someone infected him with a virus? Had his memories been replaced with those of Deathwheels hacking him? Primus, had he rejected Deathwheels when someone else had hurt him, all because he was confused?

_:Fang,: _Ratchet said quietly, _:Your memories are true. You do not have a virus.:_

:An error, then!:

:Oh, Fang.: Ratchet's fingers found a scratch in Fang's armor, and traced the line over and over. _:Fang, fang. Have you never grieved for anyone like this before?:_

:I grieved for Wheelie!: But not like this. He had been possessive of Wheelie, had valued him, had liked him. Wheelie had made him laugh, and he know his youngling had loved him, but losing Wheelie was _nothing _like losing Deathwheels.  
_  
:D__eath gave you a gift, Fang. He was flawed and damaged himself, but he broke down your walls. You loved him, you trusted him, you devoted your very spark to him, for a very brief time. You have no experience with this sort of pain, do you? You've never lost anyone who meant this much to you.:_

Fang whimpered. _:It hurts.:_

:I know it does.: Ratchet shifted a little, _:I know it hurts. And I'm here, and I'm listening, and I will grieve with you.:_

:He tried to hurt me. I shouldn't feel this way about him!:

:Fang, it's okay to mourn him. And I am very proud of you, and very impressed, that you were able to identify just how damaging that relationship with him was to you, and that you had the strength to end it. That took a tremendous amount of self respect to do. You made the right decisions. It hurts, but sometimes doing the right thing does.: Ratchet's words were sure and certain. _:Fang, look at me.:_

Fang did, and Ratchet's expression was one of concern and affection. Ratchet asked quietly, _:What are you going to do now?:_

:I don't ...: He couldn't think through the pain. _:I don't know.:_

:Literally. Give me a literal answer. When I finish your repairs,_ what are you going to do?:_

Fang rested his head on Ratchet's grill. _:You need help with medical stuff. I'll help you. Our numbers are so few that I can easily justify assisting the medical staff to the other 'cons.:_

:Good. That's a start.: Ratchet reached into subspace and found a buffing cloth. He rubbed at the scratch he'd found on Fang's armor. _:I'm not going to coddle you, Fangface. I'm going to expect you to behave appropriately. You have an army to lead, and a war to end. You're going to need to step back up to the plate. Our people need you. Both sides, Autobots and Decepticons, _need _you. The sparklings need you. Earth needs you. You do not have the luxury of falling apart. The stakes are too high.:_

:I'm going to need your help.: It was a ragged, shaken admission. He _couldn't _go on alone. He needed someone to stand behind him, to support him, to _help _him.

Ratchet's fingers stilled for a moment. _:Why me, Fang? I'm an Autobot. And I'm not exactly the most tactful, warm-fuzzy mech around. I don't have the time or patience to be your cheerleader.:_

:I don't want that. I don't want someone who will always tell me I'm right.: He traced his fingers over Ratchet's grill, arms weak and limp. _:I need someone to kick me in the aft and tell me when I'm being a fool.:_

:Very well.: Ratchet found another scratch, and began to rub it out. _:I will help you.:_

:Would you be my partner?: Fang blurted out. _:Ratchet, I love you. I know I'm not the mech you are. I know I'm unstable. I know I'm a 'con, but I _need _you. If the universe needs me, then I need _you_.:_

:No.: 

Fang keened. He wanted Ratchet to be _his _so very badly.

_:No, Fang.: _Ratchet sighed. _:I believe in you, I will help you as a friend, but I do not want to be your partner.:_

:But ... but you love me.:

:I do.: Ratchet spotted a scuff on Fang's faceplate, and polished it away. _:Fang, I just told you I don't have the time or patience to be your cheerleader. Right now, that is what you are looking for.:_

:I ... understand.: And the funny thing was, he did. Ratchet didn't want to be in a one-sided relationship where he was propping up the other partner emotionally. He could feel that through the link between them. It was a brutally honest assessment of Fang's emotional state, and, Fang realized, completely accurate. He _wasn't _being fair to Ratchet in asking. _:But I need help, Ratch.:_

:You do.: Ratchet folded the cloth over and used a clean side to wipe away a bit of oil on Fang's cheek arch. _:And I will help you, as will the rest of your inner circle. I am your friend. I care about you. And I will be here for you.:_

:We will have to be careful.: He remembered that belatedly. He'd been so caught up in his own pain that he hadn't been thinking about appearances.  
_  
:For now.: _Ratchet smoothed the cloth over Fang's helm, wiping away soot and grease and dirt. _:Fang, I intend to be your friend for a very long time. Today, tomorrow, next year, maybe ten years from now, we will need to worry about opinions and rumors and conflicts of interest. Someday, however, our people will be one again, and it will not matter to anyone that you were a Decepticon and I was an Autobot.:_

Fang blinked. He hadn't been thinking beyond the immediate present. Something terrible and lonely eased in his chest at the realization that Ratchet planned to be there for him far into the future. It was a dizzying, eye-opening concept. And, just a little, it eased the pain. He could feel just how much Ratchet valued him, cared about him, and _liked _him. Ratchet _wanted _to be his friend for the rest of their lives.

_:Ratch ... thank you.: _  
_  
:Mmhmm. I'm going to put you under now so I can fix your hydraulics. Are you ready?:_

:Yeah.: He felt Ratchet triggering routines in his autonomic systems, and then he swiftly offlined as oblivion claimed him.

* * *

"Oh, Primus." Ratchet stared down at the mech in his arms. Then, slowly, he stood up and carried Fang back to the berth. The berth was covered in Fang's hydraulic fluids, small amounts of coolant, and a little energon. He set Fang down in the mess -- the spilled fluids were going to be joined by more in a minute -- and started putting him back together.

The physical repairs were easy. Emotionally, Fang was shattered. He wasn't sure if it _would _be possible to put Fangface back together again, mentally speaking. He'd never felt grief like that in his life, and he'd medically 'faced with way more mechs than he cared to think about.

And yet ... Fang had the strength and the determination to go on. Ratchet knew there were many mechs who would simply shut down in the face of pain like Fang's. He'd never _imagined _the young 'con was hurting that much.

"You're strong," Ratchet told the unconscious mech, as he swiftly removed internal parts to access the most deeply buried of the damaged seals. "Fang, you're stronger than I ever imagined. You _can _do this."

After the physical repairs were done, Ratchet couldn't bring himself to simply reboot Fang and go. There were others that needed him. Fangface's injuries were fixed. He shouldn't take any more time here.

As an excuse to linger, he set Fang's processor to running some high-level diagnostics of all his systems. While those routines worked, he cleaned him up, popping out the rest of the dents, rubbing out scratches, wiping away spilled fluids. He finished about the time that Fangface booted up.

Fang blinked at him a couple of times. When he tried to move he winced. "Ouch. Errors."

Ratchet snorted. "Air in your hydraulic lines, I'm betting. Hurts worse than the original injury until it works its way out. Want me to set a sensory block?"

The predacon swung his legs over the side of the berth. "I'll be fine. You needed my help in the med bay, right?"

"That would be appreciated."

The leader of the Decepticons gave him a shaky, wan smile and stood up. "Let's go, then."

Ratchet put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. "Fixing people will be good for you. I can certainly use the help."

Fang held his arms up, obviously noticing that even his most minor damage had been cleaned up. "Thank you, Ratch. It's good that I don't _look _like I was injured. I've got to make them confident in me."

"Mmmhmm." Which wasn't why he'd done it, but it was a wonderful excuse. "And Fang, I have faith in you."

That statement made Fang smile faintly, and sadly. "I'll try to honor that faith, Ratch."


	78. Chapter 78

Chapter 78

* * *

Author's notes: You will note that I do not mention any real person, including famous figures, specifically by name. I have personal reasons for never writing real person fic. Any seeming resemblance to real life people in this fic is a coincidence, really it is ... *cough*

* * *

Humid, warm air, almost chokingly thick, gushed through the back of the Hercules when Silverbolt lowered the ramp. Bumblebee found it unpleasant, and discovered that the humans did too when Sam said, "Oh, eww, I want to go home now. I'll take a hundred Nevada degrees _any _day over _this_."

Lennox smirked. "I'd take an Afghanistan summer over this."

Langley Airforce Base, their destination, wasn't far from the US Capitol. It was also on the ocean, and the air was heavy with moisture and stifling miserable despite being twenty degrees cooler than the weather in Nevada. Bee would not have noticed the weather change much in his mech form, other than to make a minor adjustment in his combat subroutines due to lower altitude and heavier air affecting the performance of some of his weapons, but his technorganic half almost immediately gave him some cooling errors.

The errors were minor, just some petty discomfort, and he ignored them. Sam, however, grumbled at length. Sam was not in a good mood, hadn't been since yesterday, and Bee wasn't entirely sure what the _specific _issue was. He also didn't have time to pull Sam aside and find out, and he figured Sam was a grownup and Bee could wait until things calmed down a bit to talk to him.

The N.E.S.T. soldiers -- Lennox, one of the Brits, and the six men assigned to babysit t'Nell -- were at ease around giant alien robots. However, when soldiers from Langley rolled up to Silverbolt in two golf carts and an aviation tug, the difference was suddenly glaringly obvious. The man driving the tug pulled up to Silverbolt's nose, clearly looking for a place to clamp the vehicle.

Bee, amused, watched as the spldier realized the parts didn't _quite _match up. Silverbolt had probably seen the tug coming, was being subtly diplomatic, and had expended some energon on a minor alteration to his armor. Then soldier looked up at Silverbolt's crew compartment and just stared. Clearly, he'd been given orders to tow Silverbolt off to a hanger. Equally clearly, he was baffled about how to do that, and the thought that this was a _giant alien robot _was now going through his head.

The humans, t'Nell and Bee were the first out of Silverbolt, and Lennox shouted to the tug operator, "Don't worry about that. He'll probably just walk."

The two men in the golf cart passenger seats had a considerable amount of braids and medals on their uniforms, and _everyone _was wearing mess uniforms. Lennox and the rest of the N.E.S.T. team came to attention and saluted. The highest ranking member of the party -- who Bee belatedly recognized as the base commander -- shot a salute back, then said stiffly to Bee, "Welcome to Langley Airforce Base."

Then he shot a discrete stare at t'Nell. The Nebulan Captain had grown ever-paler during the flight, and looked positively ill now.

Bee nodded. "Thank you. I'm glad to see a friendly welcome. This is an impressive facility."

Actually, compared to some Autobot bases he could remember, it was small. However, there was nothing wrong with a little flattery. The commander undoubtedly knew who everyone was, but Lennox gave quick introductions anyway, finishing with, "... and Sam Witwicky, Bumblebee's assistant."

Sam flushed pink. Bee could smell stress hormones coming off him, and shot him a quick look sideways. There wasn't a thing going on that should have set off his partner, so why was he so agitated? Sam tugged at the collar of his t-shirt, then stuck his hands in his jeans pockets, and continued to look very unhappy. Bee suspected he'd missed something. He'd been a bit distracted; his other half had been in a meeting with Ironhide, Optimus, and Magnus most of the afternoon, regarding his impending departure for Nebulos.

After the last of the mechs and their gear was unloaded, Silverbolt transformed, towering above the others. The base commander watched closely. "I've saw a video of that in the briefing. That is a truly amazing display of engineering."

"And a bit of quantum mechanics," Bee said, with a grin. "If he wasn't subspacing about half his volume, he'd be twice the size he is. You'll note that Silverbolt spends a lot of time in alt mode. He burns considerable fuel in bipedal form due to the volume he's subspacing."

"Ah ..." the commander squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and made an amusingly transparent attempt to not look overly impressed. The guy driving the tug put it in reverse and backed a hundred feet away. He didn't look impressed, he looked frightened.

Bee took pity on the commander, who also was clearly at a loss for words. "Silverbolt doesn't have any duties until tomorrow morning, when he's to give a lecture to your pilots. He could probably use some recharge -- some sleep -- as I don't believe he's had any in about two days and he fought pretty hard yesterday."

_:Thank you, Bee,: _Silverbolt comm'd him.

The commander straightened up even more. To the young soldier on the tug he said, "Private Nelson, please lead the robot to the hangar."

Bee considered correcting the commander, then decided against it. He didn't want to embarrass the man. There were more tactful ways to teach Political Diplomacy with Giant Robots 101, and calling the giant robots 'robots' was fairly minor, as insults went. Sam, however, predictably spoke up, "_Mech, _sir, calling him a robot's an insult."

The commander flushed, set his jaw, frowned, and looked exceedingly unhappy in general. Before the man could apologize, Bee said politely, "I don't believe he meant it as an insult, Sam. I doubt Silverbolt was offended." _And Sam, I need to take you aside and teach you a little about diplomacy. I was going to send him a quick e-mail to "disseminate to his staff to avoid incidents" on the subject._

"Right." The commander recovered. "I believe we have a lot yet to learn about each other."

_Hmm, that wasn't very friendly. _Bee could read the tension in the commander's frame, and suspected the man thought that the Autobots had secrets they weren't sharing. 'A lot to learn' indeed! Some of those secrets could be dangerous to humanity, and the commander didn't like it. However, Bee simply said brightly, "That's why we're here. We've come a long way so far -- the first time I ran into your government's scientists, they tried to dissect me -- and hopefully we can keep up some friendly progress."

The commander's jaw set tightly for a moment at Bee's reminder of how forgiving his people had been to numerous insults over the past few years. He finally said, "If you'd follow me, we have a conference area set up for your robot ... hmm. What _would _you like me to call you?"

Bee chuckled politely, and made a gesture with one hand at Silverbolt. "Mechs is the general term, or mechanoids. If you're distinguishing between myself and my less organic counterparts, the current slang seems to be describing me as technorganic or as an android. However, if it's not meant, deliberately, as an insult, there's nobody on our team here who will be more than mildly annoyed by an awkward term."

"I see. We have a conference area set up for the mechanoids, as I understand there's a congressional delegation that wishes to speak to Commander Jazz. We set up catwalks at appropriate heights." The man's looked briefly in the direction of Jazz's silvery form. "Is that rank correct? My notes were unclear. It's probably best if we ask questions like this openly, since I'm certain some concepts just don't translate."

He was relaxing, though things were awkward between them. Bee suspected that if he were a visiting human dignitary they would simply be exchanging pleasantries about the weather and how their cross-country trip had gone at this stage.

Jazz shrugged. "Ah'm not hung up on rank much. My position is that of Optimus's second in command, and I'm designated to take over command of the whole show should he ever be killed. Originally, ah was head of an organization similar to your CIA. Now I handle intelligence and small-scale tactical planning. And when we're dealing with a peaceful world, such as Earth, Optimus often has me do a substantial amount of public relations and diplomacy. Ah got the good nature for it, yah know?"

Bee wondered if the commander realized that 'small-scale tactical planning' was an euphemism for assassinations, smash-and-grab operations for parts and supplies, hit and run sabotage raids, and other irregular activities. Jazz's skills at liberating Decepticon resources and taking out Decepticon installations had been one of the key elements behind the Autobot army's survival to this point in time.

Bee added, "Sir, we've been translating my rank as a lieutenant, but avoid confusion, I should mention that Jazz outranks me militarily, but in a diplomatic capacity, I now have a higher authority."

"And he answers to a higher authority," Jazz grinned. Bee hoped the allusion to the Order of the Primes would go over the commander's head; they were trying to de-emphasize the religious aspects of their own culture around the military. The Army had a distinct Christian fundamentalist subculture that wasn't always accepting of other faiths.

Jazz continued, "Sideswipe here is my assistant, and Ironhide is Optimus's third-in-command and our resident expert on how to kill giant alien robots dead in a hurry. He's tasked with guarding our resident enemy robot."

Sam snorted a laugh. Bee suspected he would have laughed even harder had he overheard Jazz's comm'd comment, so perhaps it was fortunate that he was oblivious when Jazz said, _:And that is _not _an invitation to show the nice commander your pretty guns, 'Hide, so keep 'em stowed.:_

_:Slag, you ruin all my fun.:_

"And that's t'Tamis, said enemy robot." Jazz's smile slipped a bit. "And the skinny blue guy's t'Nell, who I understand you've got quite a few questions for." His smile completely faded. None of them were happy about the US government insisting it take custody of the Nebulan captain, but Optimus had agreed to it on the condition that t'Nell be treated humanely and that the Autobots get access to him to monitor his treatment, medical condition, and to interrogate him themselves. None of them really wanted to frag the government authorities off by arguing over who got physical custody.

The base commander, oblivious to the byplay and too tense to smile, just made a vague gesture at a cluster of buildings a long way in the distance, then climbed back in the golf cart and indicated that the driver should lead the way. The mechs transformed, Bee and Sam climbed into Jazz, and everyone else squeezed into Ironhide and Sideswipe, and they set off after him.

"Whoo-ee," Jazz said to them, as soon as they were mvoing, "Ah feel the love already."

"Sam, are you okay?" Bee asked, ignoring Jazz's comment.

Sam hunched down into his seat. "I'm wearing jeans."

"Huh?" It seemed like a non-sequitur.

"Everybody's all dressed up. I'm wearing jeans." Sam sounded absolutely _miserable. _"I should've thought we'd be meeting VIPs right away, and worn my suit. I didn't think about them meeting us at the plane."

"Oh." Hmm. Sam was a bit under-dressed. Bee was so used to seeing Sam in jeans and a t-shirt that he hadn't even noticed.

"You noticed when _Mikaela _was dressing weird for the situation," Sam added, sounding a bit annoyed at Bee. "You could have warned me that they'd meet us at the plane."

"Ah ..." Detailed plans had been discussed, including the fact that a delegation of officers would meet them on the runway, but it had only gone over the comms. Nothing had been said to Sam. The N.E.S.T. soldiers wore their blue formal uniforms rather than combat uniforms because they'd simplyh assumed the situation required more formal dress. Sam, however, had zero experience with this sort of thing.

And Sam wasn't dressed weird. He just looked like _Sam_. It hadn't even crossed Bee's mind to tell him to change his appearance. Bee himself was wearing a suit and tie, but putting that official-looking outfit on had become a habit _any _time he was dealing with officials. Sam pretty much always wore his jeans everywhere.

Jazz chuckled. "Don't worry, kid. Ah seriously doubt that they were looking at your Wranglers, what with the shiny of the giant alien robots an' t' Smurf t' draw their attention."

"Yeah." Sam sighed. "I guess."

"Sorry, Sam." Bee didn't think it was that big of a deal, but Sam was clearly upset. "I'm sure you can change when we get to our hotel room."

Sam slid further down in his seat. "I'm not sure I'm cut out to be your assistant."

"Hey, kid, if it helps," Jazz said cheerfully, "Bee could tell ya about the first time he attended a staff meeting with all of us. It was quite messy."

Bee snorted. "I've already told him that story."

"Ooh, you two _are _close, then." Jazz's laugh made Sam smile tentatively. "Don't worry, kid. You'll do fine. In t' grand scheme of things, this? This is minor."

Sam's smile was still hesitant, but it _was _there. Bee reached out to touch Sam's shoulder. "Hey. You're fine. I want you here."

"Or he just _wants _ya ... ooooh, did ah say that out loud?"

Sam cracked up, going from nervous to hysterical laughter in a heartbeat. Bee grinned. _:Thanks.:_

_:He's a bit of a nervous git, but ah think ah like him.: _Jazz's comm transmission was slyly amused. _:Bet he's all sorts of fun when he's not twitching from terror.:_

_:Oh, yes. That he is.:_

* * *

Optimus wondered if he'd done the right thing in regards to Ranger. Optimus was often far more unsure about many matters than he ever let on, but in this he felt desperately lost, and he had no one he could talk to about it. Ratchet might have had some wisdom to share, but he was up to his optics in medical issues. Jazz was biased, at best, and had a huge conflict of interest. Ironhide would have refused to voice an opinion if he'd asked. Magnus had politely declined to offer an opinion. Beyond those few, there weren't many other people here who he had ever dared confide in.

Elita might have been able to sort out his tangled thoughts, but she was a hundred light years away, and would be gone from Nieryl Six by the time any message he sent reached that world.

Optimus managed not to sigh as watched as his child approached. It was clearly Ranger. He could tell by both Ranger's body language and his color. Prowl's stance had been definitely defensive every time Optimus had seen him; elbows in, fists balled, doorwings held high, optics alert and systems humming ever so slightly more than was required. Ranger, by contrast, was precise and neat, but he wasn't nearly as instinctively suspicious.

He was somewhat relieved that they'd quickly decided on different colors. Ranger was silver, and Prowl white, and that would make things much easier for the _rest _of the team to tell them apart at a distance. Additionally, he wasn't even telling most humans that they were two people sharing the same body. That was classified, for now. Since most humans didn't realize that mechs could change their color with a thought, he hoped most of the humans with only casual contact with his people would assume that they were two very similar but different mechs.

It helped that there were three sets of twins on the base. Perhaps the humans would simply think they were a fourth pair.

Somewhat to his surprise, when they got closer, he realized Ranger had Prism in one hand. She saw Optimus and abruptly squeaked and dove under Ranger's armor, disappearing into a cavity formed by the armor that covered one of his shoulders.

"She's still afraid of you," Ranger said, frowning. Prism hissed at Optimus as they drew closer, eyes flashing red from the dark shadows under the armor plate. "Ratchet asked Wheelie to watch her, but then he needed to make another run to Phoenix for medical supplies with Bee and Magnus, and Wheelie asked me to keep an eye on her."

Ranger was less than a week old, still. Optimus didn't mind Ranger helping with Prism when he was supervised by adults, but he didn't think that Ranger should be watching her by himself. Ranger wouldn't physically hurt her, but he could be unintentionally careless or cruel simply from lack of experience. Additionally, Prowl would probably feel obligated to stay awake and supervise -- and that would mean Prowl would lose recharge time. _:Ratchet,: _he commed quickly, _:Can you take Prism back?:_

_:At the moment, no. Tell Wheelie to watch her for a few hours longer, will you?:_

_:Prism's with Ranger right now. Magnus needed Wheelie to run some errands with him.: _Optimus absently put a hand on Ranger's shoulder. Prism snarled at him, sounding much bigger than she really was, and halfway lunged out from under Ranger's armor. Optimus snatched his hand back as Prism's teeth clicked on empty air.

"Get back! I'll bite you! Don't touch him! Bad bad Prime!"

"Oh dear." Optimus bent over to get a good look at her. Prism backed farther into the protected space. _:Ratchet, I'll take care of her for a bit. Could you use Ranger's help? I'm going to have a chat with your sparkling.:_

_:You really want to expose your kid to battlefield medicine?:_

_:Honestly? No. But I get the feeling you could use the help, and I think he can handle it. Use him to fetch and carry and clean.: _Optimus crouched down, and looked Ranger in the optics. "I'm betting you're here because you didn't want to take care of Prism by yourself."

He nodded hesitantly. "She gets scared and I don't know what to do. I don't want to hurt her."

"That's good judgment you showed finding me." He smiled. "I'm going to take her for a bit, and I want you to go help Ratchet. He probably has a lot of cleaning that needs to be done."

Ranger frowned intensely. "I don't want to go that far from you. What if we get attacked again? You might need Prowl's help."

He smiled at Ranger. "It's good that you're thinking about threats, Ranger, and it _is _possible we could get attacked again."

"I'm staying here," Ranger said, jaw setting with stubbornness.

"Ah, Ranger." He wanted to hug the kid, but he suspected that Prism would come unhinged if he did. Instead, he gave him an argument that he wasn't sure that Ranger was ready to understand, but it was worth a try. "I'm one mech, Ranger. There are _many _who need our help today. Their needs outweigh mine."

"You're more important to me." It was a brutally honest answer. An older mech might have been more careful in his phrasing. "Someone could hurt you. I can help protect you. If I'm here and something attacks Prowl will help too."

He sighed, and did hug Ranger. Prism hissed and spit, predictably. When she lunged halfway out into the open, he nimbly caught her between two fingers, released Ranger, and dropped her into the palm of his hand. She tried to leap free, but he was faster, closing her neatly into a fist. Her shrieks of outrage were so loud that they made his fingers vibrate.

Ranger gave him a startled look, optics going wide.

Optimus said, "Prism needs to learn I'm not a threat."

"RATCHET!" Prism screamed between his fingers. "FANG! JUDY! RON! RANGER! HELP!"

Ranger said, dubiously, "And you're going to calm her down ... how?"

"Experience. Ranger, go help Ratchet." He comm'd him a map to get across the base. Ranger would need to drive several miles to the heavily guarded camp they were developing for the Nebulan prisoners and patients.

"No." Ranger's jaw set in defiance. There was fear lurking in his optics.

"Ranger, part of our most basic beliefs includes the requirement that we help those in need. I am not _asking _you to go help Ratchet, I am _ordering _you. You may either go, or you may spend time, alone, in the operations hangar until you chose to do so."

Optimus expected Ranger to immediately head off to help Ratchet; his threat to put Ranger in an isolated time out until he followed Optimus's request was legitimate, and serious. He'd not yet needed to give Ranger any sort of punishment, but he assumed that would come eventually.

"No." The response was firm. "You might need ..." Ranger's expression changed. "Prowl's _laughing _at me."

"He's awake? He spoke to you?" Optimus wondered what Prowl actually thought, and realized that social isolation _might _not work as well with this particular sparkling as it did with most. Ranger would never truly be alone.

Ranger's shoulders rose as he hunched down. "I can feel him in my spark. He's _laughing _at me. I don't understand why he finds this so funny."

"He's not laughing at you, he's laughing at me." Optimus was unsurprised to find out that Prowl found this all very funny. Prowl, on a fairly regular basis, had questioned Optimus's orders too. "Prowl, look at it this way -- now you know _exactly _how much you sounded like a spoiled sparkling when you argued past the point of reason."

Ranger's mouth snapped shut. He stared at his mentor in disbelief. Optimus knew it was a low blow, but he was pretty sure that both of them deserved to have the 'spoiled sparkling' aspect pointed out. Finally Ranger said, sounding mildly offended himself, "I am not acting like ... oh, _now _he's laughing even harder. And it is at me now. He just said he agrees with you that I am acting like a brat."

Ranger sounded pissed, which was undoubtedly amusing Prowl even more.

"Ranger," Optimus said, trying for calm and not entirely succeeding. He was pretty sure his amusement was still audible in his own voice. "You most certainly do. You're trying to make grownup decisions, but you don't have the personal experience for it. I know you're worried about me, but I want you to add _this _scenario to your tactical analysis -- what happens if I have to defend _you _in a fight? The need to defend another person is how I was killed several weeks ago. The same situation could happen with you. I'd much prefer it if you were out of the way and safe, so I am not required to factor your safety into my plans. You are lightly armed and armored. Prowl was never a frontliner himself, and he's glitched his code any number of times during battle. We've never allowed him into combat if there was any choice in the matter. Therefore, you cannot rely on Prowl taking over to help keep me safe."

"Oh." Ranger said in a very small voice. "Okay."

"Go on. Ratchet can use the help. And Prowl, if you're going to meddle in the discipline of my child, you can show him some memories of how often I was _right _when you questioned my orders." Optimus gave Ranger a firm shove in the direction of the road.

Prism screeched from inside Optimus's closed fist. Ranger gave Optimus's hand a dubious look. Optimus said, "She'll be fine. We'll be friends inside of an hour. Go on."

After Ranger had transformed and left, Optimus went inside the main hangar and closed the doors. He then sat down on the ground, opened his hand, and made no attempt to stop Prism from retreating. They were alone in the hangar, there was no place she could escape to, and if she hid, it would only be temporary. He was unsurprised when she took the first dark spot that presented itself, and dove underneath the steps.

He had other work to do, and while she watched him from a distance, he sat down on the ground and made several phone calls. He granted a five minute interview to a local news station, talked to Tranquility's mayor for ten minutes to find out the town's immediate needs, called Strika and asked her to send a a constructicon to clear rubble from a road, spent twenty minutes on the phone with Keller, answered about forty e-mails, conference-called Aquaregia and Kup and got them talking to each other about ideas to transport the sparklings to a more secure location, then touched base with the Nebulan equivalent of a Chief Medical Officer on the CMO's comm frequency. All of the Nebulans had onboard neural uplinks to a CPU that enhanced their memory, intelligence, and reaction time, as well as

The Nebulans were, unsurprisingly, starting to show symptoms of radiation poisoning but most were likely to live. The Nebulan CMO, r'Nikket, answered Optimus's questions with clipped, short responses. He was, Optimus thought, scared to death and probably more for the fate of his people than for his own safety.

Calls completed, he reached over his shoulder, pulled his hand-held pulse cannon out of its subspace pocket, and began cleaning it. There was nobody else in the hangar. Aside from him, Prism was entirely alone. Without even a comm link, she only had him for company.

After closer to ninety minutes than the predicted sixty, she emerged and studied him very warily. He ignored her, and called Ratchet to see how Ranger was doing. _:Haven't a clue. I gave him a shovel and told him to start cleaning up the tents. I haven't see him since. What's Prism up to?:_

Prism had crept a few inches closer.

_:Currently trying to decide which is worse, being alone or being with me.:_

_:Heh. Good luck with that.:_

_:She's young, scared, and feels very alone.: _He clicked his comm off. Prism's almost primal drive for protection and companionship from older, larger mechs was outweighing her terror of him. She was creeping closer.

"Come here, child," he said, calmly, "you can sit on my leg while I work."

She bolted, not away, but towards him. He kept his hands down and she launched herself up on to the top of his thigh, where she stood and stared way up at his vast size. "Big!"

"I am."

"Scary."

"Why's that?"

"Hurt me!"

"Deathwheels hurt you, didn't he?"

She nodded. "Fang not there. _Flick _me. All by myself. Wanted to sit on his shoulder. He flicked me!" She mimed a flicking motion with her thumb and forefinger, indicating he'd probably sent her flying. "I yelled! Then told me he'd hit me harder if I told Fang. Said Fang was too important to worry about me. That I needed to be good and behave for Fang. Then Fang came in, and Death hurt Fangface too and said Fang was bad. _Bad _mech_. Scary!_"

That ... wasn't the story that Optimus had heard, precisely. He wondered if Fang knew the whole story. He sighed, "Deathwheels is gone forever, Prism. You don't have to be scared of him anymore."

"Good." She sounded satisfied. He didn't want to explain _dying _to her right now, all that mattered was that she didn't need to worry about him.

"You grabbed me."

"I did."

"Not ... hurt." She frowned at him. "Held."

"That's right, I didn't hurt you. I won't." He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. He'd heard from Judy that she had some artistic talent. "I think that Doc has some pens and paper in his office. Would you like to draw me?"

"Yeah!"

"It's upstairs." Because he _did _want her to get used to being picked up by adults, he gently caught her between thumb and forefinger, stood up, and lifted her up to the open window of Doc's office. He dropped her through it, then said, "I believe he keeps it in a drawer under his desk."

"Found it!" She said, triumphantly, a moment later. "Cool! Colored markers!"

The sparkling reappeared at the window with a collection of white-erase markers and highlighters in her hands, along with a lined paper notepad, and a few ballpoint pens. She launched herself back into the palm of Optimus's hand, her fear of him forgotten in favor of the excitement of drawing things.

Optimus lowered her back to his leg, where a flat piece of armor provided a handy place for her to sit and draw. Thus occupied, she began to sketch a rather good series of drawings of him, though she had to substitute a pink highlighter for red. In between taking a series of phone calls from various dignitaries, he watched, fascinated. _Definitely a gift, _he thought, and sent a quick e-mail to Judy Witwicky asking her to locate some quality art supplies and a printer. It would probably take very little work to give Prism the drivers needed to print directly to a human device.

"You're my mentor now!" she stated, when she noticed him looking at her.

"Huh?" Oh, that was disturbing. "No, Ratchet is your mentor, Prism. He told me he's going to raise you himself."

"Fang gave me to Ratchet, and Ratchet gave me to the Witwickies and the Witwickies gave me to Wheelie and Wheelie gave me to Ranger and Ranger gave me to you. So you're my mentor now." She grinned up at him after issuing what she clearly thought was a correction to his assumptions. "You're scary, but that's _good_. You'll scare away the bad guys! Safe!"

"I'll keep you safe," he agreed, but he was disturbed by her line of logic. "Judy and Ron took you to see Ratchet, remember? He's just busy, but he's your mentor. I'm just keeping you safe."

At that moment, a call came in on his cell phone, from the Nevada governor's secretary. The governor, it turned out, was en route and wanted to speak to Optimus personally. And before that, Optimus needed time to pull Strika and Magnus aside and start planning some joint tactical exercises. The last battle had gone well, but they'd been lucky. They needed to coordinate matters better, and their defenses needed to be hardened and upgraded. _That _would require close work with the Constructicons, and again, he wanted to do it face to face.

He sighed, and picked Prism up. She squeaked a protest that had more to do with being disturbed when she was trying to draw versus being scared of him now. "Prism, Ratchet is your mentor, I promise. He's just very busy now, helping other people. He will return to you, as soon as possible."

"Not here now." She sounded stubborn, as she clung to her sketch pad and most of the markers. "You're my mentor right now."

Primus. He pinged Ratchet, and waited for Ratchet to open a line, which the medic eventually did without a word of greeting. _:Ratchet, do you have a minute to talk with your sparkling?:_

_:Absolutely not.: _Ratchet's response was painfully terse, full of stress, and he cut the comm line again.

Optimus inferred from that exchange that Ratchet was, err, _busy. _He stood up, and opened the hangar door, and padded outside. As he did he mentally ran down the list of potential sparkling sitters. Nearly everyone was either at the triage center, helping search and rescue in Tranquility, working on upgrading base defenses, or traveling as far as Phoenix, Los Angeles, and now Salt Lake City to get the medical supplies they needed. Disasters involving thousands of people were _not _common in this part of the human world, and state governments were refusing to release state emergency stockpiles for Nebulan use, so they were needing to turn to the private sector.

"Optimus!" Paladin's squeal carried from a couple hundred feet away. He turned to see her running to him, with Grimlock padding after her. Grimlock was on base-repair duty, and he'd taken Paladin for the day. He was completely unsurprised to find that Grimlock was _good _with sparklings. The crusty old warrior had a soft side he rarely showed to anyone, but it was quite evident when he was put in charge of children. Optimus fully intended to see that Grimlock got a few kids of his own very soon. He expected that Grimlock would be one of the most devoted parents on the base.

Grimlock's Matrix seemed to have mellowed him a bit, too. He still preferred brute force over tactics, but at least he played nicer with other warriors.

"Paladin!" Optimus transferred Prism to his shoulder and opened his arms. Paladin zoomed at him on her two wheels, transformed at the last second, and hit him like a fifty-pound cannon ball in the middle of his chest. He laughed and caught her, even as Prism snarled at his sparkling.

"Mine!" Prism growled.

"No, MINE!" Paladin laid her claim with bared teeth and a ferociously possessive snarl. "My mentor! Not yours!"

"Mine!" Prism insisted.

"Prism," Optimus corrected, "Ratchet is your mentor. I'm Paladin's mentor." He caught her again and balanced Paladin in the crook of one arm and held Prism in the palm of the other. "I am not your mentor, I am Paladin and Ranger's mentor. You have a mentor of your own."

"Ratchet doesn't have _time _for me," she spat. "I don't want him. I want you. You found me markers."

"Markers?" Paladin heard that word, and clearly recognized it. "I want markers!"

"My markers!"

"Actually, they're Doc's markers, and you must give them back. I will be getting markers for everyone, though." He tried for a reassuring tone, even as he sent a second e-mail to Judy asking her to find a bulk supply of drawing supplies somewhere for all the sparklings to share. Prism would still get her own -- a talent like hers deserved encouragement -- but he'd make sure they all had some to play with. "Prism, Ratchet is your mentor, and he'll be with you later."

"Never. He's never coming back." She folded her arms. "He's too busy."

There would be no convincing her of the truth until Ratchet's workload was less, Optimus realized. He said gently, "I also have work, Prism, but I promise I'll see you whenever I can. Would you like to go with Grimlock and Paladin for a little bit?"

Paladin said, "Awwww. I want to stay with you now."

He smiled fondly at her. "I promise, I have one more meeting with Strika and the constructicons, and then I'll come get you." That meant Paladin would be underfoot when he was talking to the state governor and other officials, but he wasn't worried about her safety around them (as he was around the constructicons) and she'd probably fall into a deep recharge cycle pretty quickly. If the humans had a problem with his relatively well-behaved sparkling, that was _their _issue. Prism, on the other hand, could not be trusted to mind her manners and would likely be a distraction.

Prism regarded Grimlock dubiously. When he drew closer, she squeaked and disappeared behind Optimus's grill. "Nevermind," he sighed. Grimlock wouldn't have time to make friends with her. "How's the work on the sensor network going, Grim?"

Grimlock made a face. "Me get generator working. This one," he reached for Paladin, and Optimus passed her back, "me like. Useful. Me send her into access tunnels to run wire, me Grimlock not _fit_ but Paladin do good job. Smart kid."

Paladin beamed. "Me Paladin like Grimlock!"

_Oh boy_. He wondered what hanging out with Grimlock would do for her grammar. However, to his surprise, Grimlock flicked her in the auditor sensor with one finger, then said, "You Paladin sound stupid like me, Grimlock."

She made a face at him. "I like Grimlock."

"That better." Grimlock tossed her lightly into the air, making her squeal, then said to Optimus, "Better watch, me, Grimlock, steal this one."

"Optimus _my _mentor!" Paladin insisted, "But I ... wheeee! ... like you too!"

"Me, Grimlock, sad. Want little sparkling like Paladin." Grimlock's eyes were twinkling even as his features twisted into a sad pout.

Paladin scrambled up onto his shoulder and threw her arms around his head, halfway obscuring his optics, but clearly pleasing Grimlock, who grinned broadly at the hug. She declared, "Grimlock _get _sparklings, right? Soon?"

_Empathy, _Optimus realized, with a smile of his own. Paladin had figured out that Grimlock would be made happy by having his own children.

"Soon," he agreed. "You, Paladin, older. Teach my sparklings stuff. Okay?"

"Okay!"

Prism said quietly, as if to herself, from the hollow space behind his grill, "Not fair. Not fair. Not fair."

And it wasn't. He knew exactly what she was talking about: Paladin was his, and was secure in that, and Prism was all alone, never sure where she was going to land or who would take care of her. He sighed, and considered the problem a bit. He was halfway tempted to claim her for himself (if Ratchet agreed) but he had two high-needs sparklings as it was, and Prism was going to be a handful. Really, she needed to be someone's only child until she was older. He _couldn't _give her what she needed without neglecting his other duties or his other children or her.

Finally, in a quest to find someone to watch her, he pinged Fang, _:Fang, how busy are you?:_

_:Very. I'm helping Ratchet.:_

_:Nevermind.: _It would probably do Prism good to see him, but not today. And Optimus knew he _couldn't _keep her with him. He didn't trust her not to dart underfoot when he was working around the constructicons, or to behave around the dignitaries. A sternly voiced warning was sufficient to get Paladin to obey even when she didn't want to, but Prism panicked and argued and defied adult orders. She hadn't spent enough time with any one adult to learn she had to listen.

_Everyone _was busy, unfortunately.

No. Wait. There was Lennox's wife, walking between the med bay hangar with her own kid, and an armful of medical supplies. Ratchet had probably sent her on an errand. Annabelle was almost three, which meant that she was about the same developmental age as Prism. She'd always struck him as a sane, sensible, and responsible sort. _Perfect_.

He dismissed Grimlock after assuring Paladin he'd see her later (and giving her a specific time), and hurried after the woman. "Mrs. Lennox!"

She turned, saw him coming, and pulled herself up to her own scant five foot two. She'd been scared of them at first, briefly, but now ranked among the humans who were not frightened by giant alien robots. He crouched down, coaxed Prism out onto his palm, and told Mrs. Lennox, "I could use your assistance. This little one is Ratchet's child, and he's very busy and so am I. Would you mind watching her?"

"Um," Mrs. Lennox said.

"Human!" Prism said cheerfully, and jumped at the woman, who caught her on reflex. Optimus was not surprised to learn that Prism liked humans. "Have markers? I like markers!"

"... I have some crayons at home ..." she seemed dumbfounded.

"Excellent." Optimus was relieved. "Please stress to her that Ratchet is her mentor, and he'll be coming back for her, but make sure she understands you'll take good care of her in the meantime. She'll probably be interested in most of the same activities as your daughter is, and she'll need the same amount of supervision ..."

"... oh dear ..." Mrs. Lennox said, and Optimus assumed that was an 'oh dear' about the idea of _two _preschoolers.

He continued, "... please don't use corporal punishment with her, as she's likely to respond with self-defense subroutines if she feels truly threatened, but she may need discipline, and if that's the case, a one to two minute time-out will work best. If the issue involves a toy, taking the toy away will work even better with her than it will with a human child, as her memory is far better. She will consider social isolation quite a punishment, more so than your daughter. She should be encouraged to recharge -- nap -- every few hours, plus a nine hour deep recharge cycle every night."

"Mm ... like a regular kid, huh? Why me?"

Optimus chuckled. "Because I'm well aware that you handle that little daughter of yours quite well, and I trust you'll do the same with one of our children. We are somewhat desperate ..."

"Why'd you wake them up so soon?" Mrs. Lennox said, a blunt and outspoken question. "Now you have to care for them. I assume you can't just turn them off ..."

"As Ratchet's observed a few times, awake sparklings can run faster than ones in stasis lock. We intend to wake as many as we can." He hoped that went over Prism's head. Fortunately, Prism was investigating Mrs. Lennox's earring, and showed no reaction to his words. He added, "If you need me, I believe you have my cell phone number."

"Yes." She stared at him.

"Thank you." There. Mission accomplished. Much as he _really _wanted to take time with the kid, and as much as she clearly needed it, he had greater responsibilities. He had complete faith in the woman's ability to take good care of Prism. "I would expect that you might need to watch her for her for a few days."

"Uh ..."

"It's important." He was worried she was suddenly going to refuse. "We need everyone to pull together right now, and this is something you could truly help us with."

"Ah ... okay." She gave the sparkling a dubious look.

Optimus favored her with a bright smile. "Thank you. Do not be afraid to discipline this one if she needs it -- by all accounts, she can be quite a handful."

He hurried off before she could gather her wits enough to start asking more questions or outright refuse. He'd seen enough of her to know she'd take good care of any little one, and he _really _didn't have time to deal with Prism. The governor himself had just called him, again, and was demanding more data on the Nebulans.

* * *

"Slaggit." Ratchet's voice, sharp with emotion, emerged from within a tent set up for surgery. Fangface, a hundred yards away, heard him continue swearing.

_:You okay, Ratch?: _He asked, concerned. He, himself, was up to his elbows in the guts of a rather badly injured Nebulan mech.

_:Lost a slagging patient. One of the Nebulans just died. Bled out. We have _no _blood products suitable left for them -- even human blood replacement products will cause an allergic reaction in the Nebulans. That's the tenth Nebulan we've lost in the last two hours, and this one was just twenty years old!:_

_:Why do you care so much?: _For Fang, this was an exercise in distraction. Solving repair problems with limited and mismatched parts -- their med bay had been ill equipped, and Cybertronian parts had a different design -- was a lovely distraction. _:They tried to kill us.:_

By way of answer, Ratchet sent Fang a brief clip of a memory: a laughing Nebulan child, sitting on Ratchet's knee, and fearlessly chattering at him. _:That was the child of Nebulan friend. She died in the attack.:_

_:But she's not them.:_

_:So?: _Ratchet snorted. _:When I look in their eyes, I see fear and desperation, and I see lost friends.:_

_:I guess I'm less forgiving. Someone tries to kill me, I have no problems killing them, and I'm less than enthusiastic about repairing them so they can try it again.:_

_:I can almost forget you're a Decepticon until you go to the effort of reminding me.:_

Hurt, Fangface nearly closed the connection.

Ratchet huffed. _:I'm sending one of the Nebulans over to help you. Her name's r'Oya.:_

_:To ... help me?: _He didn't mind working directly with squishies, he'd just never done it extensively before.  
_  
:She's a mech medic. And we need at least one of the officers to start yacking. She's fairly high-ranking. Win her trust.:_

_:How am I supposed to do that?_

_:Be charming. You're good at it. It's one of your most aggravating character flaws__.: _Ratchet cut the connection before Fang could come up with a retort to that.


	79. Chapter 79

Chapter 79

* * *

Bee and Sam were not planning on staying on the base; they had an invitation from the President to stay at what Bee absently described to Sam as an "official government guest house."

"Security's pretty good there," Bee said, still sounding vague, as he carried their luggage plus some sort of equipment stored in metal cases to Jazz's trunk. The trunk was already crammed full. "Jazz, can you subspace some of this please?"

"Geeze, yah got enough stuff there for ten humans." Jazz's protest was mostly amused.

"Not really. You've got a tiny trunk. And some of this is a holomatter projector for the President." Bee waited patiently until the luggage disappeared. He shoved two more suitcases into the trunk, then turned to grab the last six bags from Sam, Lennox, and a wide-eyed young private assigned to 'help' them. Jazz had to subspace the contents of his trunk two more times to get it all to fit.

"That's handy," Lennox grinned, patting Jazz's trunk lid after they closed it. Like everyone else, Lennox had swiftly accepted Jazz as one of the good guys. Sam was pretty sure that Sideswipe wouldn't get a pat like that from anyone -- and Lennox was just about the only human who dared touch Ironhide without advance permission. Lennox continued, "Patent that technology and car makers all over the world would pay you billions. Heck, my wife'd probably pay mortgage her soul to have a subspace closet or two in our house on the base in Nevada."

Bee chuckled. "It's a few years away before we sell those secrets. It's too easy to use subspace pockets as weapons."

"How would that work as a weapon?" Lennox said, curious. "Other than the obvious, I mean, subspacing an enemy."

"I've subspaced a few smaller enemies over the years. It does work in a pinch, but they tend to come out very crazy and very angry. It's considered a form of torture because of the severe sensory deprivation. That, by the way, is the second most popular explanation for Frenzy's insanity ... Soundwave's symbiotes are subspaced when they're not in the field, and rumor has it that Soundwave went into stasis lock with Frenzy on board, and Frenzy lost his connection to Soundwave." Bee shuddered at the idea. Hee paused, then added, "As far as using it as a weapon goes, it's possible to convert mass to an equivalent amount of energy when transitioning an object back from subspace."

Lennox choked. Sam, remembering his high school physics classes, widened his eyes and said, "That doesn't ever happen by accident, does it?"

"Not by accident. By design, yes." Bee grinned, remembering a few rather satisfying battle endings. Then he sobered, too quickly, smile fading. The Autobots had lost a few battles to that dirty trick, too. "And the build-up of energy and radioactive emissions preceding the blast is a dead giveaway of what's coming. It doesn't work on conscious enemies."

Jazz explained, with somewhat malicious amusement, "We booby-trapped a dead Seeker that way once, rigged his CPU to blow his subspace field after several days. We figured by that time they'd have the body deep in their base, but they wouldn't have had time to take him apart for parts. That stunt only worked once, unfortunately, but _man _was it a pretty fireball." Jazz popped open both his doors. "You two ready to get on the road?"

Lennox was staring at Jazz with an expression somewhere between shock and awe on his face. "You're _evil_."

"Sabotage is in my job description, man." Jazz bounced a bit on his shocks.

"And he's the best at his job," Bee added, smirking. He'd witnessed that blast. After months of long, hard, and deadly fighting, it had been a rather satisfying victory.

Bee was closest to the Jazz's passnger side, and settled easily into the seat. Sam was, somewhat nervously, sitting down behind the wheel. He looked over at Bee, as if to ask Bee why _Bee _was sitting in the passenger's seat.

"Hey, put yer hands on the wheel, will ya?" Jazz said, to Sam, sounding amused. "Makes people nervous, otherwise, seein' a car with the driver going look-ma-no-hands."

Sam obediently rested his hands on the wheel, as Jazz closed the doors. Jazz promptly moaned, "Oooooh, it's so excitin' when ya hold me like that ..."

Sam turned bright pink and snapped his hands away from the wheel. He stared in shock at the dash. Bee, with a snort, rapped his knuckles hard against Jazz's passenger side door glass, making Jazz jump on his shocks in surprise.

"Oooh, assault on a senior officer, Bee. Ah'm shocked."

"Leave Sam alone." Bee growled. "Sam, don't worry about him. He's just being an aft. _Do _hold the wheel."

Sam planted his hands back on Jazz's wheel. In a tone every bit as suggestive as Jazz had used, Sam purred, "As long as I get to drive."

"Ooooh, sounds like you're a lot more Bee's kind of lover than mine ... he's the one who'd rather be driven than drive. Me, I'm _all _top." Jazz, had he not been in alt mode, would have had an absolutely dangerous grin on his face.

Sam blinked. Then, a bit too quietly, and with a very nervous giggle, he folded his hands in his lap and told Jazz, "Just tint the windows."

_:He's _way _too easy to tease.: _Jazz was laughing. _Primus, _Bee had missed that laugh.

"Jazz, do you realize you're teasing the man who killed Megatron?" Bee retorted, aloud, for Sam's benefit, even though he was snickering inside.

Jazz was still chuckling a few moments later, when they picked up an official police escort -- they were traveling in a motorcade to the guest house -- and rolled through the base's gates and then onto a freeway. Sam finally lifted his hands up to rest on the wheel, leaned back in the seat, and Jazz rolled both windows down, blasted the air conditioning at a far higher volume than any human vehicle could manage, and turned his stereo up _very _loud.

* * *

Sam had been expecting some sort of government-run hotel when Bee had alluded to a "guest house" or perhaps something like the rather dumpy base housing for the soldiers in Nevada. However, the building that Jazz parked in front of was literally kitty corner to the park-like grounds of the White House. They couldn't see the White House from the front door, but that was only because there was the corner of a building and some trees in the way. Ss he watched, a helicopter descended towards the White House grounds.

The facade of the guest house was whitewashed stone, and it had a covered porch and a covered walkway to the street that was vaguely familiar. The street was blocked off to public traffic, and a few tourists were milling about despite the late hour. He was pretty sure he'd seen this building on television before.

Bee stepped out of the Solstice and looked up at the house for a moment. It was dark now, but the structure was well lit with footlights buried in the landscaping. Bee said conversationally to Sam, "The president's sending a message by putting us up here. Normally, heads of state stay here. Optimus is analogous to our head of state, but he told Optimus if anyone questions putting _me _up here, he'll point out I'm roughly equivalent to a very highly ranking religious leader, like a Pope."

"You, a Pope." Sam poked him in the ribs, finding a ticklish spot with swift expertise. They might not have done anything more than kissing yet, but he'd definitely figured out that Bee was quite ticklish, and where to tickle him. He added, mischievously, "Then I'm _so _going to hell."

Bee laughed, then quickly sobered as the house staff appeared. Jazz popped his trunk, and a very formally dressed young man reached for the luggage, even as Sam started to do the same.

The man gave him a look that said Sam had done something weird and uncouth, up there with drinking the water in a finger bowl. (Something his mother had warned him against. He'd been given a very quick lesson on fancy table manners by his mom. He was now convinced it would be better to simply go hungry and sit with his hands in his lap if he got forced into a fancy dinner.)

The man said, "I'll get the luggage ..." and he gave Sam a once over, and his eyes narrowed. Sam was still wearing his jeans.

Bee said swiftly, "That's fine. Sam, after you change into something a little nicer, do you want to go out for dinner? Someone on the president's staff just called me. He wants to talk to me yet tonight, but he's got some meetings with a few other people first. We have about three hours."

A flashbulb popped from across the street. Reporters were massing. Bee ignored them. Sam, after one glance in their direction, followed suit.

"Eeeek!" The servant squeaked like a little girl.

Sam jumped at the noise, looked over at the trunk, and realized that the man had picked up the suitcases and four more had taken their place. Sam said, blandly, "He does that. There should be about twelve pieces total, including my laptop bag and an ice chest."

"I'll bring it in." The valet recovered, and made a polite gesture in the direction of the door. "It's a bit warm out here and you will find it is cooler inside."

"... Wow." Sam said, when they stepped through the front doors into something that looked like a movie set, or a museum.

A -- butler, a real, honest-to-God butler -- stood just inside. The man said, in a somewhat firm voice, "Most of the furnishings are very old and very expensive. We ask that you treat them with respect. And mind the china, it's very old and museum quality."

"Err, we were going to go out to eat, so we won't need the china." Sam interpreted the man's attitude as, _Don't touch anything. We don't trust you. You're an alien and a kid._

Bee said, dryly, "We won't play football with the plates, I promise."

The butler didn't crack a smile, but the valet snort a surprised laugh that was quickly stifled. Only _much _later would Sam learn that Bee had been paraphrasing a very dignified former first lady, who had received a similar warning. The butler said smoothly, "I was asked to make sure you understood."

Bee said, in a soothing tone of voice, "We do. I know we're probably not a lot like your usual guests, but I promise we will treat this beautiful home with respect while we're here."

The man relaxed a little. "I am glad to hear you think it's beautiful."

Bee stopped in the hall to admire a painting, standing with his hands behind his back. After correctly identifying the artist, he added, "I loved his painting of the dogwoods. You know, my people have a rich history of art ourselves, but so much of it has been lost, or was left on Cybertron. Almost all of our artists are dead. I hope someday to send an expedition to Cybertron to try to recover some of the works."

"Would anything even exist?" Sam asked. "It's been so long ..."

"Many of the glass works might have survived, if they weren't smashed -- glass is chemically stable, and Cybertronian glass has additives that make it very resistant to breakage. I know of at least one sculpture that was carefully hidden away that I would look for." Bee thought about ithe subject. "We might find some of the metal and crystal sculptures, made of very stable materials. Some of our more fragile works were stored in temporal stasis fields, and their survival would depend on the integrity of the museum generators. It has been so long, however, that I would be pleased to find even a few pieces. We _will _be going to Cybertron eventually. There are scattered pockets of survivors on the world, and we'd like to bring them to Earth, if they'll come."

"Why wouldn't they come?" Sam asked.

"Cybertron may be a broken, dead world, but it is home." Bee rested a hand on Sam's back, guiding him on down the hall. Sam stiffened, uncomfortable with the public display of affection, then forced himself to relax. Surely, the staff would be discrete, just as they surely already _knew_. And Bee was probably reaching out to him for comfort, because the discussion hurt, even if Bee wasn't showing much distress publicly.

Bee's world was dead, but he had a new home, and people who loved him deeply, here on Earth.

As soon as they were alone, and the butler had left them alone in one of two private bedroom suites they were assigned, Sam drew Bee into a long hug. He didn't say a word, and neither did Bee, except for a low, murmured, "Thank you."

"Hey. You can't change the past, but you can build a future here, for your people." Sam held him tight, sensing that the discussion of lost art had struck home.

"For the sparklings." Bee hugged Sam. "Someday, I'm going to return to Cybertron. For the sparklings, to bring them back a bit of their legacy. Maybe you and 'Kaela can come with me ..."

"I'd like that," he said, and it was true.

* * *

t'Nell sat with his legs tucked up to his chest and his eyes shut. He was in a holding cell, concrete and steel, cold enough to make him shiver despite a thin blanket that he'd wrapped around his shoulders. Humans liked things a little cooler than Nebulans did.

The room had two bunks, but he regrettably didn't have a roommate -- or _any _companionship. He'd been in solitary confinement all day, and only the fact they hadn't taken his comm away was keeping him sane.

_:Think they'll kill us?: _Tam asked, his voice a welcome lifeline. He'd known t'Tamis for close to a hundred years, and t'Tamis had served under him for most of that time. He was a good mech, and a good friend, and t'Nell didn't like the nervous, hesitant note that was in the scout's voice now. Tam, normally, was all sorts of confident. Something had broken in the young mech's spirit.

_:Maybe.: _t'Nell sighed. _:I don't know, Tam. The Cybertronians are supposed to be monsters ...:_

:The Primes are real.: Tam's words shocked t'Nell, partly because they seemed to be unrelated to their discussion. _:t'Nell ... Ratchet hacked me. He had to. I don't know how much you've picked up, how much they've told you, but I had firmware coding in my processor. Anything identified as being Cybertronian, or supporting it, was seen as a threat. It was _strong_, Nell. You cannot imagine how strong ... the fear, it consumed me. Even when logically I could tell I was being foolish, it was overpowering. I nearly crashed from the conflicts it was generating when my logic told me they were not my enemies, and the programming insisted they were.:_

:They hacked you to delete it.:

:Yes. Likely, we'll need to do the same with the rest of the surviving mechs.: t'Tamis sounded profoundly unhappy. _:I know I'm glad they did it, but it was the worst experience of my life, regardless. It only helped a little that the person invading me like that was sorry for doing it. There's ... other behavioral coding. I've been finding it and modifying it myself, t'Nell. That line that Ratchet found was firmware, printed to my processor core before installation, with permissions that would prevent me from even seeing it. The rest was added by the Elders when they brought me online.:_  
_  
:The Elders?: _t'Nell was dumbfounded by that. _:Behavioral coding?:_

:It ... who you thought I was is not who I really am.: t'Tamis shivered. _:The obedient young scout, that's not me. That was coded in. I'm sorry, Nell. I don't even know _who _I am anymore.:_

:But ...:

Tam sounded truly distraught. _:We are coded to be warriors, and that's it. We are the defenders of Sanctuary. That is our sole purpose in life, and it is what we devote our lives to. We are military from the day we come online, and we never show interest in anything that does not have to do with combat or defense.:_

:That's ... what? _I don't understand where you're going with this.: _t'Nell blinked at his cell wall. Mechs were supposed to be warriors. It was just the way things were. Mechs being warriors was a fact just like water being wet or the sky being blue. Tam was a good warrior, and t'Nell thought of him as a 'good mech' because he followed orders, didn't cause trouble, and showed good judgment in the field. He thought of him as a friend because they'd known each other so long, but, if he was being honest, he did not think of him in the same way he thought of other organic Nebulans as friends.

_:Look at the Cybertronians. Ratchet is a _medic_, t'Nell. You saw. We have no medics. They are warriors, yes, but they are also scientists, artists, healers, engineers and musicians. We do are none of these things. We are exclusively and wholly warriors.:_

t'Nell snorted. _:But they're Cybertronian. You're not. It's not in your nature ...:_

:It's not in our nature because of the way our operating code is structured. I found the code. I deleted the code. And now I feel so empty, as if I've been missing something my entire life. There's beauty _around us, Nell. I was coded not to see it, so that I would not desire it. The math ... it sings to me now, the math in music, the math in engineering, the math in healing. I am not sure I can explain this, because you do not think in the same way I do, but the math is beautiful, and I never saw it until I found that nasty little bit of code and removed it.:_

t'Nell had no answer to that. He'd never heard a mech talk like this before. He wondered if Tam was crazy.

_:The Elder ... when my Elder brought me online, the code he uploaded had behavioral restrictions in it. I don't understand why. I don't understand, Nell.:_

t'Nell started to rub between his eyes, and his fingers encountered a bruise. He scratched at his arm, instead, and wished he had a stylus or a bit of wire to get under the cast on his arm. It was starting to really itch. _:We need you to be warriors, t'Tamis. That may have something to do with it.:_

:t'Nell, did you know something about this?: t'Tamis demanded, with real hostility in his voice.

He winced. _:I did not.:_

:I was missing so much ... beauty ... there's no other way to describe it.: t'Tamis fell silent for a long moment, then added, _:It's wrong, Nell. Now that I see the difference, I know that it's wrong.:_

:Tam, do me a favor and don't tell anyone else about this.: t'Nell was very disturbed by the implications, and not just the obvious ones. t'Tamis clearly felt something had been _taken _from him by restrictive behavioral coding. However, t'Nell also knew that Nebulos needed warriors to defend it. If he told the other mechs and word spread about this, would they lose their world's most valuable defense?

t'Nell thought, with real concern, _We were nearly wiped out -- our world utterly destroyed -- once. I can't let that happen again._

Yet he loved Tam like a brother. And Tam sounded so broken, so lost, and so overawed by the discovery he'd made. t'Nell wished he knew what to think. He wished he could see the young mech face to face, to really sit him down, calm him down, and _talk _to him.

* * *

"The Nebulan homeworld's probably habitable again," Bee said, to the President of the United States, "But they haven't returned to it. We're completely not sure why. That was one of the reasons we assumed they were extinct -- they never returned home."

The president sat on a couch in the Oval Office, fingers steepled together in a way that reminded Bee startlingly of Perceptor, of all mechs, and he watched Bee with keen eyes. Personality wise, Bee thought the man was an interesting blend of Prowl and Optimus. He was analytical like Prowl, yes, but he had incredible charisma.

He also looked tired, though not lacking in energy. Bee wasn't sure if the president had actually slept in two days. It was well past midnight, and he was still quizzing Bee. He was probably still running on adrenalin and coffee. Bee, who was immune to the effects of caffeine, still had his own cup. It was very good coffee, and the president had been thoughtful in providing it, but it wasn't helping Bee's own profound level of exhaustion all that much.

"So they could return home?"

"To be fair, Nebulos is not the _same _world. In the aftermath of the Decepticon attack, there were mass extinctions. We were able to release some animals that were preserved in our zoos once the plant life reestablished itself, but the ecosystem has been radically altered. It's a livable world. It's not the paradise it once was." Bee sighed, and continued after a moment of inadvertent memory file recalls, "We've periodically monitored that star system for transmissions that might indicate they returned, and there never was anything."

"And the world they're living on now?"

"The last time it was surveyed was two hundred thousand years ago, well before they arrived. It would be marginally habitable by the Nebulans. The weather is very difficult, and it's resource poor. I will be perfectly frank and tell you that the Nebulans planned to conquer Earth because Earth has vast resources _and _a technology base to harvest and utilize those resources." Bee sipped his coffee. The sensory stimulation helped keep him awake, a little, even if the caffeine was pointless.

"You're certain of this?" The President had been informed of the presumed Nebulan battle plan, of course, but Bee didn't blame him for rephrasing the question half a dozen different ways. They kept coming back to Nebulan motivations. Bee suspected this repetition was deliberate, on the President's part. He was simply trying to find any holes in the Autobot story. Bee was earnestly glad that they'd decided to give this man the full and unvarnished story, and let _him _chose what the civilian population should learn.

Bee confirmed, "Yes. We've been monitoring discussions between the prisoners. None of them will talk to us directly -- and that's a typical Nebulan behavior, they just don't talk to enemies. Humans will blab all day, but Nebulans shut up around people they mistrust." Bumblebee reached out to the carafe of coffee on the table between them and poured himself another cup. "They're desperate. They've hit the maximum sustainable population on Sanctuary, that's their new colony world, and they can't grow any bigger. However, they're not big _enough _to effectively defend themselves from other civilizations who might want to conquer them."

The president leaned back in the couch and regarded Bee with a level gaze. "Earth is relatively defenseless, isn't it? If they come back, better equipped, and attacked us again."

Bee snorted. "They had bad intel, and they had some cultural assumptions that don't hold true for humans. They wouldn't be able to conquer you with one starship, or even fifty starships. Your world's losses, however, would be brutal. You'd win, even without our help, but the cost would be more than you'd want to pay. We intend to help reduce your losses if they try again. Humans are effective fighters because you're so slagging stubborn, and individual humans are willing to die for the greater good of your world."

The president frowned.

"That was a compliment."

The president sipped his own cup of coffee. "Yes, but I would also note that as a species we are sometimes not very good at discerning what the greater good _is_. Suicidal fighters, believing they're doing God's work, are a bit of a problem when you're on the _other _side of the war."

"Heh." Bee rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was so tired that his organic form's eyes kept blurring. His optic muscles were probably getting worn out, along with the rest of him. "I've had to send a few soldiers under my command to their death, and they did it because they knew they were doing the work of Primus, and because they knew it was for the greater good of our people."

The president leaned back in the couch again and said thoughtfully, "It's all a matter of perspective, isn't it?"

Bumblebee sighed. "Increasing the standard of living, globally, of humans is one of our goals. Poverty breeds extremism. It's what started our war, you know. Poverty. We'd fought a war against an aggressive alien race to the point where our own people were impoverished, and out of that came the civil war that destroyed our world."

"Increasing the standard of living." The President poured himself more coffee, and added milk and sugar. "That's a terribly altruistic goal. What do you get out of it?"

And ... they were back to the President trying to figure them out.

Bee held both hands up, palms out, and wondered if the President had picked up the Cybertronian meaning of my-hands-are-empty-and-I-have-no-other-options. He used a human analogy, however, when he said, "On the one hand, we are ... pleased ... to help. We want to make Earth our adopted home, and we believe, very strongly, that means that humans are _our _people. If we call this world home, then humans are our kin. It would be wrong of us _not _to help, when we have the technology to do so."

"And on the other hand?"

"A prosperous, wealthy, peaceful world is more likely to accept us."

"Mm. I get the feeling from Optimus that he feels the first point is more important." The President had just thrown a challenge out to Bee, albeit a subtle one.

_I hate diplomacy. _He was trying to find out if all Autobots felt the way that Optimus did, or if their leader was overly idealistic. Bee smiled, and decided to give him the truth -- which, doubtless, he'd heard from his advisers anyway. Keller certainly had been around the various mechs long enough to have formed his own opinions of Autobot morals, and shared them with the President. "Optimus is like that. He follows the teachings of Primus very faithfully. Some of us have less faith than he does, however, and are more concerned with protecting their own afts."

"And you?"

Bee sipped his coffee. "I'm a Prime. I'd probably get a visit by the Ghosts of Primes if I lost faith. You know, the Ghost of Prime Past, the Ghost of Prime Present, the Ghost of Prime Future ..."

The president had been taking a sip of his coffee, and choked on it, startled into a laugh by Bee's dry irreverence. (Bee, meanwhile, had been startled by a definite feeling of deep amusement from his Matrix.) He shook his head, waved away the offer of a napkin from a secret service agent, and said, "You know, when I took office, I didn't even know you guys _existed _until Keller asked for a private conference. And the _last _thing I was expecting when they said that giant alien robots were hiding amongst us was that they'd be funny."

Bee chuckled. "We're real people, Mr. President."

"Yes," the president agreed, with a genuine smile, "that you are. I wish I could meet your leader, but my security detail objects. Loudly. With threats of bodily harm to me if I try."

At least two of the four secret-service officers assigned to watch Bee cracked smiles at this. He'd noticed that the president's staff genuinely liked him. Though alert and professional, everyone he'd seen who worked for the man was relaxed and confident. That was always a good sign. When a person in power had nervous minions, Bee wondered what happened behind the scenes.

Bee nodded. This, now, was a test for _him. _How much did the man _really _trust him? He asked, "You're familiar with holomatter?"

"With the concept." The president's response was a swift reminder to Bee that this was a very intelligent, analytically minded man, even as he denied understanding the details. "The science is a bit complicated. I'm still trying to figure out _how _you achieve the temporary energy to mass conversion. That should violate all sorts of laws of known physics -- which just means you're using unknown physics."

He laughed at the president's dry tone. "I am not a scientist. I do understand the concepts in a general fashion, but I'm not sure how to translate them into English and I _wrote _the English-language module. I can have Wheeljack explain the theories to you. He's better at making English say things it wasn't ever meant to."

The President waved a hand dismissively. "When there's time. I'd rather see Wheeljack working on Earth defense systems versus humoring my curiosity. I am also not a scientist, just an educated geek."

"Hmm." He decided not to mention how little extra effort Wheeljack would have to devote to answering the President's questions. There was no sense in reminding the man that mechs were simply far more capable of data crunching than humans. "The reason I mention holomatter technology is that I've brought a portable holomatter suite generator with me. If you would like, you could use it to talk to Optimus and the rest of us face-to-face."

The President's eyes sparked with interest.

"It works similar to a holodeck, except that the participants can be anywhere that there's an internet connection." Bee kept his tone casual, at least partly in teasing response that sudden keen look in the other man's eyes. Oh, yeah, the president was _coveting _that technology. The President couldn't accept a personal gift, but they had wanted to give him something Cybertronian that would be useful to him and which he could legitimately accept. He could accept this on behalf of the US government, then make use of it while he was in office.

The president pressed his lips together in a sudden frown. "You also use a version of holomatter as the ammunition in your pulse cannons."

_Smart _man. "Yes." Bee didn't deny it. "It could be used as a weapon."

The President glanced at his agents. "All respect to my security detail aside, if the giant alien robots," now he grinned, "wanted me dead, I would be, right?"

Bee chuckled. "We would be a lot more likely to die defending you than kill you."

"Really."

Bee held one hand out, palm up. "America is our home now. You are America's leader. We would give you the same level of protection that we give Optimus."

"I see." The president nodded. "A holodeck, hmm? How much bandwidth does it need?"

Oh, _smart _man. Bee grinned in appreciation of the astute questions. "Not as much as you would expect. We would not try to transmit a three-dimensional full motion capture of a person over your world's internet. The only thing that is transmitted is the equivalent of a wireframe animation. The holomatter projector's AI then renders an overlay of a person's appearance on the wireframe."

"And the encryption level?" The president asked.

"This particular suite has quantum level encryption. It's referred to as a suite because it's a set, with four quantum-linked units. The encryption is effectively uncrackable." He grinned. "You get three units. The three units we would give to the government include a secondary quantum key that ours does not have. The units are completely portable, so you can place them where you need them."

The president's eyes were practically glowing. He was clearly thinking of the many ways he could use this, and not just to talk to Optimus. "I could effectively have a face-to-face meeting with leaders on the other side of the globe, and then be home thirty seconds later for dinner," he said, finally.

Then he flicked his eyes upwards. "How much headroom will I need to meet Optimus?"

"Not as much as you think. The suite can change scales when necessary. Alternately, it could make it appear that your desk was up in the air," Bee explained, "You could set it up in here, and look him in the optics, if you wanted."

"_Thank _you. Yes. I'll accept this." The president rose. "And I hope you don't mind me cutting this short now, but I get the feeling you are probably as exhausted as I am."

Bee held up a hand out for the president to shake. "Thanks. I'm about ready to drop on my feet -- I'd probably better head back before I end up crashing my processor and recharging on your couch."

The president laughed at the image.

Bee continued, "Communications are important. When we get a chance to fabricate them, we'll be sending a similar suite to every world leader. We'd like to get you talking to each other on a very routine basis."

The president nodded, with clear approval. "Let me know when you have them ready. I'll encourage my counterparts to accept them. That would be _most _helpful."

* * *

Bee was _exhausted _by the time a sleepy-looking driver took him the few short blocks from the White House to the presidential guest house, which was literally around the corner. The sky was starting to grow light in the East, and Jazz was soundly in recharge in front of the building. By contrast, a couple of secret service agents, doubtlessly assigned to watch Jazz's movements more than to guard him, looked far too alert for the hour. They stood across the street, and one was scanning the surrounding area and the other simply watching Jazz.

_Bet those agents are bored. And Jazz can sleep through anything. I'm not sure I could cycle down if someone was staring at me like that._

Bee stumbled through the front door, up the stairs, and into his bedroom.

He regarded the empty bed for a moment. It would be his first time sleeping alone since he'd come online in this secondary form. He considered the empty bed for a long, frowning movement, then kicked his shoes off and padded barefoot into the adjoining suite, where Sam was curled up and snoring softly.

Sam mumbled something when Bee crawled under the covers with him.

Bee said softly, "Go back to sleep. It's five AM."

"'Kay."

Bee's other half was in Phoenix, with his cabin and trunk stuffed full of syringes, IV tubing, and assorted medication. Kup, pulling a trailer laden with more medication and several hundred cots, was in front of him. Bee called Ratchet quickly on his cell phone.  
_  
:What?: _Ratchet's response was terse. He was probably devoting most of his processor power to major problems.  
_  
:Ratchet, I'm beat. Do you need any of this before noon?:_ He e-mailed Ratchet an invoice of what he was carrying.

_:I'll need the morphine by two PM.:_

:I'm going to get a few hours recharge.: 

_:Fine.: _Ratchet cut the comm.

He comm'd Kup and Wheelie. _:I'm dropping out. If I don't recharge for a few hours I'm going to start glitching here.:_

:Ratchet needs the cots and the IV fluids I'm carrying right away. You going to be okay by yourself, boss?:

_:Yeah, I'll be fine. It's not like I haven't parked and napped somewhere in public before, a few thousand times.: _He headed for an offramp. _:I'll wake up and head on back to Nevada about eight AM base time. I need to get up that early for my other half to make a meeting with the president, anyway.: _There was two hours time difference between Nevada time and Washington, DC. Getting up at eight base time -- ten AM DC time -- would give him five hours recharge, and would allow him enough time to read the documents that Wheeljack and Ironhide were currently working on and get them to clarify anything that wasn't clear to him. He also wanted to eat lunch with Sam and touch base with Jazz and Sideswipe.

He thought of something that was one or two steps down the ladder of urgent matters, but ideally suited for a human and a mech who was, in theory, still on light duty. They needed to find housing in the DC area that could provide a residence for both mechs and humans. That would likely mean a warehouse or other large commercial structure, with enough head room for mechs, and snug enough against the elements to keep humans comfortable. And, of course, it needed to be at least slightly defensible -- or at least in an area where a knock-down drag-out fight with bad guys would result in minimal civilian casualties. That likely meant an industrial area.

He e-mailed a suggestion that they go property-hunting to Jazz, who agreed with him. Jazz was probably glad for an excuse to feel genuinely useful without the guilt of violating Ratchet's orders, since, so far, he'd only been cleared by Ratchet to be their transportation. He was probably doing more than he was supposed to do, as it was, but it was so easy for the others to slip back into a role of letting Jazz lead, and Jazz instinctively took over when they did. He was a _born _leader.

He found a Wal-mart parking lot off I-17 in Phoenix, parked under a streetlight, and started to power down to recharge. However, because the night in Phoenix was very warm, he left his engine running and his climate control cranked down to its coldest setting. Some of the medical supplies he was carrying were temperature sensitive, and he was stuffed full to the roof with boxes, even filling the driver's seat.

Just before he completely cycled down he sent an e-mails to Sam and Mikaela asking them both out to lunch; there were definite advantages to having two distinct bodies. Then, finally, he allowed himself to slip into recharge for a few blessed hours.


	80. Chapter 80

Chapter 80

* * *

Author's notes: I am aware that in some continuities, Perceptor was a fairly effective leader. Please bear with me. He's not as OOC as he feels; this is partly based on the G1 character, and he has some issues he needs to confront.

* * *

It was a grand ship.

Mirage stood in a bitter ethane rain, internal heaters turned all the way up to the max, as the Ark descended slowly through a raging thunderstorm. Lightning crackled across the sky, and the ship's running lights were barely visible through the downpour of liquid hydrocarbons.

His engine kicked on, in an attempt to add extra heat, and an early-warning light lit on his HUD. His hydraulic fluid was thickening up despite his body's efforts to counter-act the truly miserable weather. Nieryl Six wasn't always this miserable, and he also knew it could be worse -- it could be _snowing _ethane -- but this was plenty bad. If he wasn't careful his hydraulic fluid would freeze, and then he'd be locked in place like a giant metal statute.

"Oh, Primus." Perceptor breathed out in awe, behind him. "'Raj! Isn't it the most beautiful ship? I have not witnessed a ship like this one in one million two hundred thousand and forty-three years. I am so very eager to look at the ship in more detail. It has a duryllium hull and I have not seen that much duryllium in one place in my lifetime. I simply cannot wait to scan the molecular structure. This is a time capsule, 'Raj, a time capsule into our very past."

"You sound like Bluestreak," Mirage said, affectionately teasing, "Only with bigger words." He hadn't seen Perceptor this excited in orns. Percy hadn't even come out of his lab for the party to celebrate the news of Grimlock's survival and the discovery of the lost Matrixes. It was good to see him happy, for once.

Perceptor held his normally nimble fingers in front of one of his vents, clearly trying to keep the finely tuned tactile sensors from being damaged by the cold. The little scientist was not really adapted for this kind of weather, and Mirage said with some worry, "You should go inside, Percy."

"With the current meteorological conditions, I have at least fifteen-point-four minutes before I suffer damage. I wish to see the ship land." He added with a bright smile, "I wish to board right away."

Mirage took Perceptor at his word, and accepted that he'd have time to get out of the cold before he'd need repairs. They could _feel _the ship engines, at this point. The dense atmosphere -- four and a half times denser than Earth's atmosphere at sea level -- transmitted sound very well, nearly as well as liquid water, and the deep thrumming of the engines was a physical force. The sloppy hydrocarbon puddles underfoot vibrated in response to the harmonics, and Perceptor practically bounced in place with them in his excitement.

Mirage couldn't keep a small smile off his face as the ship landed and Perceptor's enthusiasm increased exponentially. It was so _good _to see Perceptor excited about something. Perceptor ran forward as soon as the ramp lowered, splashing through the oily puddles. Then he stopped just far enough away for the ramp to lower, and waited eagerly as the mechs on board came out.

"Brrrrr!" Hot Rod -- no, _Rodimus _-- protested, as he bounced down the ramp and then slammed anchoring pins into the ground with his palm to hold it in place. Each blow made him lift a couple of feet off the ground. Nieryl Six had less gravity than Earth's moon.

With the density of the atmosphere and the lack of gravity to hold things down, even the slightest breeze carried potentially damaging force, and it was storming today. Humid oxygen atmosphere puffed out around him from the airlock. The water in the atmosphere froze instantly in a shimmer ice crystals as it hit the minus-three-hundred-degree nearly pure nitrogen atmosphere of Nieryl Six. "I keep deliberately forgetting how slagging _cold _this world is, 'Raj!"

Doc, behind him Rodimus, fired his engine up immediately and clamped his armor tight to his body in reaction to the bitter air. Doc just didn't have the thermal mass to endure much of Nieryl's miserable weather. The medic nodded to Perceptor and Mirage, "Good to see you two again. Sir, with all due respect and if you don't mind, I'm gonna scram inside the base before you guys have to _carry _me in again."

_Again. _Doc's hydraulics had seized on his first visit here. Mirage nodded acknowledgment of that. This was not an occasion for formality, anyway. They were going to swap crew around, load the energon, and lift off, probably in under three hours. Behind Doc, more of the Ark's crew were streaming off the ship with possessions in hand. Mirage was surprised by how much _stuff _the new recruits had. Most mechs he knew limited themselves to what they could carry in their personal subspace or pockets tucked under their armor. To Perceptor he said, "You're dismissed, go on. It's worse than usual out here."

"Wooohoooooooo!" A voice cried. A _tiny _mech dove out of the opening.

"I didn't think about it before, but Windy has no hydraulics except for a couple of pistons driving his legs, and his engine will keep those warm -- he's probably more immune to this nasty world than most of us," Doc said, pausing for just a moment and watching as the little mech spread brightly colored wings and soared into the sky without even bothering to fire his engines up. He just flapped like a bird. In the dense atmosphere and very low gravity that was all that was required to send him darting aloft. "His joints won't freeze up, but he might blow away if the storm gets worse."

Rodimus comm'd the little mech, even as thunder shook the dense, frigid air. _:Windy, get down here. You're going to get struck by lightning.:_

:Wouldn't be the first time!: Manywinds pinned his wings back and dove with daredevil skill at the ground, firing his engine up at the very last second. Scant feet above it, he flared his wings wide and braked, swapped ends, transformed, and landed with a gymnast's skill. Hydrocarbon rain puddles splashed around his feet. His wings steamed as the ethane evaporated off them. They would be sensitive to the heat, being an exotic polymer, but he apparently came equipped with very efficient internal heaters. Chemical fog rose around him, nearly obscuring him from view, as the rain hit those warm wings and his roaring engine.

"Get inside," Doc said, giving Windy a companionable shove in the general direction of the buildings not too far away. "You might be able to tolerate the cold, but I'm not going to listen to you whine about the water frost in your internals when you go back aboard the ship. You let yourself get too cold out here, and then you hit the humidity in the ship, and you're gonna freeze up like a popsicle just from the water in the air."

"Roddy, do I have permission to board?" Perceptor stared longingly at the ship.

"He's Rodimus," Mirage corrected, mildly. Hot Rod, as unlikely as it seemed, was a Prime now.

"Calling me Roddy's fine." The young Prime grinned. "Unless we're being all formal-like, in a command situation. I'm honestly not sure who tagged me with Rodimus. Might've been Magnus, I dunno. But we've all pretty much decided that there just aren't _enough _of us left to put on airs, Mirage."

"Our traditions are all we have," Mirage protested, "including the traditional honor one must show a Prime. _Sir._" And he was annoyed that Rodimus had corrected him aloud rather than doing it over a comm line, so he returned the favor with a spoken complaint.

"Heh." Rodimus grinned. "Well, if _you _want to be polite to me, that'd be a pleasant change."

Mirage knew he must have winced, as well as let his irritation show, because Rodimus grinned. It was true that he hadn't always been as nice to Hot Rod as he probably should have been. He was -- had been -- an arrogant, irreverent youngling and he'd never quite understood why so many of the officers really liked Hot Rod. And now Hot Rod, that obnoxious kid, was his superior officer. Magnus was nominally captaining the ship, after significant last minute shuffling of the crew. The last subspace transmission they'd gotten from Earth had said something about an awe-inspiring number of sparklings and a need to defend them. However, Hot Rod was Magnus's SIC, and Optimus had made it clear that they were grooming Hot Rod to be commander for completely obvious reasons.

That put both of them over Mirage, and he wasn't sure how to deal with being _under _the young mech, who had been one of the most junior soldiers on the team when they'd left Nieryl Six a few months before.

Perceptor made a polite chirp to draw attention back to himself, and his request to board.

"Oh, yeah, Percy, go on aboard. There's a couple humans in the med bay, if you want to meet them." Rodimus waved in the general direction of the ship.

Perceptor's optics lit with obviously intense curiosity.

"Go on." Roddy laughed. "They're friendly. The cold out here's _way _below their design tolerances, so they won't be leaving the ship, but I'm sure they'll be happy to meet you."

"Just sure you get all the gunk off your armor before you cycle open the airlock." That was Magnus. "Some of the compounds out here are toxic to the organics."

Ethane was explosively flammable, too, in an oxygen atmosphere. They were all covered in it. Perceptor nodded understanding, then ran up the ramp.

* * *

After scrubbing himself clean with solvents, and cycling the lock a second time to evacuate the ethane and methane that had evaporated from his armor on contact with the warmth of the airlock, Perceptor stepped into the main hold. His optics wide with awe. This was a ship like he hadn't ever expected to see again. "You are stunningly and truly _beautiful,_" he told the ship.

However, the warm air, humid with at least a ten percent saturation level of water, made his optics nearly instantly frost over. It was the effect that Doc had warned Windy of. The unheated bits of his body were bitterly cold, with his fingers and feet hundreds of degrees below zero despite his efforts to keep them warm.

"Thank you for the compliment, Perceptor," a voice said from a speaker on the wall, as he belatedly activated his optical warmers. He'd let them cool to the ambient temperature earlier, to prevent distortion as he'd scanned the skies for the approaching ship. He couldn't do much about the frost rapidly building on the rest of his armor, however. His central heating system was already going flat out.

Percy jumped in surprise, and then laughed when he could see again and identified the source of the voice. "Well, hello. Teletraan, correct?"

"That would be me," the ship's response carried very little emotion. "You were probably admiring my design from an engineering standpoint."

"Yes." He wiggled his fingers, making the rapidly accumulating ice crackle and fall to the ground, where it immediately started to melt. The ship was at a _very _comfortable sixty degrees Fahrenheit. His internals were starting to tick and creak as they warmed and expanded.

"We've lost so much knowledge," Teletraan said. "Optimus claims you were one of the brightest chemists and metallurgists known."

"Still am," Perceptor said, a claim that was entirely without braggadocio, just the firm knowledge that it was a fact. "And biochemistry, and physics. I like knowing how things _work _on a basic level." He ran an appreciative hand over one of Teletraan's bulkheads, then he leaned closer to have a look at the metal. There was a light _chock chock chock _as bits and pieces of his cranial structure moved around. His primary optics altered, lenses and filters neatly sliding into place. His sensors were warm enough now that the frost had all evaporated again, though much of the rest of Perceptor's body was covered an inch of crunchy frozen water.

"Are you scanning my structure?" Teletraan said, sounding surprised.

"Hi Perceptor," Jolt padded past and by contrast he was not at all surprised to find the frost-covered scientist deep in scrutiny of the Ark's wall. "How are the atoms spinning today?"

"Very well, I believe," Perceptor said, a deadpan response to Jolt's question, which was only gently teasing. He didn't look up from his scrutiny of the metal, but he did lift his hand in a wave at Jolt. He didn't lower it afterward, and pointed the scanner on his arm at the wall. His optics shifted again, with the glow going from typical cerulean to midnight blue as he changed the spectrum of radiation they were sensitive to. In swift succession he bombarded the metal with a range of radiation from sonic to x-ray.

"That tickles," Teletraan said, "What are you doing?"

"Your structure was created at a shipyard owned by the Pangalactic Exploration Group, as I suspected." He pressed his fingers together in thought, then observed, "I've seen _bones _of ships they made, but never thought I'd find a flightworthy example. You're still like new. You probably have less than four, maybe five thousand years of flight time, right?"

"Yes. You can tell all that from a scan?"

"Oh, yes. The molecular structure of your duryllium support members is quite distinctive. The molecules themselves are linked together in very long strands, and braided, for incredible strength. They didn't just cast the metal of your structure, they _spun _it on a molecular level like fabric. I know how they accomplished that," he huffed a sigh, "but there hasn't been a foundry able to do it since the beginning of the war. And to create spun duryllium of this quality, on this vast scale -- not in millions of years. You were a bit overbuilt for ordinary use, but they designed things to _last _then. You'll probably still be flying a million years from now."

Something went _ping! _deep in his chassis. A chunk of ice fell off his hip when he moved.

"That's a prediction I like, given the war," Teletraan replied, making Perceptor wince at the reminder of all the other sparked ships he would never again speak to, "and Optimus wanted you to look at some armor samples, by the way, when you get a chance. We're trying to determine a way to replicate the alloy. They're in the med bay. The humans are there, too."

"Humans. Right." He straightened up and proceeded on down the hall.

Teletraan switched to a comm link. _:The new leader of the Decepticons is a prototype, with a structure made of an exotic alloy that shouldn't, actually, be possible. Nobody can figure out how his designers got the metals in his structure to combine in the manner they did. It seems to violate basic rules of chemistry.:_

:And we're helping the 'cons now?: Perceptor said, dumbfounded. Maybe he should read the latest briefings. He seemed to have missed something important. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he was clueless about a new development, and he always found out the vital bits sooner or later.

_New _leader? Was Megatron dead? Who'd taken over, Starscream? Shockwave? He didn't mind Starscream much -- he remembered a bright young scientist -- but Shockwave had always been a fragger. He'd really tried to avoid news about the Decepticon scientists. He'd known too many of them before the war, and had considered some of them, like Skywarp and Starscream and Soundwave, real friends.

_The war changed us all. _He'd unavoidably learned a few things about Soundwave that had left him aghast. Soundwave, once one of the foremost experts on spark mechanics, had hacked Bluestreak and Sunstreaker after they were captured. He hadn't wanted to _know _that. The Soundwave he remembered had been a sober, serious mech with a deep sense of honor. They'd worked together on a number of protoform design projects, and he had always respected and liked the other.  
_  
I wonder where he is now? _But he didn't want to know. Alive, dead, captured, free, he didn't want to _know_.  
_  
:Optimus believes Lord Fangface will help us bring an end to the war.: _Teletraan said. _:And I have seen nothing to convince me otherwise. His priorities are in the right place.:_

:Fangface is their new leader? Wasn't he on Jazz's team for a bit?: Perceptor followed the signs pointing towards the med bay. Perhaps he really did need to read that report. He simply afraid of what he might find in it. Maybe he could get someone to give him the highlights, though Mirage had long ago trained his team to simply respond, "Just read the damn reports, Perceptor," and walk away if he asked for a synopsis. Perceptor added, almost unwillingly, _:But Fangface betrayed us, and cost us Grimlock.:_

He had found out about _that _when he had asked why he had not seen Grimlock for two millenia. He'd regretted asking. Really, he needed to stop questioning what happened when he didn't _see _someone around for awhile. The answer was generally obvious, and should be assumed. If you didn't see someone, or hear from someone, for a certain length of time, they were probably dead.  
_  
:Grimlock's alive. And yes, that is my understanding.:_

:Wait, Grimlock is alive?: He had not heard good news like that in ... well, he refused to calculate how long it had been. And he wouldn't believe it was true until he saw Grimlock himself.  
_  
:Yes, Grimlock is alive. It was in the briefing that Optimus sent the crew.:_

:I never read those things. They are simply so depressing and irrelevant to what I do_. However, I would speculate that his survival is what all the partying was about a few weeks ago.: _Perceptor shook his head in disbelief. _:I assume they were just partying over the decision to blow the energon plants and get off this slagging moon.:_

:You didn't ask why they were partying?:

He cast a glance at one of Teletraan's optics, high on the wall. _:Sometimes they're holding a wake. I don't want to know.:_

:You didn't even ask if someone had died?: Teletraan sounded disbelieving.

Perceptor shrugged. _:Good news, bad news, more good news, more bad news -- it all blends together after awhile. I design the weapons and equipment Prime says we need, and the news, good or bad, just isn't important.:_

He'd come to that conclusion a long, long time ago. It was a coping strategy. Smokescreen said it was unhealthy, but it was the only thing that kept him sane. He didn't _want _to know how many were dead, how many they'd lost, what part his weapons played in victories or defeats. If someone's weapon slayed an enemy, that was a life on his hands, Decepticon or not. If someone bearing his weapons or wearing his armor died, he would forever wonder if he could have done _better, _and if so, if that mech would still be alive.

It was better if he just didn't know the details.

_:But you're excited about meeting me.: _Teletraan sounded amused.  
_  
:You're the _past _come alive.: _Perceptor smiled. _:The past was better. Before everything went to the Pit. You're a reminder of what we had once.:_

He'd reached the med bay, and stepped through the doors, mind focused on meeting the organics. Meeting aliens was always interesting. It sure beat designing weapons.

* * *

The med bay doors swished open, and an unfamiliar mech stepped through, causing Kay to look away from her fascinated scrutiny of the terrain outside. It was _raining ethane _and she and her mother were the first people, ever, to see such an amazing sight. It was also the first time she had been allowed out of the protected central hold. Nieryl Six's thick atmosphere and magnetosphere protected the moon from the hard radiation of deep space.

He was small, by mech standards -- perhaps ten feet tall. He was also covered with so much frost that he looked like he'd been standing in front of a snow blower.

It was not snowing outside, and any snow that _did _fall outside would have subliminated instantly in the ship's warmer atmosphere. It only took her moment to figure out where the ice came from, however. Kat said brightly, "Oh, wow, your armor was frozen really cold and then when you stepped out of the airlock, the humidity in the air inside froze to it. That's just _cool_."

The mech blinked at her, literally, shutters sliding over enormous blue eyes. Something shifted inside his optics, then he crouched down and looked at her and her mother curiously. He said something in Cybertronian.

"Hey Teletraan, does he have English?" Kat asked, wondering why he didn't speak to her in a language she could understand.

"He should." Teletraan added, and followed the statement with a rapid warbling, chirping, blaating questioning in Cybertronian. The mech blaated back.

"My apologies." The newcomer smiled, and ducked his head a bit sheepishly. "We were given the language module, but I didn't read the briefing. I heard you would be on board from Mirage, but assumed you would be clever animals, pets, or research subjects, not sentients, so I did not even look for a language module. It is very fascinating that you have such a high degree of intelligence."

"You didn't read the briefing?" Kat was dumbfounded by that.

Elita walked into the room at that moment, and said, "Oh, Perceptor, good. I was going to introduce you to Kat. You two will probably get along beautifully."

"Ma'am?" He straightened up.

"Kat, this is Perceptor. Kat, this is Kat, and her mother Emily. Percy, progenitors for their species function as mentors do for ours. Kat, he's a scientist, and if you get him going about his work, he'll wear your ears out." Elita flicked Perceptor in his own audio receptor as she walked past. "Kat will probably wear your own sensors out, Percy, with questions."

He grinned and ducked his head. He liked Elita; her teasing was always good-natured, and like Mirage, she never expected him to be anything but a researcher. She'd served under Magnus and Mirage for the entire length of the war.

"I will be happy to talk about science, but most people do not enjoy talking to me," Perceptor warned them, somewhat apologetically. It wasn't that he lacked social skills -- if he needed to interact with others, he could, and be polite and civil -- it was just that he had so little in common with anyone. Once, there had been communities of mechs like him, but they were long gone. The closest he had to peers now were mechs like Wheeljack and Doc, and while they were certainly his equals in applied science, they were not true theoretical researchers.

_I miss Skywarp, _he thought. The quantum physicist's research had dovetailed neatly with his own interests in pandimensional metallurgy.

Emily chuckled. "Kat will probably surprise you, then. I think she's worn out the patience of most of the crew with her questions."

"But it's so _interesting_," Kat protested.

"What is?" Perceptor said, blankly.

"Everything!" Kat threw her arms up in the air. "You guys know so much, there's so much to learn, and it's all so fascinating. I spent all day yesterday talking to Doc about chemistry, but he's busy today, and ..."

Elita's laugh made the rest of them stare at her. "Percy, I swear she's your little squishy twin. Perceptor, I've got two assignments for you. The first is to look at Fang's armor samples and tell us how to replicate them. The second is to keep this youngling here amused, which I suspect you're going to enjoy more than that frown on your face implies." Elita ran her hand over Kat's bald head, fingers gentle. "Kat, if he keeps scowling, you have my full permission to challenge him to a game of Quattra."

"Quattra?" Perceptor said. He'd never heard of an organic playing Quattra.

"She beat me yesterday." Elita sounded quite proud. "Doc's been teaching her."

Perceptor gave the little organic a speculative look. That implied a processor power, or the organic brain power equivalent, far greater than he'd assumed likely. Elita had one of the sharpest minds of any mech he knew. (It was disappointing to him that she wasn't interested in scientific theory.) "... Really?"

"Really." Elita said.

"He plays Quattra?" Kat's grin was enormous. "Oh, you're so my new best friend for life if you'll play a few rounds with me."

"_She _plays Quattra?" he said, in disbelief. "I will play a round simply to see the proof of this."

* * *

A few minutes later, after he'd thawed out enough so that he could use his hands without bits of ice breaking off, and after the humans had been left to go check out the view from the upper levels, Elita handed him a silvery sample of metal. Perceptor scanned it with curiosity, expecting nothing more than a complicated mix that required exacting temperatures and perhaps an interesting catalyst or two to make everything work.

A study of the sample, however, proved him very wrong.

"Oh, Primus." He hitched himself up onto one of the stools at a work bench. "Elita, where did you get this?"

"It's a sample of the Decepticon leader's armor."

Perceptor shuttered his optics. "This is my work."

"The alloy?"

"Yes."

"Well, that makes things easy." Elita grinned. "Fang will be happy to hear you know how his protoform was made."

Gently, he sent the lump of metal down on the work bench, then rested a hand over it. "I know how it was made, Elita, but we cannot duplicate the work."

"Oh?" She sounded genuinely disappointed.

"It would violate the laws of physics in this dimension at a fundamental level. In order to make this alloy, we temporarily displaced the mold through a modified space/time bridge into another dimension. There, the physical laws were slightly different, allowing a high-strength molecular matrix to develop. Once mixed and allowed to cool, it is stable in this dimension. What I don't know is how the dimensional bridge worked, or where it led. That space/time bridge was the work of several scientists who all later became Decepticons. I was the metallurgist and protoform designer on the team."

"Oh." She blinked at him. "Back up, Percy. I know you worked for Megatron during the Quintesson war, but I didn't know you worked on that particular warrior design project."

Primly, he replied, "My intentions and assumptions were that the protoforms I designed be occupied by seasoned warriors in battle against the Quintessons. When Shockwave decided that we would use them for younglings, I was not pleased. The way it was implemented was horrific. I walked away as soon as my contract with the military expired."

"Fang came out of that program, and as you know, that's a sample from his armor. Did you ever meet him when he was little?" She leaned back against the desk, folding her arms and regarding him with a curiously intent expression. "He must have been fun when he was a child."

He pressed his lipplates together as unwanted memories surfaced. "I ... had little to do with the sparklings, Elita. There was only one I worked with, and it's not possible that he could be Fangface. His name was Crucible." He'd had little to do with the sparklings because Shockwave had been so profoundly displeased by his work with Crucible, claiming he'd ruined the sparkling's conditioning by spoiling him, but that wasn't something he wanted to discuss.

"Crucible?" She tilted her head. "Odd name for a warrior."

Perceptor smiled at the memory, though his smile expressed a fondness deeply tainted by sorrow and regret. The name was a scientist's name, of course, because he'd seen that potential in the little one's spark. He gave her the reason he'd given Megatron, instead. "It was because he contained so much energy, and some of it was expressed in a very hot temper."

"A science joke." Elita chuckled.

"Yes."

"Perceptor, was Crucible sparked into a protoform made of that?" She pointed at the metal sample.

"Yes." Perceptor rubbed the metal between his fingers. It felt warm to the touch, as it didn't conduct thermal energy very easily. "He is dead now."

"You're certain of this?"

"Quite." Because to entertain even the slightest hope that he might still live would be foolish. He had been disappointed so very many times that he did not even want to risk the pain of the slightest hope. So many had died. The odds were astronomical that one sparkling -- the sparkling he'd so very much wished was his -- might have survived. "Absolutely certain."

Elita smiled, gently. "Percy, I can tell you must have really loved him."

There was a knowing look in her eyes that he didn't understand. He met that gaze, and saw amusement there too, though he didn't know why.

"Crucible, hm?" She hitched herself up onto a desk. "What was he like?"

"I don't want to talk about it." He pressed his lips together. "The memories of Crucible hurt too much. He was three years old, and he begged me to take him with me." Perceptor balled his fists up. "He was not my sparkling and until he was legally an adult, the military had custody of him."

"I think perhaps he was yours, by love if not by law." Now she was tilting her head the other way. He wished she'd drop the subject. He didn't want to discuss Crucible at all.

"Legally, he was not mine, and that is what mattered. Of course, Shockwave offered to allow me adopt him, Elita, but there was a price. In order to adopt Crucible, I had to sign a ten-orn contract with Megatron's army." Perceptor met her eyes, and _dared _her to tell him he'd chosen wrong. "I'd worked enough with Shockwave and Megatron directly to know that they were evil, in the truest sense of the word. I would not have my research _perverted_. I was interested in military protoform design because I wanted to help warriors to defend Cybertron, not make living weapons to destroy our allies and our own people."

He balled his fists. "I had to chose, Elita. I chose Optimus's cause over Crucible."

"I'm sorry." She shuttered her optics. "That ... explains a lot ... actually. Did Crucible know why you left?"

"Shockwave told Crucible that I left the military it because I didn't want him badly enough to stay." Perceptor's voice hit a low growl. "I was not given a chance to tell Crucible the truth, and at three years of age, I'm not sure he would have understood the nuances of my decision, in any case."

"I understand it, for what it's worth." She smiled. "I suspect that he would understand, as an adult."

"The war broke out before he was emancipated. They should have protected him. He was a _child _in their custody." Perceptor realized he had tightened his fists to the point of risking damage to the delicate sensors in his fingertips. He forced himself to relax. "Instead, according to what I heard from colleagues, they cancelled the program and sent him to the front lines. He was certainly killed very quickly. He was a _child_ and they sent him to slaughter like a drone."

Elita said in a very soft, low, sympathetic tone, "And you're absolutely certain he died?"

"Certain of it," Perceptor ground out. "He was a child, not a soldier. What odds would a child have of surviving even the opening moments of a pitched battle?"

He was rattled and shaken, and Elita was looking at him with a strange, soft smile on her face. He didn't understand why she was smiling and he snapped, "I am going to go find my quarters now. I do not wish to talk about this, ever again."

"Go ahead, Perceptor."

* * *

"He's not completely sane, is he?" Teletraan asked, quietly, after Perceptor had left.

"The sad thing is that he _is_." Elita shook her head, denying Teletraan's assessment. "There is a difference between avoiding reality and losing touch with it. To preserve his sanity, he avoids it. Sometimes I think he's saner than any of us. Sometimes I wonder how it is that I retain my equilibrium when I've lost so much ... Optimus and I lost every single one of our sparklings to this blasted war. I know exactly how much he hurt when he had to chose between the greater good and the love of his child."

Teletraan said, "It will be interesting when he meets Fangface."

"Oh, yes, that it will." Elita wanted to giggle like a youngling. She settled for, "That it will!"


	81. Chapter 81

Chapter 81

* * *

Author's note: This is me beating my head on the wall. I'm realizing I've got mechs in more than one place at one time. I'll go back and retcon and fix it. For reference, Magnus and Hot Rod are leading the Ark, though, so they're not on Earth.

* * *

Bee woke to the realization that Sam was snuggled up against him, one arm around Bee's chest, chin resting on the top of Bee's head. Sam was also not asleep. His heart rate and breathing were elevated just enough to tell Bee that he was conscious, though he had not moved.

"G'morning." He checked his chronometer. It was eight AM local time. He'd had three hours of recharge. In Arizona, his cooling fans kicked on from the environmental heat. It was six AM, the sun had just risen, and it was already hot Primus's forge. Here, the air was well air-conditioned and almost uncomfortably cool, though he expected the humidity would be miserable outside.

"Morning, sunshine."

He choked a laugh back at the endearment, which made Sam stiffen up. "What? I can't call you Sunshine?"

"_No_. Sunshine is what we call Sunstreaker when we're trying to piss him off." Bee sobered, knowing Sam's reaction was because he'd braved an attempt at endearment, and Bee had laughed. He was warmed by the affection, even if his first reaction was amusement.

"Oh." Sam snickered, realizing this was true. "Fine, _sweetheart ..._"

"Oh, Primus, that's worse."

"Darling ..."

Bee groaned.

"Sweetie?"

Bee blew a raspberry.

"Honey?"

"Well, it _is _appropriate, given my designation." Bee shifted so that he was lying on his back, and could see Sam's expression. Sam was grinning from the banter, and then, to Bee's surprise, Sam leaned over him and kissed him.

"Mmm." He wasn't objecting at all to the kiss, either. He closed his eyes as Sam nipped at his lower lip. It felt so good to feel Sam's weight across his chest, Sam's hand on his shoulder, Sam's legs tangling with his. The kiss turned heated between them for a few minutes.

Then Sam pulled back, eyes concerned. "So, what time did you get back, anyway?"

"Five AM."

"Shit. Get some more recharge." Sam sat up, rolled off the bed before Bee could protest, and padded to a large antique wardrobe on one wall to dig his clothes out. Bee wanted to call him back, wanted to feel those firm lips against his own, wanted to revel in all the new and wonderful sensations that came with his new body, but he recognized that Sam had enough. Sam would work through his issues in his own time, and pushing him wasn't appropriate right now.

"I can't sleep anymore. It's hot." Bee made the complaint in a casual voice, even as he forcefully shut off a few autonomic functions and waited for the blood to drain. The tent in the front of Sam's boxers was evidence that Sam had a similar problem. It occurred to Bee that Sam might have felt Bee's own interest, and that was what had spooked him.

_Hmm. Have to work on that. Subtly. He's probably phobic about other mens' dicks. _

"There's air conditioning here," Sam said, puzzled, and his words every bit as nonchalant as Bee's. The room they were in was, in fact, very comfortable.

"In Arizona," Bee clarified.

"Sometimes I feel my brain explode when you say things like that." Sam pulled out a pair of slacks from the closet. "Are these mine or yours?" He held them up for Bee to see.

"I have no idea." They had nearly identical slacks. Sam's mother had gone shopping for both of them.

Sam checked the size and decided they were one size too small for him, then found a pair of dockers and a collared shirt that would fit. "We need to, like, put our names in our clothing, like in kindergarten." He rolled his eyes. "This is _not _a problem I ever thought about when I contemplated the idea of dating a giant alien robot."

"You actually thought?"

"In between moments of sheer terror, yeah, I thought about it."

"You actually had thoughts in your head?"

A rolled pair of socks followed the shirt, neatly beaning Bee between the eyes. Bee smirked at him.

"Aaaaaand, a change of subject. Do you think these are okay to wear today?" Sam held another pair of pants up to his hips.

"For talking to real estate agents? Probably, with a collared shirt, but I would note that you're asking the giant alien robot about human culture."

Sam gave Bee a skeptical look. "And you wrote the module on said alien culture."

"Those are fine."

He added with a nervous stutter, "And B-Bee, I don't know how to talk to a real estate agent!"

Bee propped himself up on one elbow. "So don't. Consider yourself a security blanket for the agent. Let Jazz do the talking. He knows perfectly well what we need. You're just along to provide a human face."

"That makes me feel so useful."

"It's completely useful," Bee said, "Humans are still scared of us. You're an approachable face." Bee rolled over onto his back again. "Anyway, I also want you to call some radio stations and see if you can't get Sideswipe some interviews on talk shows. That means I want you to listen to them and decide which hosts will treat him with respect, both here, and nationwide. Hit major markets by listener numbers. "

"... Sideswipe." They wanted arrogant, obnoxious, often politically incorrect _Sideswipe _on the radio?

Bee smirked. "I can see what you're thinking. I also think he'll fit right in on talk radio."

"I suppose." Bee did have a point. Sam said cautiously, "But he's so blunt sometimes."

"That's the idea." Bee smiled. "Jazz is too nice, and no offense but I don't want to have to defend my personal life in public. Optimus is much better at the grand speeches than quick, candid, responses. Ratchet could do it, but he's a bit busy. Ironhide would be a disaster, as would Grimlock ..."

Sam smiled, which had been Bee's intent. He continued, "Bluestreak will probably make plenty of public appearances, but he's not a public speaker. He's a lot better at one-on-one encounters. Manywinds is on my personal list of mechs who would be good on talk shows, actually, but he doesn't have the kind of snarky attitude I want today. He'd be awesome for an appearance on Oprah, though."

"Or Maury Povich. Former lovers of giant alien robots who are now in polyamorous relationships with humans ..." Sam suggested, with a smirk.

Bee sat up and shook his head firmly, worried by Sam's sarcasm. He didn't want Sam to carry a grudge against Manywinds. "Windy's a good 'bot, Sam. Just because he and I have issues with each other doesn't mean he isn't a good mech. And he'd be _very _good for the role of a non-snarky charismatic speaker."

"This is the same mech who dirty-danced with that talk show host ..." Bee was gratified to see that Sam was able to laugh about the events of the party now, because he was clearly about to burst out laughing. "You remember, the flaming gay guy, from cable TV. There's a venue he might do good on."

Bee's smile turned bright and perky. "There's a venue _we _would do good on too!"

Sam did chuckle. "That is so _never _happening." He threw another pair of socks at Bee. Bee threw the sock ball back at him. "Anyway, you're dragging me to that science fiction convention next weekend. That's my quota of public speeking for the next _lifetime_, Bee."

"Aaaaaanyway, we believe that Sideswipe will be able to handle anything that a talk show host could throw his way with, if not diplomacy, at least disarmingly blunt honesty." Bee grinned. "I've been coaching him a bit. Jazz will work with him, too. He won't say anything stupid. Get him away from Sunny and he actually _does _have a sharp mind."

Bee had been pleasantly surprised by Sideswipe's behavior when he was separated from Sunstreaker. Sunny, by contrast, was _more _difficult to handle, but Sunstreaker was never easy anyway. Sideswipe had a brain, and a keen sense of intuition, and while he was a bit rough around the edges he was no worse than 'Hide or Ratchet. Sideswipe was definitely shaping up to be officer material, and with all the sparklings they expected to come online in the next several decades, they'd need more leaders.

While talking to Sam, Bee had been paying absent attention to the parking lot at the Wal-mart in Phoenix while talking to Sam. He really should get going, he thought, and he finally shifted the Camaro into gear. A police officer had been passing behind him, something he'd noted with only casual interest, since he wasn't doing anything illegal.

The officer lit his lights up and whooped his siren at Bee. Bee stopped.

"Hold on a sec," Bee said, lifting a hand at Sam to stop the socks from coming flying back at him. "I've got a police officer approaching me in Phoenix."

"That's odd. Were you speeding?"

"No, I'm still sitting in a parking lot."

Bee shifted his focus to the officer, who had parked behind the Camaro and had gotten out of his cruiser and was approaching the Camaro. The man had a Sheriff's Deputy uniform, and an aggressive walk.

He walked completely around the Camaro, frowning intently. Bee realized he'd seen the Camaro move when it was stuffed full to the top, including the driver's side, with boxes. He had probably wondered how the driver could see. He studied the diplomatic license plate with sharp interest.

"I'm an Autobot, if you were wondering," Bee said, and the man jumped in surprise.

"One of the aliens." The man's lips pressed tightly together. "Stay there and _do not move_." He drew his gun, to Bee's stunned shock, though he kept it pointed at the ground. He grabbed the mike for his radio, and Bee overheard him call for backup.

"That's really not necessary," Bee said. He wished he could transform, but his subspace was already completely full of supplies. He didn't have enough room for anything else, so the supplies in his cabin would get squished. "What's the issue, officer? I believe it is legal to park here overnight."

"Just ... don't move." The man was sweating.

"I don't plan to move, if it will frighten you."

"I'm _not scared_."

Bee disagreed with the man's words. He was terrified, and he had a gun and Bee was very nervous of frightened people wielding firearms. Bee wondered if he should point out the ricochet problem if the man shot at him, but decided that might make the man even more scared.

"I'm Bumblebee." He tried to pitch his voice low, soothing. "If you'd like to see my driver's license and my registration and insurance information, it is all in my glove box. Would you like me to open my passenger door so you could access it?"

"Just don't move." The man's hands were shaking.

"What reason do you have to detain me?" Bumblebee asked, still civil. "To the best of my knowledge, I have broken no laws."

"Shut up. Don't move."

Bee sighed, and muted his vocalizer. He told Sam, in Arizona, "Guy's a terrified aft. Hopefully, his peers will be a little more reasonable."

"What's he got on you?"

"Absolutely nothing, as far as I can tell." Bee raked a hand through his hair. "As best I can tell, he's the kind of man who thinks that _being _an alien robot should be illegal."

"Damn. Wish I was there to help." Sam sat down on the bed next to him and put a sympathetic arm around Bee's shoulders.

It took about five minutes before a second cop car pulled up next to the first. The next cop to get out was taller, broader through the shoulders, and younger. "An Autobot, hmm?" The man said, walking a little closer to Bee than the first cop. His tone was not friendly, either. Bee missed officer Davis's rationality. "Why are you here?"

"I was here picking up medical supplies for the Nebulans." Bumblebee tried to keep his voice tone reasonable. "I was also up forty-eight hours without recharge. Recharge is our version of sleep, and my reflexes and judgment become impaired when I do not have sufficient recharge. I stopped for a nap for safety reasons. I'm sure you would not think it was safe if I drove to Las Vegas while impaired from lack of sleep."

The man grunted. "Medical supplies for the damned aliens that attacked us?"

"They're sentients." Bee heard the disapproval in his own voice, and it was stronger than he had intended. He was getting irritated.

"Sentient enough to know better than attack us, that's for sure. We don't owe them anything."

"We believe assisting their survivors is the humane thing to do." Bee forced himself not to move away when the cop approached. The man was radiating hostility. Bee could practically read his mind -- he saw one species of alien helping another species of alien, and the second species had attacked Earth. That made him suspicious of Bee by association. He reminded the man, "We lost people in that fight. They're prisoners of war, now. We believe in treating prisoners decently and ethically, and that means treating their injuries. Also, we Autobots are paying for the treatment personally."

"Hmph." The man folded his arms for a second. "Got ID?"

Bee popped his door. "In the glove compartment."

The man retrieved the paperwork and Bee's driver's license, all of which was stashed in a wallet that also contained Bee's cash -- Bee had actually been surprised that the state of Nevada had come up with a Cybertronian-appopriate license so quickly, but they had. It showed pictures of him in both modes _and _his humanoid half, in three photographs lined up across the top of the license. If he changed alt modes, he would need to get a new license within seven days, per the guidelines they'd agreed upon. It was all very rational and sensible.

"Bumblebee, huh? It says you have ..." the man squinted at the ID, "two bodies."

"My consciousness awareness is split between both of them."

"So where's your other half?"

"Currently? I am also in Washington DC." Bee felt a bit smug as he added a bit of name dropping. "I was up until five AM DC time with the president."

"The president?" The officer scowled at him. "Of what?"

"Of the United States." Bee's humanoid half grinned, making Sam give him a questioning look. He forced himself to keep most of his attention on the cop. _There. Just so you know I have friends in high places. _"I'm there to help work on defense strategies against the Nebulans."

"Ah ..." the officer hesitated, then to Bee's surprise, and before Bumblebee could even protest, he grabbed one of the boxes from Bee's cabin.

"Hey!" Bee objected.

The officer said, "You don't mind if I check out what you're carrying, do you?"

"It's _medical _supplies."

The officer pulled a pocket knife out and slit open the top of the box, even as a third and fourth cop car pulled up. All of the cars said Sheriff's Department on them. None of the officers seemed at all friendly. The officer let out a low whistle, as his peers approached. "Lookit all the syringes!"

"Yes, that would constitute _medical supplies_," Bee ground out, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. When the officer reached for another box, he contemplated slamming his door, but decided to cooperate. He'd done nothing wrong.

The next box contained oral medication. The cop whistled again. "There's at least ten thousand tablets of Oxy here."

"Yes. The Nebulans have a higher tolerance to opiates versus human physiology. They also have a much faster metabolism and clear chemicals from their blood stream faster. This means they require much higher doses more frequently. There are roughly five hundred Nebulans needing oral pain relief. That is a one day supply." Bee didn't quite see what the fuss was. Ratchet was working with a legally licensed physician and a human pharmacist, who had, as far as he knew, legally ordered the medication. He wasn't going to mention that he had several more days' worth of medication in his subspace.

"He's got ten grand in cash here, too." The officer was counting the money in Bee's wallet.

Bee huffed a sigh. "I like having some cash on hand. I don't trust the stability of your banking system's infrastructure in the event of an emergency."

"What does an alien car robot buy with ten grand?" The cop asked, sounding suspicious. "Lots of car wax?"

"The sarcasm is really unnecessary, sir." Bee wanted to object far more strenuously. His battle routines were trying to activate in response to what he suspected was professional hostility. "However, I would point out that my other half is humanoid, and has the same needs that you do, and normally, my halves are not separated by much geographic distance. In addition, I typically have multiple humans in my company that are our employees and friends. I am responsible for their welfare, and sometimes that means purchasing items such as meals."

"With ten grand."

"We treat our humans well." As soon as he said 'our humans' he knew he'd made a mistake. It was a familiar usage. He joked with friends (including the humans in question) about 'the Autobots' humans' or his own humans, depending on context. The rest of the base, human and Autobot alike, refered to Mikaela and Sam, and sometimes the Witwickys in general, as _his _humans, too. But talking about 'our humans' to this man, who didn't like him, who didn't trust him, and who probably viewed him as an alien invader, was a mistake. He should have said 'our employees' or 'our friends' but _not _'our humans' -- the nuanced meaning had slipped by him in one stress-filled moment.

The cop's face twisted into a scowl. "I see," was all he said, before opening another box.

Bee decided that he probably should have called Optimus before he'd spoken to the cops at all, but he was used to officers like Davis, who were reasonable and rational, and open-minded enough not to condemn him out of hand simply for who and what he was. He didn't say anything further, now, but simply dialed Optimus's line -- and mentally swore when it rolled over to voice mail. Over a silent internal line he said, "Prime, call me back. It's urgent. I believe I'm going to be arrested."

After Optimus, Ironhide was technically next on the chain of command, followed by Ratchet. He skipped Ironhide, not trusting Ironhide's advice with a problem like this. Ratchet responded tersely, "What?"

"Ratchet, I believe I'm going to be arrested."

"Slaggitall, what did you _do_?" Ratchet snarled at him.

Maybe he should have called Ironhide. The response would have been less hostile.

"I don't have time for this. I'm in the middle of a surgery. Call Jazz."

Jazz's voice mail informed him Jazz was in a meeting. He pinged Sideswipe, and Sideswipe advised him the meeting was a conference call with the president, the British Prime Minister, and Optimus. He wasn't _about _to disrupt that.

He was rapidly running out of officers who outranked him on Earth. After Ironhide's voice mail answered as well, he realized he _was _out of options. If it were an assault, Sunstreaker was manning the comm center, and could have roused half a dozen warriors to come to his rescue, but he certainly didn't need Sunny's help right now. He wasn't being attacked.

The cops were unloading the cargo in his cabin. They'd found multiple additional boxes of syringes and IV sets.

He tried Ratchet again. "Ratch, they're taking the medical supplies. If they arrest me, they'll impound the supplies. I'm suspecting they're going to accuse me of something illegal to do with the supplies."

"Slaggit." Ratchet snarled into the phone. "Can't you get anyone else on the comm?"

"No officers."

"We _need _those supplies."

One of the officers asked him, "Do you have any weapons on you?"

Bumblebee thought that was about the dumbest question ever. "I'm heavily armed. Sir. Part of the legislation accepting us as legal residents of this country involved making our weaponry legal."

The cop took a step back. "Where's the guns?"

"At the moment? Collapsed under my hood."

"Concealed." The cop's words were flat. "You conceal your weapons."

"When not in use, yes ... oh, no." He realized what the cop was getting at. "They can't be fired when they're concealed, sir. You can't accuse me of having concealed weapons. It's no different than a human gun being carried in a gun case. You might not be able to see the gun itself but the assumption is that it is there. I believe the law specifies that by default, we are armed and allows us to collapse our weaponry under our armor. Sir, it's part of my _job _to be armed. I'm a sworn military officer."

The cop looked unhappy.

Bee added, "You do realize I have diplomatic immunity."

_That _finally got their attention. The cop's scowl turned fierce. "I don't believe that."

Ratchet had been silent for a moment, and Bee had been feeding him the audio of the officers' words. He finally told Bee, "Call Keller."

Bee would have smacked himself on the forehead had he been not still been in his Camaro alt mode. He dialed Keller's personal number, and was immensely pleased and gratified to get an immediate answer. "This is Keller. How can I help you, Bumblebee?"

Bee told him, concluding, "... haven't a foggy idea what to do. I'm under orders from Optimus to cooperate with the cops, so I am, but I strongly suspect they're going to arrest me and I haven't _done _anything." It was the complete lack of having done anything wrong that was getting to him. He was totally in the right, as far as he was concerned.

Keller vented an aggravated sigh. "County sheriff's department, you said?"

"Yes sir."

"That particular county's known for ... problems. The sheriff is a bit of a media hound. I'm going to make a prediction and that is that you _are _going to be arrested. He's just going to love the publicity."

"The Nebulans need the medication."

Keller sounded pissed when he responded, "Look, I'll see what I can do. The guy's a real jerk, though. Just -- cooperate with them. Don't do anything at all that they could use against you."

"Don't do anything ...?"

"In other words, don't squish the squishies," Keller chuckled darkly.

Bee was horrified by the suggestion. "I _wouldn't_."

"I know, Bumblebee. You've been much more provoked in the past and haven't hurt anyone." Keller sounded sympathetic, and stopped laughing. Keller had been there when Sam had rescued Bee, and he knew Bee had terrified enough to consider blasting all of them away. Keller had since been around them enough to know what it meant when a mech had his mask down and his weapons capacitors whining in a situation where the mech felt cornered. His trust in Bee was somehow reassuring. Bee wasn't even scared right now, he was just irritated and out of his element. Keller finally said, "Look, Bee, just be as cooperative as you can and we'll get this sorted out later."

The cop, whose badge had the name Johnson on it, had removed most of the boxes from Bee's front seat. Bee wondered if the man realized Bee could kill him simply by slamming the door on him at the exact right moment. Not that he _would_, but maybe when this was all over, he'd give them some pointers for arresting giant alien robots -- not all giant alien robots would be as accommodating as he was.

"I'm going to need you to give me your weapons," the officer said.

Bee's processor nearly glitched at the audacity of the demand. "No. I can't do that."

The cop tensed.

"I _won't _do that," Bee clarified. His pulse cannons would contain a wealth of information about Cybertronian technology that a clever human engineer could learn. Also, they could be outright dangerous. If someone tinkered with them and damaged the containment structures, then tried to fire them, the result could be a several kiloton blast. He explained, "They're classified. Also, I can't just take them off. They're wired into my nervous system."

He had the tools to remove his guns, of course, and to cap the receptors off on his weapons mounts, but they were at the bottom of his largest subspace pocket, and in order to get at them, he'd have to remove a substantial amount of additional medical supplies. He'd just as soon the officer not know about _rest _of what he was carrying.

"Yeah, yeah, we can't take you into custody armed."

"Shit." Keller, who had been listening in to the cop's words, spat the word out. "No, don't give them your guns. I didn't think about that."

The cop said, "You're awfully quiet."

Bumblebee informed him, "It's impolite to talk to two people at once. I'm on the phone with Secretary Keller at the moment, trying to figure out what to _do _about this."

"Secretary ... Keller."

"Secretary of Defense Keller, yes." Bumblebee managed to keep any hint of glee out of his voice. The man's face betrayed his shock, and it felt absurdly good to remind the deputies that he was well connected. "He works closely with us, and he's a friend."

"I need you to end that call."

Bee, irritated now beyond the point of diplomacy, snapped, "_Make _me."

Keller advised, at the same time, "Bee, can you shut your doors and keep them out? Passive resistance?"

"Yeah, I can do that." He slammed his door shut, making all the cops jump.

"Good. Just sit tight. Don't say anything more to them. Don't do anything. Just sit there."

The cops exploded into a frenzy of action. Bee hunched down on his shocks as they attempted to force his doors open. It hurt when they tried to force a slim jim down between his windows and the door frame; his doors concealed not just door-mechanisms for his Camaro form, but also his sonar arrays and antenna.

"They're trying to break in," he reported to Keller.

"Damned cowboys ... Can you keep them out?"

"Depends on what they decide to use." Bee sighed. "Ouch!"

"You okay?" Keller sounded worried.

"Fragger's trying to get my hood open. He hit a sensor, damnit, with a piece of wire. He can't get it open that way, but there's sensitive ... sss! ... parts in there."

"Where, precisely, are you?"

He gave Keller the cross streets, while marveling at the audacity of these police. If he wanted to, he could kill all of them in a nanoclick. His lack of resistance was making them bold.

"Okay." Keller paused, "I believe the closest military base is Luke, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Sit tight, Bee. I'm going to put you on hold and make some phone calls. I've got my laptop open. E-mail me if they try anything dangerous."

"_Thank you_." He said, fervently.

Bee huddled in place, unhappy, as they tried various methods of gaining access to his interior. When things escalated to the cops striking his glass with a wrench, he was seriously tempted to point out that this _hurt _and that it would be considered an assault and excessive use of police force. Were they _trying _to create a diplomatic incident?

Then someone showed up with a cutting torch.

He shot Keller an e-mail with _that _news.

Keller immediately came back on the phone. "Can they hurt you with that?"

"Slag yes, it's a propane torch. Ratchet uses one similar to cut armor off us when we're injured. Duryllium's tough but the melting point is below the heat it'll put off, so yes, he can do me some serious injury."

The man lit the torch with a lighter.

"Those clowns ..." Keller growled, "Do they have any idea what you could _do _to them?"

"I'm almost mad enough to give them a demonstration. I haven't _done _anything, Keller!" He was furious, frightened, and he felt trapped. He couldn't run from the police legally, he couldn't fight back for obvious reasons, he didn't want to let them into his interior with the attitude they were showing him, and they were coming after him with a _blow torch_.

The man with the torch crouched down and applied it to his door. Bee flinched away as best he could without transforming, leaning away on his shocks. His engine raced. He snarled, "Slag, Keller, it hurts!"

"Tell them that! Make sure they know!"

He did. "Slaggit, you fools, that hurts!" He snarled at the cops, "I haven't done anything to you! Stop it, it hurts!"

"So open up!"

"No!" Bee objected, "No! This is torture!"

It hurt. It _really _hurt. The heat was searing through his armor and charring the sensors underneath. When Ratchet used a cutting torch he knew what exactly was sensitive and what wasn't, and he could numb sensation if delicate mechanisms couldn't be avoided This man was blindly cutting at the door latch, and Bee's sonar array was just underneath. The pain was searing. Dimly, he was aware of tears trickling down his face in the room in DC, of Sam clinging to him, and asking him questions. He realized he'd wailed that it hurt from _both _bodies, and Sam had heard.

Keller huffed a sigh. "Open up for them, Bee. There's no point in you suffering like this ..."

He tried. They were going to gain access one way or another. And then, to his frustration, something sparked in his door. An error popped up in his HUD. Not one, but _both _door controls were disabled, as the damage to the door had tripped a primary breaker.

"I can't, I can't, I can't open up! Something's burnt out, I can't!" He sobbed aloud and to Keller both. He tried to at least roll down the windows, but even that compromise wasn't working. And the man kept cutting. Bee keened aloud, "It hurts! It hurts, stop, stop, stop!"

He was wailing aloud, wailing over the phone at Keller, wailing into Sam's shoulder.

Keller ground out, "Bee, are there any security cameras in the area?"

"Y-yeah, there's one covering this ..." it was mounted on a light pole.

"Wireless?"

"Yeah ..." It was hard to think. It hurt so bad. It hurt _so bad_. Keller's calm was absurdly reassuring, though he could hear an edge of fury in the man's words.

"Can you send the feed to me through Google video chat? I'll record it. This is assault, it's torture."

Optimus called him back as he was doing that, and without even asking, he conferenced Optimus with Keller. "Prime's on the line ..." he gasped, as he sent the video feed to Optimus's gmail account as well. "It hurts ..."

Optimus swore a rare string of obscenities. "Why are they trying to cut into your door?"

"I can't open it, it's shorted out, I can't open either, the breaker's blown, Prime, I didn't _do _anything! I can't transform now either, because I can't release the door locks, not without tearing my doors all to slag, I didn't _do _anything ..." he was wailing this aloud, too, and the cops were shouting at him to hang up the phone, and he wasn't about to do _that_.

His humanoid form had tears of agony running down his face. He was shaking. Sam was shouting questions at him now, but he didn't have time to answer Sam.

The cutting torch hit the very sensitive apparatus for his long-range EM detector. Bee _screamed_. A cacophony of voices assailed him: Sam, Prime, Optimus, the cops. He couldn't make sense of what they were saying. It hurt so bad. Involuntarily, he put his transmission into drive. His instincts were screaming at him to run.

Blessedly, the torch flickered out. Apparently, the bottle it was attached to was out of fuel. The cop holding it swore and returned to his car for another container of propane.

Keller said, "It's twelve miles to Luke Airforce Base. That's out of those clowns' jurisdiction. I've got the Secretary of State on the phone with that damned sheriff and he's not cooperating -- said something about the officers telling him Bee was smuggling drugs. He's a bit of an ass, Prime."

Optimus said something impolite in a soft, vicious tone that would have shocked anyone who hadn't known him for a very, very long time. "What they are doing is torture, Keller. It would be akin to cutting someone's fingers off because you wanted to see what was in their fist!"

"More to the point from my perspective, I don't want Bee in that department's custody. They're corrupt, they'll fight us just for the publicity, and they'll take his weapons off him and when they do, God only knows where they'll end up. And we need Bee -- what if the Nebulans attack again?" Keller sounded profoundly unhappy. "Bee, can you get away from them without hurting anyone?"

Optimus said, "I concur. I'm recording the video tape. They're attacking an unresisting mech with a _cutting _torch. I have no idea how far they intend to go, and this could lead to his actual deactivation if they get into his internal structures to try to remove his guns, if he can't transform. Keller, I intend to file a protest with the state department over the treatment of my officer when this is over."

"Oh, be my guest. And I agree. He could legitimately be said to be afraid for his life -- Bee, _run_."

He didn't need to be told twice. He did a half transformation, unable to complete it due to his doors being seized up, but he was able to rise up onto his legs and leap over the circled cars. He launched himself into a tire-smoking escape, peeling out of the parking lot, even as the cops leaped in surprise for their cars.

"I'm free."

"Don't hurt anyone," Keller said, even as Optimus voiced the same sentiments. "I just warned the base commander that you may come through the base gates in a hurry."

Bumblebee paid them absent attention, more of his focus on avoiding traffic. With skill no human driver could match, he wove neatly through traffic, accelerating with force beyond any human vehicle whenever he had a clear bit of road. He scanned ahead, watching for cross traffic, ran a few red lights, and called up a map of the area. One right turn and one left turn at major intersections, and he had a straight run to the base.

The sheriff's department had a helicopter following him. However, he was monitoring air traffic control frequencies, and was absolutely delighted when the base denied the chopper pilot permission to fly into base air space. He'd left the police in the dust. He could hear the cops trying to intercept him, but, in a tactical error, they'd already sent all of their forces in the area to the parking lot. Now they didn't have anyone close enough to intercept him.

Phoenix P.D. tried, but he crossed the border into Glendale in a flash and they declined to follow there, as they were miles away. Glendale had nothing in the area, and he overheard grumbling over their frequencies about the sheriff's department, and then someone came on the line with a surprisingly coherent explanation of what was going on, and that it was a matter of national security, at this point. Glendale P.D. called their pursuit off. He kept up a running report as he fled.

Keller said, with satisfaction, "The Secretary of State just e-mailed a contact in the Glendale P.D. to let them know what happened. They're staying out of it, Bee. You should have a straight shot to the base. Watch the intersections, don't cause a wreck."

"I won't." He was calmer now, as the fiercest pain subsided.

The gates were open as he approached the base, and a line of cars was ushered off to the side. He zoomed through onto safe ground, knowing he was out of the sheriff department's reach. They had no jurisdiction on the base.

"I'm safe! But I had to leave a lot of medication behind," he fretted.

Keller said a rude word. "Don't worry, we'll get it back, or I'll have some released from the national stockpiles. This is _stupid_."

"How are you doing?" Optimus asked.

"My door _hurts_." Bee couldn't quite keep a whine out of his voice. "Damnit, why, Prime?"

"Fear." Optimus sighed. "You know that there's going to be repercussions from this, Bee."

Keller growled, "_Please _file that protest with the state department, Prime. Bee's got diplomatic immunity. That was completely uncalled for. I'll get someone to sub peona that entire Wal-mart security tape. I also recorded the conversation I had with Bumblebee. Bee can provide his recordings of the encounter with the cops, too. Knowing what I know of Bumblebee, I'm completely sure he was in the right. The only thing he did wrong was flee from the cops, and they assaulted him first. He can, at a minimum, argue he was in fear of grievous bodily harm and that the cops were using excessive force."

Bee chirped his agreement of that, not even able to form words. He was so tired, and the pain, once nearly blinding, had settled down to a dull ache. Tiredly, still sitting in the middle of the road, he pulled up a schematic of his sensors in that panel and began routing circuits around them, hooking up redundant systems in their place, and cutting sensory input. He said, softly, over the phone, "Keller, thank you."

"Don't mention it, Bumblebee." Keller huffed a sigh. "Thank _you _for the restraint you showed. I hope you won't take this the wrong way when I say I'm glad it was you they harassed and not one of your more hot-headed peers."

"Me too," Bee said, honestly.

A young soldier was cautiously approaching him. Bee said, "Where would you like me to go?" to the airman.

"They said ... uh ..." at that moment, a cluster of sheriff's department cars pulled up at the gates, which were now closed. A much more highly ranking officer walked over to them to deal with it. The airman stopped talking to watch them for a second. "... uh, there's a hangar, if you want to wait. Do you, uh, need anything?"

Bee considered the question. "Some help with field repairs would be good. Do you have an electrician on duty somewhere? I've got a short and it should be a pretty straightforward electrical problem. I can't reach it myself, though."

"I'm pretty sure we can help you." The man -- he was about Sam's age -- got confirmation from his commanding officer over the radio. The commander sounded almost eager to help. "This way," the young man said, finally, as a jeep pulled up next to him. The jeep was driven by soldier of a similar rank. The airman climbed into the passenger side. "If you will follow me, we'll take care of you."

He was safe. Weirdly, insanely, given his history with the U.S. government, he was _safe_.

Back in DC, Bee leaned against Sam's shoulder, closed his eyes, and let out a shuddering and completely undignified groan. Sam held him close and murmured, "I wish I could have been there with you."

"You are with me." Bee tightened his grip on Sam. "You are."

* * *

"Mommy!" Annabelle held up a scribbled picture of something unidentifiable, with lots of pink and purple. "Look!"

"That's really cool."

"Mommy, look!" The little Autobot child said, holding up her own picture, a far more recognizable sketch of Annabelle.

"That's ... quite good, actually," Sarah said, charmed. "May I put that on our fridge? And I'm _Mrs. Lennox_."

"Mine!" The child flipped the sketchbook closed suddenly, possessively. "No!"

"Okay, you can keep it." Sarah sat down next to the two kids. She was somewhat at a loss of what to say to Prism, and finally, in an attempt to make conversation, she asked, "So, Prism, do you like Optimus?"

The kid tilted her head to one side for a moment, then shook it suddenly. "He left me. I don't like it when people _leave _me."

"Aw, but you'll see him again." She felt bad for the kid, really.

"Everybody leaves me."

Prism sounded so pathetic, and she was so damned ugly she was cute. Sarah reached out and picked her up suddenly, and pulled her into her lap. "It's okay, kiddo. I'm sure that Ratchet will take good care of you when he can."

"He left me. He's not my mentor. Everybody leaves me. Nobody wants me."

Annabelle, who had been coloring with a purple crayon, reached out for the box that Prism had been using. She put the purple crayon in it, and started to take a green one. Prism, belatedly, noticed this, and in a flash she was out of Sarah's lap. "Mine!"

"They're my crayons!" Annabelle protested, quite truthfully. It was her box of crayons, though she'd been completely willing to share. Annabelle had spent a few minutes of curious study of Prism, and then quite calmly accepted her as if she was just another preschooler. "But you can use them."

"Mine!" Prism grabbed for the box.

Annabelle snatched at the box too. She had a good twenty pounds and several inches of height on Prism, and won a brief tug of war. "They're _my _crayons!"

"Girls, be nice, or they'll be _my _crayons." Sarah put some Mommy-authority into her voice. Annabelle was well aware that her mother would carry through on her threat to take the crayons away, and gave her mother an alarmed look. Prism ignored her. Then, what happened next was so fast that Sarah didn't even realize register it, at first. Prism lunged forward at Annabelle. screamed. Prism screeched. The crayons went flying.

Belatedly, realizing something bad had happened between the kids beyond a minor fuss over art supplies, Sarah scooped Annabelle up. Prism calmly started collecting the crayons, unruffled by Annabelle's howls. Annabelle continued screaming, the blood-curdling yowls of a child in pain. She clutched her fingers to her chest and only after Sarah pried her other hand off them did she realize that Annabelle had been bitten. Small teeth marks clearly indented the skin. She wasn't bleeding, though, and Sarah was relieved to see that nothing was broken.

_Kids_, Sarah thought, in irritation. She carried Annabelle to the kitchen sink and ran cold water over the bite for several minutes. Prism, meanwhile, contentedly colored away in the sketchbook. Slowly, Annabelle's sobs died down. It wasn't that bad of an injury, really. She'd done worse pinching her fingers in doors or, once, a dresser drawer. Reluctantly, Sarah decided it was really just kids being kids ... Annabelle had bit one of her preschool playmates just the week before.

"Okay, Annabelle." Sarah set her down at the kitchen table with a jar of Play-doh. "I'm going to have a little chat with Prism."

Prism looked up as Sarah approached. Her expression utterly innocent she said, "Look! I drew you!"

"Prism, you can't bite people." Sarah took the sketch pad and crayons away, and Prism hissed in protest. "If you bite people in my house, you have to sit on the naughty chair."

Annabelle looked up at Prism's noise, and said cheerfully, "Bad Prism! Don't bite!"

"Mine!" Prism protested the removal of the drawing materials.

Sarah set them on a high shelf and then scooped Prism up. "No. Do you remember biting Annabelle?"

"No!"

"I think you do."

"My crayons!"

"No. They were Annabelle's crayons. She was nice enough to share with you."

"Mine!"

This, clearly, would be a losing argument. Someone needed to teach the kid the difference between "mine" and "yours" and "ours" -- but "thou shalt not bite" was first on Sarah's agenda.

"You are not allowed to bite."

"Why?" Prism's brows drew together. "She went away! I bit Annabelle and she went away!"

"Every time you bite anyone in _my _house, you sit on the naughty chair for three minutes." Sarah grabbed a kitchen chair and towed it behind her to the hallway. She could see both Prism and Annabelle if she sat on the living room couch. In the hall, she set the chair down, plunked Prism on it, and said, "Stay. Three minutes."

"No!" In a flash, Prism was off the chair.

Sarah went after her. Prism was fast, though, making it all the way to the table, where she grabbed for the crayons. Sarah snatched her up again, and carried her back to the chair. "Sit."

"No!"

"Sit."

"No!"

"Yes." Sarah caught Prism in midair on her third attempt to leap from the chair. "You will _stay _here."

"Want to draw."

"Time out first."

"Why?" Prism looked pissed. "I want to draw!"

"You bit Annabelle. You must sit in the naughty chair for three minutes. _Then _you can draw."

Prism considered that. Much to Sarah's surprise, the sparkling finally said, "Sit in chair _because _I bit Annabelle?"

"Uh-huh. Biting is bad. And the more you fight me, the longer it will be until you can draw again." Sarah smirked. "Trust me, kiddo. I'm going to win this one."

Prism scowled, crossed her arms, ducked her head, and clearly decided to tough the punishment out, with the reward of drawing at the end.

"Good girl." Sarah patted Prism on the head and walked towards the couch.

"No! Don't leave me!" Prism was off the chair in a flash.

"I said _stay_." Sarah scooped her up, plunked her down, and said, "Three minutes. I'm going to sit on the couch. You sit here."

"No! Not by myself! No!"

"That's the point of the naughty chair, kiddo." Sarah chuckled. "Stay put. It'll be over soon."

Prism tried to get off the chair, and Sarah pushed her back into place. Prism announced, "I don't _like _it here."

"Too bad." Sarah smiled. "Because I like you."

"I want to draw!"

"After you've sat on this chair three minutes, you can."

Prism folded her arms. "Stay with me."

"Nope. I didn't bite anyone. So I don't have to stay on the naughty chair." Sarah patted her on the head.

"I don't like you! Go away!" In one flash, Prism _bit _Sarah, much harder than she'd bit Annabelle. The pressure felt like heat. There was a sharp _pop _in her hand as a bone in her hand broke. Blood poured down her fingers and across Prism's face.

Sarah screamed unashamedly as the pressure and heat changed to dull, then sharp, pain. Prism had not let go of her hand, and in a desperate bid to get her hand free, she flung her hand, and the sparkling, against the wall. Prism hit the wall with plaster-denting force. She yowled and landed with a furious hiss, and launched herself at Sarah's ankles, clearly intending to bite again. Sarah kicked at her and sent her sliding across the floor.

Prism, optics flashing, teeth bared, hissing, put on a furious display several feet away. Annabelle burst into terrified tears in her chair at the table. Sarah grabbed a dish rag and clamped it over the deep gash in the back of her hand. Her hand was broken, swelling already, and she was bleeding freely.

The sparkling said, "Go away! I want a new mentor! I don't like you!"

Her hand _hurt_.

Annabelle screamed louder.

Prism looked in Annabelle's direction, optics narrowing. "I don't like _her_, either. I want her to go away! Bad noise!"

Sarah grabbed broom with her good hand. In one swift move, she swept Prism across the floor and into the open pantry. Before Prism could recover, she slammed the door hard. The pantry door had a hook and eye clip on it, up high, meant to keep Annebelle out. She awkwardly latched it with one hand, and hoped to God that the little monster couldn't chew through a hollow-core door.

"Let me out! It's dark! Out! Out! Out!"

Sarah Lennox stood, stunned, for a moment. Prism kept screaming, first with words, and then with terrified, wordless howls. Sarah could only envision the little sparkling coming out of the pantry with the ferocity of a horror-movie monster. _Gremlins _or something. She wasn't about to open the door. Her blood was dripping on the floor. Annabelle was crying.

Finally, she grabbed the phone up, and dialed Optimus's number one-handed. Prime answered, "This is Optimus Prime. Can I help you, Mrs. Lennox?"

"That ... that sparkling ... she just bit Annabelle! And me! She broke my hand!"

"Prism bit you?" Optimus seemed surprised. "What provoked her?"

"All I was trying to do was give her a time out because she bit Annabelle over some crayons!" It wasn't the most coherent explanation. She was suddenly, fervently, glad that Annabelle had not been bitten with the viciousness that she had. Annabelle could have lost fingers.

"I see." Optimus sighed. "I am very sorry, Mrs. Lennox."

"Yeah, well, she's locked in my pantry. I'm going to the hospital ..."

"The hospital in Tranquility is still overwhelmed with human casualties from the attack. I will have Ratchet look at your hand, if you don't mind. He was just about to power down for a recharge, but given the circumstances ..."

"She's his brat," Sarah said, savagely. She was angry, and in pain, and Annabelle had been endangered.

"She is a very traumatized child, Mrs. Lennox. I am so sorry you were injured. I did not expect her to be violent, and I did not anticipate that she could do so much damage to you." Optimus sounded genuinely apologetic. "If you could meet us outside with Prism ..."

"There is no way in _hell _I am opening that door. What if she comes after Annabelle?" Annabelle was still crying. Prism was screaming and beating on the door. Optimus had to be able to hear both of them over the phone.

"I understand. Your safety does come first." Optimus hesitated. "I will have Wheelie go with Ratchet to assist you in removing her from your house. I do not wish either you or your daughter to be further injured."

* * *

Ratchet and Wheelie arrived fifteen minutes later. She waited outside, her bleeding hand cradled to her chest, and Annabelle clinging to her leg.

The Autobot medic frowned at her fingers when she peeled the towel away. "You have a fractured metacarpal, and severe bruising. You will also need stitches. Prism did this?"

Somewhat calmer now, she gave him the full story, concluding it with, "... I thought I was doing the right thing."

Ratchet huffed a sigh. "You were. You were completely appropriate with the punishment you intended. I would have dealt with her far more severely, honestly. Wheelie, please go get Prism."

Wheelie slipped into her house, even as Ratchet produced a case of medication and supplies. Ratchet explained, "My hands are too big and I cannot work on organics myself without a set of downsizing waldos -- which are at the Nebulan camp. However, Wheelie is proving quite good at simple medical work such as this. I can either take you to a human ER or I can walk Wheelie through treatment."

"You're not a licensed human doctor. I don't want you to get into trouble." She'd heard about their reasons for sending Kat and Doc with the Ark.

He frowned at her. "Normally, I would agree with your reasoning, but the hospitals here are overwhelmed, as are the ones in Las Vegas. There were many human casualties, and we have hired a number of human doctors to work on the Nebulans. There's a doctor shortage. You might find a wait of many hours, even a day, with a non-critical injury such as this. The base medical staff is likewise occupied. We _can _do this, and if you agree not to say anything, we will."

She nodded.

He added, "We trust you and your husband. And -- I am personally sorry that Prism injured you."

Wheelie returned, Prism clinging to his shoulder.

"I ... yeah, just fix it up, I guess." She really didn't want to spend all day in a hospital ER with Annabelle. She didn't have anyone to leave her daughter with, either.

Ratchet transformed, and opened his rear doors. Some silent communication must have passed between them, because Wheelie scrambled in, put Prism in a car seat (of all improbable things) at the front of the ambulance, and then tried to return.

"No! Don't leave me!" Prism wailed.

Ratchet, sternly, said, "You will sit in that chair and you will be silent." His words held _command_. Prism quit protesting, though she still sobbed. Ratchet added, "You've disappointed me."

"You _left _me."

"I fully intended to return to you, child. And I did. You are with me now."

"She shut me up. It was dark. I hate Mrs. Lennox. She's mean!"

Wheelie rolled his optics as he leaned out to offer Sarah a hand up. "I was never that much of a brat."

She climbed, somewhat warily, up into Ratchet's cabin with Wheelie's help. Wheelie then bent down and lifted Annabelle up too. "Here, kiddo." He set her down on the seat, then handed her a small hand-held video game. "Play with that."

"She might break it ..." Sarah worried.

"Don't worry about it." Wheelie gestured at the stretcher. "Sit on that. Ratch, you've got Novocaine in here somewhere, right?"

"It's in the drawer under the window. There's casting supplies there, too."

She was somewhat surprised by how competent Wheelie was as he neatly and efficiently put six very tiny stitches in the back of her hand. "That won't leave much of a scar," he said, "I hope. I've gotten lots of practice with putting in stitches in the last few days."

Gently, but also with some evident skill, he put her hand into a cast. She supposed he'd gotten to do that plenty of times was well. Regretfully, he added, "I wish we had some medical nanytes left, but we've used them all and we won't have more until the Ark gets back. This will need to heal on its own until then. I believe the healing time is around six weeks."

"I'm scanning that hand," Ratchet said, "it looks good. Good job, Wheelie. Mrs. Lennox, I'll take a look at it again tomorrow. Call me on my cell phone if your fingers feel numb, or the swelling increases. Wheelie, give her a few tablets of the opiate painkiller in the bottle in that drawer ..."

"No narcotics," she said, firmly. She'd rather hurt than be loopy. And really, the pain wasn't as bad as she would have expected.

"Very well." Ratchet seemed to accept this. "And again, I am sorry."

Silence stretched between them, for a long moment.

Ratchet added, "You are going to have difficulty in doing household chores and cleaning with one hand."

"No shit." The pain, the stress, was making her blunt. Annabelle looked up in surprise at her mother's usage of a forbidden word.

Fortunately, however, Ratchet didn't seem to take offense. He said, "If you don't mind, I'll hire you help until you are healed. Also, I believe it would be appropriate for Prism to assist you with chores for an hour every day until you are healed ..."

"An hour? That's a long time for a little kid ..." She wasn't sure she wanted Prism back in her house.

"She's not human." Ratchet growled. "She's perfectly capable of doing chores for an hour. I'll send Wheelie to supervise, if Wheelie has no objections."

"She's my sister," Wheelie said, "Yeah. She needs to learn her actions have repercussions. I'd suggest finding her something very boring and obnoxious to do, like scrubbing the floor with a small brush, or folding laundry."

Prism shrieked, making all of them jump, even Ratchet, who rocked on his shocks in surprise. "I hate you! I hate you, Wheelie! I hate you! It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair, it's not ..."

"Be _quiet_." Ratchet growled at her.

She hit the door, screeching still. "Nobody wants me! Nobody! Nobody! It's not fair! Wheelie's Fang's child, but Fang doesn't want me!"

"Kiddo," Wheelie hurried towards her, "Fang hasn't exactly been the best example of a mentor to me, either."

"But you're his! I'm nobody's! I'm nobody's! What's wrong with me? I'm nobody's! Nobody wants me!" She hit at him with her hands, and Wheelie pulled back as her hands clattered on the armor of his chest.

Ratchet huffed a sigh. "I'd hug her or something, but that would be teaching her she can get out of a punishment -- in this case, time out in that seat -- by pitching a fit." He popped his rear door open. "Mrs. Lennox, I will talk to you better. I am so sorry about all of this."

She watched them pull away, cradling her wounded hand to her chest. Somehow, she just couldn't hold it against Prism. _Nobody wants me_, Prism had screamed. Sarah had gotten bits and pieces of the story from other 'bots and from Prism herself. She didn't think it was true, but from the child's perspective, it probably felt that way.

She suspected Ratchet would not have taken on the responsibility of a child right now. As CMO, he had too many other responsibilities. However, though Ratchet had a hot temper and little patience with life's irritations, he had a soft, sentimental core. She'd figured him out years ago. He wouldn't turn away a child in need, particularly when he had probably wanted a child of his own very much.

* * *

Prism cried all the way back to the hangar. Ratchet was silent, and Wheelie wasn't sure if he was silent because he was fuming or appalled. Prism's keens and whimpers were heart-rending to Wheelie, however.

_:Ratchet, can I go to her?:_

:Please.: Ratchet sounded pissed, so his silence was due to a desire not to scream at her, probably. _:I'm not sure I can be polite to her right now. I can't believe...:_

:Can't believe she did that? Clearly, you didn't grow up around 'cons.: Wheelie rose from his seat and made his way to the front of the ambulance, where he crouched next to Prism. "Hey, kiddo."

"Hate you."

"Too bad. I like you." He undid the buckles and pulled her out of the seat and into his arms. "C'mere."

She was stiff, resistant, for a bit. "I hate _everyone_."

"Ah, I've been there, kiddo." He sat down on the bench in the back for a bit, cradling her in his arms. Though she resisted at first, she suddenly melted into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder, closing her optics, and simply crying. "It's scary, isn't it?"

"Everything's scary."

"Shhh." He held her close. "Shh, Prism."

"I want Fangface."

"Fang's a fragger," Wheelie voiced his opinion. "But you've got Ratchet, and he loves you."

Ratchet grunted something that might have been 'I do' as filtered through Ratchet's anger.

"Wheelie, what's wrong with me?" Prism looked up at him. "Nobody wants me. Why doesn't anyone want me?"

He squeezed her tighter. "I think you're awesome."

She sighed, and whimpered, and didn't say anything else for the rest of the drive back to the hangar. Wheelie just held her, knowing she needed to feel secure for a bit, and that being safe in an adult's arms was the best way to make a sparkling this young feel safe. It had not been that long ago that when he had desperately needed to be held like this ... and after he'd been taken from Fang, there had been no one.

_One thing I'll say about Fang is that he did always make me feel safe, _Wheelie thought. Fang's intentions had always been good. He had been fiercely protective of Wheelie, to the point of earning mockery from the other 'cons over the way he "babied" his little assistant. In public, Fangface had never treated him as anything other than a servant, to prevent trouble from other 'cons who might have used Wheelie as a way to hurt Fangface. In private, though, Fang had made it very clear just how much he cared.

_He loved me. Loves me still, I guess. _

But Fang had refused to take him back. It had hurt to be told to stay with the Autobots. It had hurt far more to hear Fangface threaten the same Autobots who'd taken Wheelie in, however grudging their acceptance of Wheelie had been at that point. However, in a moment of crystal clarity, Wheelie realized that Fangface had truly believed that he was better off with the Autobots. And, also, that he'd believed defeating the Autobots was the best course of action in the big picture.

Wheelie looked down at the child in his arms. Prism, exhausted, had fallen silent. She was curled trustingly against his chest. He was quietly furious with Fang for what he'd done to Prism and yet he knew Fang probably believed it best. Fang's judgment had been poor, but he had never been malicious to anyone.

He ran gentle fingers over Prism's head. She murmured something in response, not quite words. She needed to recharge, and to process what had happened, and he hoped that she'd drop off in a minute. He was also optimistic that Sarah Lennox's response would teach Prism that there were limits to how badly she could behave before someone whacked her one in self defense, if nothing else. Being locked in a small, dark space after being whacked had probably driven _that _point home quite effectively, too. He knew his reasoning was Decepticon logic, not Autobot logic, but it was a simple truth, and one she'd needed to learn the hard way.

However, it felt strangely good to have a sparkling snuggled against his chest. Prism was very still now, trustingly limp. When he rested his hand on her back she looked up at him and asked quietly, "Nobody likes me, do they?"

"That's not true," he objected, tightening his grip on her. "_I _like you."

"Oh." She smiled, believing him now that he was holding her close to his chest. "Okay."

That smile ... Wheelie rested his own chin on her head. She wasn't his. She couldn't be his. He was only thirteen years old, too. However, he wondered what it would be like to have a sparkling of his own smile at him like that, a child that _was _his. Impulsively, he asked, _:Ratch, how old will I need to be before I'd be approved for sparkling raising?:_

Ratchet's response sounded genuinely surprised. _:You're just a child yourself.:_

:Optimus says he considers me an adult.: Wheelie had been deeply flattered by Optimus's words, though he'd also known them to be true. He was young, but he was no sparkling.

Ratchet finally answered, _:Give it a few years, kid. It's a huge responsibility.:_

:Yeah, I pretty much get that. I was just wondering if there's a criteria or something.: 

He wondered what it would be like to be the person who taught Prism to trust again. It couldn't be him. Intuitively, he knew she needed more than he could provide. But to watch a sparkling -- his sparkling -- grow up, flourish, thrive, under his care, was something he suddenly desired.

Ratchet finally said, _:You know, the only thing that would make me hesitate is your age. Other than kicking Grimlock and a few issues early on with us, you've behaved fairly responsibly. There's Autobots I've known for millennia that behave far worse than you do.:_

:I'm never going to live kicking Grim down, am I?:

:No.: He could _hear _the smirk in Ratchet's voice. _:Tell you what. I'll dig up some of the old course material I have in my processors somewhere on sparkling development. You can start studying it now, and start babysitting for the rest of us for the experience. I could certainly use the help with Prism.:_

It was a more than fair offer, and he was flattered and somehow deeply reassured to realize that Ratchet would trust him with Prism. Not too long ago, he'd despaired of ever fitting in among them. He smiled. _:Thanks, Ratch.:_

:Uh-huh.: 

He grinned, and he didn't stop grinning until they were all the way back to the base. There, though it was the middle of the day, he transformed down into his motorcycle form and slipped into recharge himself. Both he and Ratchet had been going for days without a rest. His last conscious memory was of Ratchet parking very closed to him, and Prism curling up between them with a small whimper, her feet pressed against Ratchet's wheel and her hand on his foot rest. Clearly, she wanted to wake up if either of them started to leave.

_Poor kid, _he thought, and then he cycled down into oblivion.


	82. Chapter 82

Chapter 82

* * *

Mikaela had never been more tired in her _life_.

The Nebulans still had several hundred badly injured patients and now, forty-eight hours out from the attack, some of them were starting to show signs of radiation poisoning that was dependent on their position in the ship. That meant that there were an additional several hundred who were vomiting all over the place, and prostrate with physical weakness. She was avoiding the tents housing those prisoners, with the justification that she wasn't a doctor, she was a mechanic.

The Nebulan mechs were still in a sorry state, too, though their injuries were combat related. After two days, most of the critical patients had either kacked off or were probably going to recover, though there was one whose spark kept trying to gutter out and they couldn't figure out why. She could see Ratchet's bulk through the doorway of a tent as she walked past. The medic was on the fifth quest in twelve hours into the mech's internals to try to find the problem.

For just a second, she leaned against a pallet of oxygen bottles -- for welding or for medicine, she wasn't sure -- and took a very brief break.

The local hospitals, even ones a few hours away, were all jammed with human patients. The base's medical center was full of human patients. The Nebulans were very pointedly getting second best. A certain furious mob mentality seemed to have settled over the population, and the sentiment of 'kill all the alien invaders' was pervasive. Forget treating their wounds, even high-level politicians and global leaders were advocating their execution to "make an example."

When she'd crawled out of bed after four hours of sleep, she'd learned that there was a massing crowd of several thousand people beyond the base's gates. The military was landing crew transports on the runway, bringing in more soldiers to defend the base, and preparing for a possible riot.

"'Kaela, you okay?" Rivet asked, surprising her. She'd been distantly aware that he was rolling past, but hadn't really been watching him that close.

He was a 'con, of course, but she'd come to like the tiny medic. He was stretched up to his full height of around eighteen inches, and staring up at her, and she was so exhausted she hadn't even known he was approaching. Though he was the same model as Wheelie's earlier form -- and Prism's -- the resemblance to either of them was only superficial. The huge difference was simply in the way he carried himself. He had dignity, and a quiet, calm composure.

"I'm just tired."

"You and me both, girl." He made a gesture in the direction of a tent a few hundred feet away. "Fangface just comm'd me. He needs some extra help with a case."

"Do you need me, too?"

She'd worked with the Autobot teams, primarily, though Rivet had moved with impunity between them. The 'cons largely ignored him unless they needed someone to fit into a tight space or do fiddly delicate work, and the Autobots seemed to consider him insignificant from a safety standpoint, given the fact that they had twenty foot tall seekers wandering around the base.

"If you want to help, it would be appreciated." Rivet regarded her seriously. "I trust Fang, but I know he's a 'con and that might concern you."

She continued to hesitate. Fangface was working a long distance away from Ratchet and the others. "Hold on a sec. Let me talk to Optimus."

She called him, dialing his number from speed dial on her phone. "Yes, Mikaela?" He answered almost immediately.

"Fang needs help. Do you think it would be an issue if I assisted him?" She decided to be blunt. "I'll be alone with him and Rivet."

"r'Oya's with him, too. She's a Nebulan medic." Optimus corrected her assumption. "You're right to ask me, Mikael. Do not trust any of the 'cons alone except for Fangface, but I'm confident of Fang's good intentions. If anything, he'd probably be quite protective of you." Optimus sounded relaxed, which gave her confidence. He added a caution, however, "I would also suggest that you exercise considerable caution around any of the Nebulans. That includes r'Oya. It especially includes their mechs."

"Thanks, Prime."

After she hung up Rivet said, "He's right about Fang, you know."

Cybertronian hearing, she realized, had allowed him to overhear Optimus's words. "Yeah?"

Rivet trotted beside her as they headed for the tent. "Yeah."

"So you like him, huh?"

Rivet, to her surprise, didn't smile, despite her light tone of voice. She hadn't seen Rivet smile much at all. He was a serious little guy, with very little sense of humor. Rivet explained his words with the simple statement, "He cares."

Rivet led her to a tent where there were several unconscious Nebulan mechs in various stages of repair, plus Wildrider, and it was Wildrider that Fangface was working on. Though Wildrider had fought to the end of the battle he had been seriously injured by Predaking. Fang gave Mikaela a surprised look as she approached, and said, "You intend to help, as well?"

"Of course." However, she wondered how she was going to get up on the table, which was above her head. r'Oya was already standing on it. It appeared to have been hastily welded together from angle iron and some plates of steel, and was lower than most medical berths, but then, Fang was short by Cybertronian warrior standards. It was still a good six feet up.

"Tcha!" Fang made an aborted gesture with his hands, as if to pick her up. When she flinched, because he _was _a 'con, he chewed on a claw and then said, "I'll get you something to climb on."

It was that nervous gesture that made her relax. He was clearly as weirded out as she was. He had to know she was one of Bumblebee's humans, Ratchet's apprentice, and generally important. He was probably concerned about what might happen if she got hurt, or even merely offended.

"Just give me a boost," she said. There was absolutely no threat in his demeanor.

He nibbled on his talon for a minute longer, then nodded. "I've never touched a human before. I don't want to hurt you. How do you want me to hold you?"

She mimed cupping her hands together. He did that, and his hands were just big enough that she could sit down in them and hold on to his thumbs. Very carefully, he lifted her up to the table and held his palms very still while she climbed out.

"Thanks," she said, cheerfully. "What do we need to do here?"

Fang scooped Rivet up with a lot less care, and dropped him casually beside her. "We just need about four more hands. I'm trying to reinstall his transformation gears and Wildrider's is a bit more complicated than usual."

"He's just a sports car, right?" She'd helped Ratchet with similar work.

"Yes, but he's got some mods to enhance his speed of transformation, and his structural strength. Things are spring-loaded and more complicated than usual. I need to install this transfer case," he held the part up, "there," he pointed out a corresponding space in Wildrider's chassis, "and the gears it slots into need to be retracted."

"Oh." She saw what he meant. It was a complicated bit of machinery that appeared to be several different nested sets of gears and springs.

r'Oya said, in accented but clear English, "We've been trying for hours."

"She's useful." Fang flashed the alien woman a bright grin. "I think I'm going to keep her."

r'Oya's face grew very still and expressionless at that bit of teasing. Mikaela, who was familiar with Fang by reputation, suspected it was just Fang being friendly. r'Oya had no way of knowing that, however.

Mikaela had seen plenty of Nebulans, of both sexes, but r'Oya was the first female medic. She was slim, even by scrawny Nebulan standards, not much taller than Mikaela herself, and her feathery white hair was braided into neat rows that looked practical. Unlike human boobs and butts, there wasn't much to tell Nebulan females from males, but her bony structure was different. Her hips were wider, and her legs more heavily muscled. That difference was subtle, though the Nebulans seemed to have no difficulty with telling their sexes apart.

She also had gleaming silvery metal wrapped around the back of her head and neck. Almost all of the Nebulans had mods, and what Ratchet somewhat snarkily referred to as 'wetware drives' were the most common. The real Nebulan term for the devices translated as a 'neurodrive'. r'Oya's mind was literally part computer, with a processor hooked directly into her neural tissue. Her neurodrive was big enough that it didn't fit within her body, and had been attached to her skull, where it also served to protect the back of her skull.

That neurodrive meant she could accept, and use, data from the Cybertronian mechs -- including Bee's now famous English language module. She spoke English, albeit with an accent. That accent was physically influenced, caused by a different throat and larynx, and somewhat distinctive. Mikaela could have told a Nebulan from a human speaker with her eyes closed within one or two syllables.

Noticing her scrutiny, r'Oya stared at Mikaela right back. She finally said in a tone that was more questioning than challenging, "Do you have a problem working with me?"

"Let's just get this done." Mikaela didn't answer the question, exactly. She started to climb across Wildrider's open chest, careful to step on internal bits that she knew could bear her weight.

Fangface put a hand down in her path. He said, very firmly, "Mikaela, r'Oya didn't plan the fight, and she's not a warrior. She's a medic. Don't blame her for her leaders' stupidity."

Stunned, Mikaela turned around. Fang's head was a foot lower than hers. He gazed up at her, amber eyes completely sincere. He scratched at one of his namesake fangs, then pointed out, "You know, if the rank and file were responsible for the crimes of the officers, I should be executed for what Megatron did."

He had a point. Mikaela frowned at him, not entirely happy about being essentially lectured on forgiveness and tolerance by a 'con.

Fang stepped away from the table for a bit and returned with two large tires. He stacked the tires and stepped up on top of them. Belatedly, Mikaela realized that even with the table being only six feet high, Fang was still too short to reach easily into Wildrider's chassis. Wildrider's chest was armpit high to Fang. However, if they'd made the table any shorter, it would have been too awkward for the bigger medics. However, he was just a bit too large to climb on top of Wildrider as she and r'Oya and Rivet were doing.

He observed, "Rivet has it worse, of course."

That was the first time she saw Rivet smile. The expression was quick and fleeting, but honestly felt. Rivet said, "He's promised me I can be big again, and with a bigger processor too, when we get a chance."

"Probably pretty soon." Fang answered Rivet's brief smile seriously, "You should pick a protoform out when you get a chance. I'd like to do it when the Ark returns, if Ratch has time to help me."

Rivet hopped up onto Wildrider's armor next to Mikaela. He asked Fang, "A helicopter would be nice. There's a few protoforms with the gyros and sensors needed for that sort of vehicle mode."

"Useful for us, too, if we need to get a medic somewhere in a hurry," Fang observed. He turned his attention back to Wildrider's internals andd pointed at a cluster of gears. "Mikaela, that big gear needs to be retracted. Are you able to pull it up?"

She realized he wasn't sure how strong she was. Mikaela braced a foot against Wildrider's coolant pump, shoved the other against a support brace, slipped her fingers under the chunk of geared metal, and heaved. It weighed at least fifty pounds, but she was able to lift it up and out of the way.

"Rivet, can you crawl up against his back struts and keep that bundle of wires out of the way?" Fang asked next.

Rivet nodded and scrambled down into the depths of Wildrider's internals. He disappeared beneath a nest of coolant hoses and hydraulic lines, but then his hand emerged from a small space to grab a wrist-thick braided mass of neural wires. Rivet pulled it temporarily out of the way.

"Don't forget you'll need to attach the drive motor to his autonomic circuits," Fang said.

"Yes, tell me how to do my job, will you," Rivet said, without much rancor.

Fang replied, "You were so worried I was going to squish you that you forgot on the last one."

"That won't happen again. Sir." Rivet still didn't sound worried about Fang's reaction to his words. Mikaela had personally witnessed Megatron's own mechs flinching away from him. Fangface's people seemed unafraid of him, which was reassuring.

"r'Oya, will you make the connections to the lubricant reservoir?" Fang asked.

"Yes sir."

Fang stepped off the tires, picked the gears back up, then returned and after a bit of struggle they managed to slot it into place. Fang grabbed an impact wrench and with a _zzzzzip _noise he tightened several bolts to hold it in place, then he and Rivet attached the gear assembly to an assortment of wires and hydraulic lines.

"Whew!" Fang wiped grease off his fingers with a cleaning rag, then tilted his head to one side briefly. "I need some help getting him off the table."

On cue, or perhaps summoned by Fang, Thundercracker ducked through the doorway. "Wildrider's done?"

"I'd just like to run him through a transformation sequence before I wake him up," Fangface said, casually. "I've worked with him quite a bit. Shockwave put him on my teams regularly because we get along ... so I know how difficult he can be when he's in pain, and he's going to hurt until those gears seat in."

"You get along with Wildrider?" Thundercracker said, incredulously. "Nobody likes Wildrider."

Fangface shrugged and didn't elaborate on that.

Thundercracker was one of the mechs they'd faced in battle in Egypt. She'd faced him without a qualm since, but that had been with Bee and other Autobots backing her up. Without their support, the memory of those terrible days when Optimus had been dead and the fate of the world hung in the balance of their actions made her heart start to pound. This was a battle-hardened Decepticon warrior who'd certainly killed humans, and he had been part of Megatron's core team, and he was studying her with frank curiosity.

"Got some help, I see," Thundercracker said, and it appeared he was only curious. Still, she couldn't help but be outright scared.

"Yeah, they're useful," Fangface said, lightly, though everyone could certainly hear her racing pulse. Her heartbeat was loud in her own ears. Fang ignored her reaction, however, and said in what almost sounded like a subdued voice, "TC, if you would, help me get Wildrider off the table here."

Thundercracker reached for him, coming closer to Mikaela as he did. Mikaela reflexively flinched backwards away from a hand that was bigger than her entire torso, and her foot slipped off the edge of the table. Suddenly, she was falling. She didn't even have time to scream before Fang's hands closed around her. Clawed hands very gently held her. He lowered her carefully to the ground and said, "Easy, there. You're afraid of TC but not _me_?"

"Well, yeah."

He wiggled his fingers for a second in a nervous gesture, and extended his long metal claws and rubbed them together as he did, then chewed on one. His claws retracted into his fingers (and possibly into tiny subspace pockets) and were nearly a foot long, each, when extended. Some insane part of her brain noted he'd probably be good at trimming hedges, and possibly poodles, with those knife-like claws.

Incredulously, she said, "I just figured you out. You're the highlights of every Johnny Depp character ever. Edward Scissorhands meets Jack Sparrow meets Willy fricking Wonka." She might not have had much to do with Fang personally, but she'd certainly heard plenty of stories and seen the video captures

"_What_?" He took a step back. "Where did that come from?"

"I have no idea, but it's true," she asserted, feeling somehow bold. He wasn't going to hurt her. She _knew _that, with utter certainty.

"Edward Scissorcat meets the _Barber of Fleet Street_." A snickering voice came from behind Thundercracker. Skywarp slipped into the tent. And then, to Mikaela's absolute astonishment, Skywarp sung in a high falsetto, "Seems a downright shame ..."

"... Shame?" Thundercracker said.

"... Seems an awful waste... Such a nice, plump frame. Wot's 'is name has..." Skywarp continued. And then he burst into hysterical giggles, unable to continue the lyrics to what had to be one of the most hilariously warped songs that Mikaela had ever heard. Fang, meanwhile, didn't even crack a smile. Both seekers were watching him rather closely, too. The thought that the two of them were trying to cheer Fang up nearly broke Mikaela's brain.

Thundercracker, in contrast with Fang's serious expression, was grinning. "She's right, you know."

Fangface regarded his clawed hands dubiously. "_What _are you two -- three -- going on about?" Mikaela was snickering now, because it was just too ridiculous, and Fang included Mikaela in a gesture that encompassed both seekers and her. Fang looked so _puzzled_ and annoyed.

r'Oya dropped over the edge of the table, landing with athletic grace on the ground six feet below. "May I ask what has them laughing so hard?"

"I am _so _not going to try to explain the _Demon Barber of Fleet Street_ to an alien who probably thinks humans are evil already," Mikaela was laughing so hard she had to lean against one of the table's sturdy legs.

"I am not Sweeney Todd," Fang objected, and Mikaela suspected he'd done a quick google search, because there was a few seconds delay before he pronounced this. And he _still _didn't seem amused.

"This from the mech who tears his enemies apart limb from limb," Thundercracker wiggled his fingers in the air, signifying Fang's claws. TC then scooped up Wildrider's still form and ducked out through the doorway.

"I'm _not_!" Fang's voice was suddenly sharp.

Skywarp explained to r'Oya, as they followed Thundercracker outside, "It's a comedy about a hair cutter who kills people and makes them into food, and then sings about it. And everyone likes the food. It's freakin' hilarious. My favorite human movie ever."

r'Oya looked appalled.

Mikaela explained quickly, "It's not an example of typical human behavior. We don't do that. It's funny precisely because it's so twisted and wrong."

"Ah," r'Oya relaxed. "Morbid humor."

"Very." Mikaela wondered what it said about Skywarp that _Sweeney Todd_ was 'Warp's favorite human movie.

"Humans don't act that way?" Skywarp said, a puzzled look on his face. "Why not?"

"No, we don't," Mikaela said, and started to explain it was fiction. Then she saw the evil glint in Skywarp's eyes. The jerk was toying with her. Unexpectedly, and with lightning speed, he slammed a hand down towards her.

She was going to _die_. She screamed and ducked, and so did r'Oya next to her. She was going to be squished alive by a 'con seeker. To her shock, however, Skywarp's hand simply brushed her hair. He stopped the strike a fraction of an inch from her skull and cackled in amusement that she definitely did not share. "Fooled ya," he said. Then he straightened up, grinning like he'd done something exceptionally clever.

r'Oya stood up, straightened the scrubs she was wearing, and said, "I think he has a sick sense of humor."

"And he's dumber than shit," Mikaela offered her opinion angrily.

"That, too," Thundercracker agreed, with a laugh, having overheard her annoyed comment. Her heart was still racing and she'd broken out in a cold sweat. They were _'cons _and she was suddenly a lot less comfortable being around them. If 'Warp decided to really squish her, Fangface probably wouldn't be able to stop him in time.

"Hey!" Skywarp protested. "The dumb has nothing to do with the humor!"

Thundercracker rolled his optics. "This is true. Megatron didn't change your personality much. You've always been an aft."

"Hey! That's not what I meant!" Skywarp protested.

Thundercracker gave 'Warp a light shove with one hand. "I love you anyway. You know that."

r'Oya, watching this, suddenly went very still, her eyes wide. She shot Mikaela an uncertain look and seemed about to ask a question, then closed her mouth again.

"Enough," Fang said, suddenly, sharply, interrupting their banter. His voice held command, and when Mikaela spun to face him, she was shocked by the anger he was displaying. His eyes glittered with keen fury. "Skywarp, how many times have I told you not to harass the humans, _ever_?"

"Awww ..." Skywarp protested, a real whine. "I didn't hurt her!"

"He's fine," she said, wondering even as she said it why she was defending the seeker. "I'm okay."

And she was. Skywarp hadn't meant to hurt her. He had just been screwing with her.

"It's _not _okay." Fangface growled. "Skywarp, apologize."

"Do it, Skywarp," Thundercracker said, then added, "please."

Fang spun around and snarled at Thundercracker before Skywarp could respond, "He needs to learn to follow _my _orders, Thundercracker!"

TC held his hands up defensively, "Woah, Fang. Okay. I thought our agreement was that I'd make him mind."

The Decepticon leader snapped, "Do _not _question me. Are you questioning me? Huh?" And he raised a hand up as if to strike at TC.

Skywarp abruptly appeared between Thundercracker and Fang, having teleported twenty feet. A crack of displaced air deafened Mikaela and a cloud of dust rose around him. Warp started to raise his arms defensively, fists balling. Fang reacted with a lightning-fast transformation and lunging strike at 'Warp, having gone from calm to enraged in seconds. Fangface, though far smaller, efficiently took Skywarp down with a crash of metal on metal, and then instantly hooked his hind feet into Skywarp's chest armor.

"Fang, NO!" Thundercracker screamed. "No, please, no!"

Fang heard Thundercracker's pleas and froze as quickly as he'd gone on the attack, then looked straight at Thundercracker. Mikaela, who had been frozen in place a fifty feet from the action, saw him close his eyes. A shudder passed over the predacon's body.

Skywarp abruptly rolled out from underneath Fang, sending Fang skidding across the ground. The seeker scrambled back to his feet. Thundercracker snarled something at him in Cybertronian, then, when Fang didn't pursue his attack and Skywarp kept a wary distance, TC dropped to his knees before Fangface, head bowed, hands braced on the ground. "Please, Fang, don't hurt him. _Please_. I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_."

Mikaela honestly wasn't sure what Thundercracker was apologizing for. Skywarp seemed confused too, because he was standing with his hands still in fists and battle mask down, attention shifting from Thundercracker to Fang and back with quick, nervous jerks of his head. Fang's gaze, in striking contrast, was distant, for a long moment, as if he wasn't seeing either of them. Then, still without focusing his optics on TC, he gently rested a hand on Thundercracker's helm. "I owe you the apology, TC."

Thundercracker looked up in abject disbelief. "Sir?"

Mikaela heard the click and whir of a systems check from Fangface. Then Fang huffed a human sigh, and said, "I am sorry. The banter between you reminded me of trading insults with Deathwheels. It hurts. I'm _sorry_. None of you have done anything wrong. I let my anger boil over at you."

He sounded subdued, and his shoulders slumped. "Get up, TC. Skywarp, I'm sorry."

Slowly, hesitantly, Thundercracker stood up. Fang gave him a shaky smile -- the first smile Mikaela had seen from the 'con today -- and said, "Okay. Let's get Wildrider up and running, and then I think I need some recharge."

"Boss?" Thundercracker seemed genuinely surprised by the apology from Fang. "Are you ... okay?"

Fangface hunched his shoulders a bit, then said, "Rivet, can you handle activating Wildrider? I need ... I need something. I don't know. I'll be back in a bit."

Rivet, much to Mikaela's surprise, reached a hand out and rested it on Fang's foot, even as both seekers traded a look of concern between them. "Lord Fangface, will you come talk to us? Wildrider can wait, and nobody else needs critical repairs now. The Pit knows nobody's eager to see Wildrider awake anyway."

The leader of the 'cons frowned at the warrior lying on the dusty ground. "That's sad. He wasn't quite so nasty before the rest of the Stunticons ..." he cycled through a systems check again. "Yeah, I can talk. Let's go."

Mikaela realized this was an excellent chance to make her escape. "I'd better go back to Ratchet, I guess."

"Thanks for your help, Mikaela," Fang said, politely. "Will you take r'Oya with you? I'm certain Ratchet can use both your help."

"Oh, yeah. C'mon." She turned to go.

"And Mikaela, I'm not a monster." Fang's words sounded impulsive. "I'm sorry you saw this. Don't think I'm a monster. I'm not."

He'd lost his partner and his best friend. Mikaela could see the anguish in his expression, though he'd kept it well hidden until now. She gave him a crooked smile. "Let me know if you need any help later."

"I will. Say hi to Ratchet for me." And then he was gone, some unspoken communication prompting Thundercracker to pick him and Rivet up. Both seekers disappeared with a _boom _of displaced air.

r'Oya jumped and stared with wide eyes. "They have quantum engines that small?"

"Apparently. Let's go, Smurfette. Slave-driver Ratchet awaits."

* * *

Fangface, shaken, waited only until they'd reached the safety of his suite of rooms before he turned to Skywarp and Thundercracker and said with real and profound feeling, "I am _sorry_."

He'd knew he had been wrong in his actions. The banter between them had grated on him, and when Skywarp had screwed with Mikaela, irritation had flashed over into anger. And then when Skywarp had made what felt like an aggressive move, his battle routines -- always quick to fire anyway -- had spurred him into real aggression. He was usually good at aborting his combat reactions before they led him to attack an ally when he was surprised or startled, but he'd been too upset to summon the concentration to calm down.

He would not have killed Skywarp. He wasn't that crazy. Clobbering Skywarp into submission had been foremost in his mind, however, Thundercracker had _assumed _he was attacking with deadly intent. After a hundred millennia serving Megatron, TC certainly had his own glitches when it came to the intentions of his commanding officers. _Was he even seeing me, or Megatron? _Fang wondered.

Skywarp shrugged in response to Fang's words. "Megatron would have beat me to scrap and not apologized. It's cool."

However, Thundercracker was less forgiving. "Fang, I won't be your punching bag every time you're upset. Not if you want my loyalty. And I won't put up with you hitting my partner when he didn't deserve it."

He winced. Thundercracker's expression was completely serious. Fang said again, "I am _sorry._" He padded through his lab -- which he hadn't even gotten a chance to _use _-- and into his living area, beyond. There were large-mech sized benches set up, and he hitched himself up onto one and buried his face in his hands and just sat there. He couldn't even think. He wished he could take it back. He _knew _how much both seekers mattered, and that Thundercracker had been genuine in his vows to support Fang. He knew better than to abuse a good ally, and was horrified at the thought that he'd attacked Skywarp.

_Thundercracker's my friend. The only one I have, really, other than Ratchet. _

Thundercracker stood tall and stern in the doorway, arms folded, for a long, long moment. Fang couldn't even bring himself to look at TC. He'd apologized, but it didn't sound like Thundercracker was going to accept it. He'd probably lost TC's friendship and trust. TC would still serve him loyally, but there was a difference between a mech who was working for him out of a sense of duty and someone who was working for him out of genuine love and trust.

The pain, the grief, seemed like it was going to swallow him whole. Not only had he lost Deathwheels, who he'd thought would be his partner for the rest of his life, who he'd thought was _wonderful _and everything he'd ever wanted, but he'd lost TC too. TC had to hate him. TC had to feel utterly betrayed.

A hand rested on his shin, very lightly. He opened his eyes, looked down, and realized Rivet was standing there. Rivet said, in a clear and quiet voice that nonetheless carried to the two seekers, "Megatron would not have apologized, nor would he have felt guilt. He would have felt it his right to take his frustrations out on his officers, and he often did. Starscream was most often the target of his rages, but I occasionally witnessed him beating these two, as well." Rivet shuttered his optics briefly. "Fang, I know what it's like to lose someone you love. I very nearly reformatted myself when Smelter died. Death... convinced me to stay, Fang. If not for Deathwheels, I wouldn't be here. And I'm glad I stayed. Each day is a little bit easier than the last. It helps to stay busy. It helps to be useful. It helps that _you _give me not only a chance, but hope for my own future. I will be a medic again. I will heal others, as I was always meant to the core of my spark to do."

Thundercracker audibly went through several systems checks, his valves and motors clicking and whining within his chassis. Fang, meanwhile, shuttered his optics and leaned against the bench's back and wondered if he should tell them the rest: That Deathwheels had betrayed him, that he'd broken it off with Death, and that Death had died for him anyway.

No.

It would taint Deathwheel's sacrifice if the truth were commonly known. He didn't know if Skywarp or Rivet could keep that sort of secret without gossiping. Thundercracker would, but he didn't want burden Thundercracker unnecessarily.

Rivet hopped up on the bench beside him, and said quietly, "Fang, he must have loved you a great deal."

"Rivet, I don't want to talk about it with you."

"Very well." Rivet sprang to the back of the bench, landing neatly and balancing on the narrow piece of metal. This put him almost on optic level with Fang, since the bench was built for bigger mechs. "I'm a medic. Maybe I haven't been allowed to practice for the last eon or so, but I'd point out that I have the training, and a good chunk of that was in psych. More than average. You might not want to speak to someone, but you need to."

Unwillingly, he admitted, "I am."

"Yeah? Who?" Rivet challenged.

He sighed. He didn't want to tell them. They wouldn't understand.

Thundercracker finally entered the room, and Skywarp took his place at the door. TC approached Fang, and then dropped down to one knee, just a little bit inside Fang's personal bubble of space. Now he had both the medic and the seeker at his same height, with Rivet watching him worriedly from the side, and Thundercracker looking straight at him. Fang felt just a little bit surrounded.

"Which Autobot?" Thundercracker asked, finally.

Rivet hissed disbelief, perhaps at the idea of an _Autobot _being his confidante.

"Well, it's not one of us," Thundercracker said, sensibly and calmly. "I can't think of a single mech that Fangface would trust that much."

_Other than you, _Fang thought. If TC had approached him by himself Fang might have told him more, though reluctantly.

"I haven't betrayed us," Fangface said. He feared Thundercracker's words were a prelude to accusing him of treason, no matter how reasonable he seemed at this moment. Somewhat frantically he said, "I _wouldn't_."

"You were desperately looking for someone to connect to, two days ago. I'm assuming you found someone." Thundercracker shifted, sitting casually down on the floor. "Is that part of what's got you worked up? It's not just Death's loss, but that you've got to keep a friendship secret from everyone. Am I right?"

"A ... little." He sighed. "Look, you don't want to know, TC. If you know, then you have to keep the secret."

Thundercracker pressed his lipplates together for a moment in annoyance. "Given the magnitude of some of the secrets I've kept in the past, who you're 'facing hardly ranks. It's not a huge deal, Fang, but I thought you trusted me now."

"I do. It's just ... not important. He's just someone I know cares about me." Fangface felt miserable, knowing they had to be suspicious of him now. And didn't TC get that he wasn't going to talk about this in front of Skywarp or Rivet?

"He's not the only one who cares," Thundercracker started to rise.

Fang reached forward and caught his arm. "TC, please. Don't worry about this."

Thundercracker scowled at him. "I always worry."

With absolutely impeccable, perfect timing, Ratchet pinged him. Fang literally jumped in surprise, making TC recoil a bit. Fang held a hand up, stalling Thundercracker's next command, and demanded of Ratchet, _:What?:_

:Need to talk to you.:

:Not a good time.:

Something in his voice must have clued Ratchet in that Fangface was upset. _:I'm coming down right now. Tell your guard to let me in the base.:_

:Ratchet, not a good time.:

:You sound like slag. I'm going to make a scene out here if you don't let me in. We need to talk.:

:Can it wait?:

Ratchet's silence held all sorts of warning.

Fang comm'd the guard, Crowbar, and included Ratchet on that comment. _:Let Ratchet in, Crowbar. He's got business with me.:_

Then he realized he was still holding on to TC's arm. "Sorry, Thundercracker." He released him. "Ratchet's on his way down. It's probably about one of our cases." Actually, he didn't think it was medically related at all. Ratchet might have heard about his abrupt departure from Mikaela. "We'll continue this talk later."

Thundercracker didn't get up. Instead, he said very seriously, "Fang, you _can _trust us. All three of us."

"A minute ago, you were telling me you wouldn't put up with me," Fangface snapped, goaded by Thundercracker's persistence. "If I piss you off someday, will you turn your back on me? Tell all my secrets?"

Thundercracker settled onto the bench beside Fang, occupying two-thirds of it with his fingers. He leaned back, covered his face with both hands, and groaned. "Fang, I'll never betray you simply because you're acting like an aft. You want my _moral _support, however, you want my friendship and my freely offered advice? You want me to go beyond the bounds of duty and into the territory of sacrifice? You will treat _me _as a friend. That means trusting me, and that means keeping your temper to yourself unless I've done something to warrant your anger. It's your choice what you want out of me."

Silence descended upon the room.

Rivet, perched on the back of the bench between the two of them, was bold enough to put a hand on Fang's shoulder. "Fang, we're worried about you. We know you loved Deathwheels."

He was saved from answering that by Ratchet's ping, as Ratchet reached his door. Fang sent the remote command to open the door, and Ratchet entered. "Fang?" Ratchet called.

"In here."

Ratchet hurried through the lab, armor rattling and feet loud on the cement floor. Skywarp stepped aside to let Ratchet enter, and Ratchet took in the four of them with a quick scan of his optics. "I didn't realize you were having a meeting with your staff ... I heard about the fight."

"Not exactly a meeting," Fangface said, quietly. "More like me apologizing, and them worrying."

Thundercracker frowned intently, head tilting to one side, as he regarded Ratchet. Fang covered his face again with his hands and leaned forward, knowing TC had just figured out an important little detail about the dynamic between him and Ratchet. That Ratchet would be concerned enough about Fang to come talk to him after a public fight with his officers was probably a dead giveaway.

"I figured you two seekers would be off sulking somewhere," Ratchet straightened up under Thundercracker's scrutiny.

"Sulking?" TC scowled at the medic. "I don't sulk."

"I do!" Skywarp waved his hand in the air.

Ratchet smirked in reaction to this. "Good. I was worried, when I heard that you three had a spat. It's patched up, then?"

"Somewhat," Fangface said, softly. He could see that Thundercracker was thinking hard. Ratchet realized TC was still staring at him, and turned suspicious optics on the seeker, falling silent.

However, it was Rivet who spoke next. "So. Ratchet, hmm?"

"Ratchet what?" Ratchet said.

"Good choice." Rivet's voice held deep amusement. "If I was going to take an Autobot for a lover, I'd certainly pick one that all the 'cons are terrified of."

"_What_?" Ratchet said, incredulously. His optic ridges drew together.

Fang hit the privacy shield's sensor with a burst command, making all of them stare at him. The room was suddenly cloaked from prying outside sensors. "I didn't 'face him," Fang said, then paused, then snorted. "Okay, I did, but it was medical. Mostly."

"Primus," Thundercracker muttered. "I probably should have said yes."

"Yes ...?" Ratchet gave Thundercracker a suspicious look, then shook his head and clearly decided not to pursue that statement. "It was a medical interface, TC, when I was repairing Fang."

"... Why?" Thundercracker said, challengingly.

"There was a possibility he had a virus. I wanted to verify he didn't." Ratchet folded his arms, daring Thundercracker to challenge that.

"So Optimus's CMO _interfaced _with the Decepticon leader, and the leader of the Decepticons allowed this," Thundercracker leaned back against the bench. "Do you _know _how that would look to anyone outside the three of us? Pit, I'm not sure _I _can believe it." Thundercracker's voice rose in complaint.

Ratchet said in a clear, unruffled voice, "What would be even harder for the rank and file to accept is that Fang and I have feelings for each other that will _remain _unrequited. Neither of us can afford either the scandal or the risk to the security of our respective sides. Plus, my _professional _judgment is that Fang is in no emotional state to start a new relationship right now. That would be with me or anyone else."

Fangface winced at that. Thundercracker didn't say a word. Rivet's hand was very still on the back of Fang's neck. Skywarp was smiling, but when he realized nobody else was, the smile slipped from his face.

The silence stretched on.

Fang finally broke it with, "What did you want to talk about, Ratchet?"

Ratchet huffed a sigh. "Prism. We can do it later, though, but I do need to talk to you about her soon."

"How's she doing?" Fang was actually glad for the break.

"Bad." Ratchet folded his arms and glanced significantly at the door. "Do you want to talk to me about it in private? Or, given what we just disclosed, it might be better if we are not alone together. Your call."

"She's missing me?" Fang hated hearing that, but he supposed that this discussion was probably less sensitive than the bombshell that was Ratchet's admission to his seekers and Rivet. "She'll be fine, Ratch. She's young. She'll bond to you."

"I do _not _have time to give her the care she needs." Ratchet crouched, taking the same position in front of Fang that Thundercracker had occupied until TC had moved to sit next to him. Now he had _three _of them in his space. Ratchet said, very firmly, "She is in trouble, Fangface. Optimus and I agree that if she is not cared for exclusively by one person with the temperament for the job, starting immediately, she will end up a very troubled and potentially violent adult. She's already injured two humans, she's scared of her own shadow, she is convinced that there is something wrong with her and _that _is why you abandoned her, and she desperately clings to an unhealthy degree to anything that she might call hers, both possessions and people. You have hurt her quite badly, Fang, perhaps worse than you possibly know."

Fangface met Ratchet's stern gaze. "You can't take care of her?"

"Fang, you forced her on me. I did not want a sparkling yet, and perhaps not for a few years. I have too many other responsibilities. It's not fair to her, or to me. More over, she is not an easy sparkling. She is going to take quite a bit of time to raise properly." Ratchet's tone was stern. He'd never been shy about telling it like it was; this was one of the reasons why Ratchet was one of Optimus Prime's inner circle of officers, and one of the reasons why Fang liked him.

However, Fang felt like he'd been kicked in the aft after falling on his face. He was already miserable, and Ratchet's words did not help. He didn't know if he wanted to cry or rage, and he settled on snapping waspishly, "I can't keep her safe, Ratch! What would you have me do?"

Before Ratchet could respond, and Ratchet's optics had narrowed like he wanted to answer Fang's protest with considerable snark, Thundercracker interrupted. "Wait, you gave her to Ratchet because you were afraid for her safety?"

"Yeah, she got hurt. Death hurt her. Accidentally." He didn't even want to tell them that. Death was a hero. He didn't want them to think less of him.

"And deliberately, Fang. She disclosed a few things to Optimus that are disturbing. It's ... water over the bridge, now. You can't change the past. But he _did _hit her. She said he flicked her with his finger." Ratchet mimed the gesture with a thumb and forefinger.

"I don't believe that," Rivet said, straightening up on the back of the chair. "Deathwheels wasn't like that."

Fangface remembered Death's gentleness with Rivet, when Smelter had died. Yes, Rivet would find it hard to understand. Fang said, "I, unfortunately, could see that happening."

The three 'cons had matching expressions of disbelief in reaction to Fang's verdict.

_:They have no idea, do they?: _Ratchet asked him with the strongest encryption he could feasibly use.

_:No.: _He wanted to turn all his optics off, shut off his auditory sensors, curl up into a ball, and never talk to anyone again. He didn't want to deal with this. He did close his eyes briefly.

Ratchet rested a hand on Fang's knee. _:Do you want me to tell them what happened between you and Deathwheels?:_

:I ...: He blinked at Ratchet. The older mech's expression was concerned. One of his peripheral optic sensors showed him that Thundercracker's expression of astonishment hadn't changed, but now it was fixed on Ratchet. _:Yes. Please.:_

Ratchet rose, armor rattling and knees creaking as he did. He really was a big, solid, heavy mech, though he moved so lightly you didn't realize it until you were right up next to him. He was nearly as heavily armored as Ironhide, and actually had more mass than Optimus Prime. Most of that was in reinforced joints and hydraulics and redundant systems. He was built to take a beating and keep going, with no expense or resources spared in his design. If their CMO went offline, that would be _bad _for the Autobot army. Plus, he also needed substantial physical power to be able to do surgery on large mechs.

Fang was still entertaining a fantasy of Ratchet picking him up and carrying him to the berth in the next room and 'facing him into oblivion (a fantasy that Ratchet was highly unlikely to cooperate with) when Ratchet started to speak. Fang hunched further, not wanting them to know, but acknowledging the need. Otherwise, they would be suspicious of why Ratchet had felt the need to scan him.

Hunching over his knees brought his head close to Ratchet's hand. When Ratchet rested a hand on Fang's head as he spoke, Fang leaned against his fingers. The touch was comforting, at least a little.

Ratchet continued his explanation to the others, switching from English to Cybertronian for the precision of terms. Surely, they would not want him to lead after they heard this. He'd let Deathwheels manipulate him into 'facing in the first place. He'd been a fool. Ratchet told them everything, and got it right, including Fang's level of love, and his mixed feelings, about the whole matter.

And now they would probably declare him incompetent ...

"... I don't believe he's in any shape to lead right now." Ratchet's hands smoothed over Fang's neck as he spoke to the other three mechs. "I had hoped by keeping him busy, he would be okay. Time is the best healer of emotional wounds. Sometimes, that's the best way to handle something like this: keep busy, put some time behind you, and _then _process the pain."

"No!" He jerked his head up, "No, you can't!"

Ratchet crouched again. "Can't what?"

"You're going to ... to say I can't be leader ... I'm not that weak!" He felt horribly betrayed, and also like a complete and total and utter failure.

"No." Ratchet sighed. "That wasn't what I was going to say. I was going to say that it's my medical opinion that you need to take a week or two off to regroup. It's not actually a bad time to do it, now. I highly doubt the Nebulans will attack again any time soon. Most of the political work that needs to be done is in regards to defense, and the sparklings. Ironhide and Jazz can handle the defense aspects if you just review and sign off on what they come up with for your team, and Aquaregia is doing a fine job with the sparklings."

"I'd agree," TC said. "Fang, just review the plans and let them do the leg work with the humans. If there's anything objectionable that the come up with, let Aquaregia deal with the negotiations to fix it. I wish I could stay on Earth with you, but Strika could very well need my help."

"And I'd rather you keep an eye on Strika," Fangface said, candidly. He still felt like a moron, but the suggestion to take a little time to get himself together was surprisingly appealing. In a far more relaxed tone of voice he continued, "TC, want you to keep an eye on her. She's following me because she agrees with my plans, not out of any personal sense of attachment."

Thundercracker hesitantly put a hand on Fang's bowed shoulder. "Fang, you're a Prime. We _owe _you our support. Primus himself believes in you. More than that, _I _believe in you."

He wondered if he should object to being touched like that. He felt surrounded by the three of them: Rivet and Ratchet and TC. They were taking quite a liberty in touching him. It was the sort of gesture one did with a very good friend or a partner, not one's commanding officer.

TC's thumb slid over Fang's armor, a light and soothing vibration. TC had held him, after the fight, had stayed with him when he was injured. Ratchet had picked up where Thundercracker had left off. And Rivet ... he _liked _Rivet, on a personal level. Rivet's actions made it clear that he worried about Fang in return. _Will you come talk to us? _Rivet had asked.

Skywarp finally moved from the door to com stand behind the bench. His hand descended to Fang's other shoulder and he said, "I forgive you, you know. For Starscream. You are my Prime. You are also my friend, now."

He wondered if Skywarp _really _understood what he was saying ... _yes_, Fang decided, he did. Skywarp might have a pathetically underclocked processor, but his _spark _was unimpeded. His emotions were true.

He was completely surrounded by the four of them. One tiny medic who was at least as wounded emotionally as Fang was. Two seekers who'd seen the worst of the war and come out sane on the other end. And Ratchet, who should have been the enemy. He should have felt trapped, threatened, by their close proximity.

Instead, he felt safe. Protected.

With Deathwheel's loss he had been terrified that he would be alone, that he would need to forge on entirely by himself, surrounded by people he couldn't trust or call a friend. He had many allies. He had plenty of mechs who would fawn over him if he wanted that, and many who followed him out of idealism or belief in his cause, or simply because he wasn't Megatron. There were hundreds of mechs who he'd repaired over the years, or treated well, who thought he was a splendid commander. Aquaregia would die for him solely because he was a Prime. However, few people knew him as he truly was, and still cared about him.

These four had to see how weak, how hurting, he was in this moment. Ratchet had been in his head, and knew the absolute truth. And yet the four of them were not just his followers, but his _friends_. It was a stunning realization.

He looked up, met Ratchet's optics, and let out a low, slow sigh. "Okay. You're right. I'm _not _fit to command right now. But the rank and file, they can't know."

"The Nemesis leaves in three days. I can cover for you until then." Thundercracker stroked his arm. "We'll get Aquaregia to step in when I leave."

"I'd like to continue working ... healing ..." because it felt so good to _fix _people. "It helps. To keep my hands busy."

Ratchet nodded. "And we honestly can't spare you yet. What I would _like _to do is bring parts down here to your lab for you to rebuild or rework. We're needing to convert some of the Nebulan mechs to run on energon as we don't have all the parts for their fuel systems, and that means a ton of machining and modifictions to make all the parts fit. I also need someone to start going through the operating code for the Nebulans line by line to look for behavioral routines."

"I'm not the best programmer," Fang objected.

"It's a good skill to learn." Ratchet cupped his hand against Fang's cheek arch. "It's one I believe every commander should know. Use your Matrix, if you run into any issues."

"I'll help." Rivet patted Fang's back. "I don't have the processor power to get through an entire operating system efficiently, but I can show you what you need."

"And one more thing." Ratchet's grill popped open with a click of releasing latches. He slipped a hand behind the piece of metal and pulled a tiny silver form out. "She sleeps like she's in stasis lock, I swear."

"Prism." He didn't want the responsibility. Terror rose in his processor. He started to pull away, but Ratchet was faster. Ratchet caught Fang's hand, turned it over, and put Prism down in his palm.

Instinctively, he cradled her to his chest even as he protested. "I can't keep her safe, Ratchet. Not by myself. I thought I'd have Deathwheel's help, but he was worse than no help. I can't do this. I can't. I _can't_. I can't. She'll get hurt. She'll get hurt, Ratch!"

"Maybe." Ratchet folded his arms. "But the way I see it, you're the best equipped to care for her. Your quarters are a literal bunker. If she's with me, she's sleeping in a tin shed. Yes, there are 'cons that would hurt her, but I'm working among those 'cons as much as you are, these days, and that might put her in _more _danger than if she were yours. Your side's a lot less likely to attack you than me."

"And you're not alone." Thundercracker said this gruffly. "The three of us, and 'Regia too, will help. Okay?"

"You will?" He said, but then he realized that meant Skywarp too. He started to look over his shoulder before he realized how much tact that gesture lacked.

Rivet snorted, clearly following Fang's thoughts. "Skywarp _better _behave himself around the sparklings, or he'd better take to sleeping _really _lightly."

Thundercracker's lips twitched. "Don't worry. Skywarp's better with children than you'd think. It's because he's got the mind of one."

"Hey!" Skywarp protested. "I do not!"

"I trust him with my sparklings. Seriously, Fang. 'Warp won't hurt a sparkling ..." Thundercracker held his hands up helplessly, palms up. "... he's just got a sense of humor that pisses _me _off sometimes."

"Didn't he glue you to the ceiling once?" Fang asked Rivet.

"Yeah." Rivet snorted. "I'm not a sparkling, if you haven't noticed."

"It made Megatron laugh," Skywarp said, voice sounding almost tired. "It put him in a good mood. That was better for everyone if he was in a good mood."

"Heh." Fangface twisted to look at Skywarp. "Was that why you were picking on Mikaela?"

"He was what?" Ratchet demanded. Apparently, Mikaela hadn't been as quick to tattle as Fang had expected. "Anyone touches Mikaela and they won't have to worry about Fang's wrath, they'll have to deal with me!"

Skywarp said mournfully, "Didn't work, anyway."

"I'd say not," Rivet snorted.

Thundercracker slapped the heel of his hand to his forehead. "Oh, Primus. Skywarp, at risk of sounding condescending, _think_. Fang's the first one to defend the little guys if they're threatened. Do you really think teasing a defenseless human will make him laugh?"

From a peripheral optic Fang saw Skywarp blink and tilt his head as he processed that concept. "Oh. Yeah, I guess so."

Fangface cradled Prism's still form in his hands. Ratchet was right. She could sleep through anything. Wheelie had been the same way when he was small. That was a sparkling behavior; they tended to shut down almost all their external sensors while they recharged, the better to process a new batch of input. He spotted a scuff mark on her shoulder, and brushed his fingers over it.

She was so still. So helpless. He wanted her so much.

"We'll help." Thundercracker was stroking Fang's arm again. "Fang, we'll help you. We'll keep her safe. If you want to raise her, we'll have your back in this. You don't need to send her away."

"O...okay." He looked up at Ratchet.

Ratchet smiled. "She needs you, Fang, and I think you need her. That little sparkling? Every time you feel overwhelmed, every time you think you can't do it, I want you to think of _her _and remind yourself that you're building a better world for her."

He nodded. It was a sappy thing for Ratchet to say, a very Autobot thing, but Ratchet's words made sense.

"Well." Ratchet huffed a sigh. "That's dealt with. I suppose I should get back to work now."

"I'll walk you out," Thundercracker said, rising from the bench. "And I probably need to rescue Thrust from my kids. Fang, will you be okay?"

He nodded. He felt better, now. He wasn't so alone in his fears, and they weren't condemning him for his interest in Ratchet. A small smile touched his lips. "Thanks. Both of you."

* * *

  
As soon as they were out of earshot of Fang's door, Thundercracker stopped. Ratchet paused a stride later, and turned to face him.

TC said, "Hurt Fang, and I'll kill you."

"Likewise." Ratchet snorted. He wasn't afraid of Thundercracker.

TC smiled, surprising Ratchet. "I don't disapprove, though."

"No? I'm not sure _I _approve. Actually, I think it's a slagging bad idea." Ratchet could see all sorts of ways that even a mere friendship between himself and Fang could be misconstrued.

"You said he's in no shape for a relationship." Thundercracker glanced in either direction, up and down the hall, and swept with his scanners briefly. Then he asked in a very low voice, "How bad is he?"

"He's a mess." Ratchet was just as cautious as Thundercracker. However, given what transpired, he felt that TC needed to hear the truth. They would need all to support Fangface heavily, and Thundercracker needed to know it Fang's issues were more than mere grief. "Deathwheels earned his absolute trust, and then betrayed it. Fang is not a mech who trusts easily to begin with. I think the only reason he didn't just give up on the world and on himself in the process is that we -- you and I -- were both so quick to step in and support him. Thank you for that, by the way. I didn't expect that of you."

"You didn't expect it of me?"

Ratchet snorted. "All I've seen of you for the entire war has been your guns. It's been a long time since you were part of the Iacon academia, TC. I'd forgotten what you were like when you weren't fragging our soldiers."

Thundercracker quirked an option ridge upwards. "I didn't expect it of me either, to tell the truth. It's been a very long time since I had a commanding officer I could believe in, and Fang's more than that. He's a Prime. And I like him personally. As long as he keeps his claws to himself and behaves himself, anyway. He scared me badly today. I thought he was going to hurt Skywarp."

"Hnh." Ratchet sighed. "TC, are there any mechs on your side good at psychiatric coding?"

"No." Thundercracker shook his head. "Soundwave was the last one with any training in that field that I am aware of. Do you think he'll need it?"

"It's possible." Ratchet admitted this reluctantly. "What I saw in his mind, TC, was completely sane. He's actually more stable, in some ways, than I had expected, given his history. However, he's having a very hard time processing what happened with Deathwheels."

Thundercracker ran a hand over his craggy faceplate, dismayed. "He has to hold it together. That's all there is to it."

"I'll help him as much as I can."

"As will we." Thundercracker smiled faintly. "And you love him."

Ratchet was suspicious that he was being mocked. However, Thundercracker's expression was completely serious. Ratchet huffed. "Yes."

"Why?"

Ratchet snorted. "Why not?"

The seeker straighened up. "Hurt him and I will kill you, Autobot."

Far from being a threat, Ratchet recognized grudging acceptance when he heard it. Ratchet chuckled, and was about to observe that Fang could probably take care of himself in that regard, when both of them received comms. Ratchet answered his even as Thundercracker tilted his head sideways in response to a communication from someone.  
_  
:Yeah, Aid?:_

_:Wildrider and Sunstreaker are trying to kill each other!: _First Aid was burst into a run, heading for the exit, with Thundercracker hot on his heels.

_:Who woke Wildrider up?:_  
_  
:I did. That was fine. I had Grimlock's help for muscle. Not five minutes after I released him he and Sunny got into it. Don't know what started it.:_  
_  
:Where's Grim now?:_ If anyone could break a fight up, it was him.

_:Holding Thrust down so he doesn't join in.:_

:Slaggit.: 

"I'm going to deactivate that little glitch, I swear," the seeker growled. Apparently, he'd gotten warning of the same fight. Thundercracker's longer legs let him get ahead of Ratchet. He managed to gain a lead of several strides and then abruptly transformed and with a deafening snarl of twin jet engines he rocketed down the hall. At the end, he transformed back and swapped ends only long enough to kick off the wall, then disappeared around the corner. That stunt left scuffs in the wall.

When Ratchet arrived a moment later he was the first Autobot officer on the scene other than Grim, and Grimlock was occupied with pinning down the conehead Thrust. Wildrider and Sunstreaker, meanwhile, were engaged in a very physical round of hand-to-hand combat. A cheering crowd of enlisted mechs from both sides were egging them on. Both mechs were throwing fists and slamming each other into the ground and generally doing only superficial damage.

Ratchet scanned the crowd. For the moment, only Thrust seemed like he wanted to join in, and Grimlock had him well in hand. He was satisfied that the rest of the spectators were simply cheering on the mech from their side. Both fighters, as far as Ratchet was concerned, were equal idiots. He'd had the stunticon in his med bay once, when Wildrider had been captured (and subsequently returned to the 'cons in a prisoner exchange) and Ratchet had been less than impressed by Wildrider's mental stability. It went without saying that Sunny was an idiot.

_:You ready to break this up?:_ Thundercracker asked.

_:Need a bucket of cold water.:_ Ratchet snapped back, accompanying that comment with an image of fighting dogs. _:Let's do it.:_

In perfect concert, they waded into the fight. Both frontliners were about the same size. Ratchet and Thundercracker were a good bit bigger than either fighter, and Ratchet had significantly more mass on his side, courtesy of both his frame and the equipment and parts he carried in his oversized subspace pockets. He'd also sparred with Sunstreaker on many occasions. Ratchet believed in keeping himself in fighting shape, and that meant combat practice with the best warriors they had.

Thundercracker seized Wildrider by the leg and pulled hard at the same time that Ratchet rammed his shoulder into Sunstreaker's faceplate, planted his foot behind Sunstreaker's ankle, and hit Sunstreaker with a magnetic pulse that upset his gyros. Sunstreaker went down hard. Thundercracker spun, flinging Wildrider airborn by one ankle. Wildrider went flying into the crowd, knocking a couple of his teammates over. A constructicon promptly smacked the warrior in the head and snarled about dents.

Ratchet planted a foot in the middle of Sunstreaker's chest. For a moment, Sunny looked like he was going to fight Ratchet. Ratchet growled, "Don't even try it."

Sunstreaker slumped back, though Ratchet could tell that he was furious. He just wasn't masochistic enough to argue with Ratchet. Ratchet turned check on Thundercracker and Wildrider in time to see TC bring his pulse cannon up and aim it at Wildrider. The crowd scattered, and Wildrider froze in place with wide optics as he stared into the barrel of Thundercracker's formidable weapons. Ratchet realized that Thundercracker was armed with one of the new-style pulse cannons that had wreaked so much damage only weeks before when they'd attacked the troop transport ship.

Had Thundercracker been part of that raid? They hadn't seen TC during the fight in Russia. Had he just been confiding in a mech who had killed Autobots as recently as a few weeks ago? It was funny how easy it was to go from cooperation and cameradie to frank suspicion.

Over a hundred thousand years of war, how many mechs had Thundercracker killed who were Ratchet's friends?

_Get a grip,_ Ratchet told himself ruthlessly, _Fang's killed his share too. _

Thundercracker yanked Wildrider to his feet by his spoiler, roughly, pulling the smaller mech clean off his feet. Thundercracker's battle mask was down, and there was no trace of the genial, intelligent seeker. Minutes ago, it had not at all been hard for Ratchet to remember when Thundercracker had been part of Iacon's academia, and someone Ratchet had been casually acquainted with through Perceptor. A very long time ago, he had been a friend of friends.

Now, he was all 'con.

Thundercracker shook Wildrider by the scruff of his neck and growled at him, "What were your ORDERS, you slagging glitch?"

Wildrider thrashed for a second, then went limp. Wide-eyed, terrified, he stared at Thundercracker without a word. TC flung him back to the ground and aimed his cannon at him again. "Orders?"

"No ... no fighting with the Autobots. Sir! But he started it!" Wildrider found his voice.

"I did not!" Sunstreaker protested, "He did!"

"I don't CARE who started it!" Ratchet bellowed at Sunstreaker, resting just a little more of his weight on the mech's chassis. "Your orders, soldier?"

"No fighting," Sunstreaker said, sullenly. "But ..."

"No buts!" Ratchet bellowed at him. He unsubspaced a pair of handcuffs. Sunstreaker, seeing them, widened his optics.

Ratchet bent over, slid three fingers under Sunstreaker's battle mask, and yanked him to his feet with it. Sunstreaker scrambled frantically up with a yelp of discomfort. "First Aid, will you get me some of that heavy chain from the supply tent?"

"Yes sir," 'Aid said, eyes huge in his face. All of the Autobots were silent now, though the 'cons were muttering among themselves. First Aid transformed and zoomed off.

Ratchet glowered at Sunstreaker. He was frankly furious. They didn't need interfactional fighting right now. Both mechs understood the rules perfectly well, and they'd broken them. Ratchet didn't care what started the fight, who was at fault, or why it had happened. Ratchet couldn't see TC's face behind his mask, but he was certain by the roar of anger in Thundercracker's voice that TC was equally angry.

_:Thundercracker, I have a suggestion. Handle this as a joint punishment?:_

He expected to be shot down. Thundercracker was a Decepticon, and no matter how reasonable he was when he was calm, he was infuriated at the moment. He was pleasantly surprised by Thundercracker's response, which was a rather measured, _:What do you have in mind?:  
_  
Ratchet responded with an image of the proposed punishment.

Thundercracker snorted aloud, making Wildrider flinch. _:Fitting.:  
_  
First Aid returned with the chain. Grimlock let Thrust up in the meantime, and the conehead retreated, nursing several dents. Ratchet shoved Sunstreaker in Grim's direction, and Grimlock clamped a firm hand down on Sunstreaker's shoulder and proceeded to very efficiently disarm him. Thundercracker was simultaneously taking Wildrider's guns from him.

Ratchet had First Aid measure off a six foot length of chain, and then used one of his rotary saws to cut through it. Sparks flew wildly. He did the same to short chain between the cuffs, splitting them into two pieces. While Sunstreaker watched with wide eyes, Ratchet welded the longer chain to each cuff, then calmly clapped one cuff over Sunstreaker's arm.

Wildrider figured out what they had in mind first, and spat out a profane phrase in Cybertronian. Thundercracker smirked, hauled him bodily over to Ratchet, and Ratchet slapped the other cuff over Wildrider's arm.

After a quick conference with Thundercracker, Ratchet pronounced the sentence. "Kup and Ironhide need help loading the sparklings into cargo containers to take them to the secure locations. The two of you will load containers. Together. For one week. Twenty hours on, four hours recharge."

The two warriors bristled at each other. "What if he attacks me?" Sunstreaker growled.

Thundercracker pulled himself up to his full height, looked down his battle mask at Wildrider, and said, "If you so much as scratch Sunstreaker's paint, I will find a far more severe punishment. Do _not _tempt me."

Ratchet snorted. "More to the point, you two had better decide to get along now. Otherwise, it's going to be a long week."

"Ratchet, where will we recharge?" Sunstreaker objected. "We can't sleep in the SOA, there's too much going on there around the clock. I ain't going in the 'con base, and I sure as hell don't want this aft in OUR base ..." He pointed at Wildrider.

"Oh, the feeling's mutual, slaglicker." Wildrider tugged experimentally at the chain. He could break it, if he really needed to, but the

Sunstreaker growled. Wildrider smirked. Sunstreaker muttered, "Glitch for a spark ..." and Ratchet quirked an optic ridge upward in warning.

"Your assignment starts now." Thundercracker pointed his finger in the direction of the SOA.

"But where will we recharge?" Wildrider whined.

Thundercracker and Ratchet exchanged looks. Both shrugged. Thundercracker said, "You're smart little glitches, you figure it out."

This earned Thundercracker a snarl from Sunstreaker. "I don't have to take fragging insults from you ..."

"Sunstreaker," Ratchet said, voice full of pure warning. "Enough. Get to work."

"Yes sir," Sunstreaker muttered. As both of them stalked away, Ratchet overheard Sunstreaker threaten, "Wildrider, if you so much as look at me wrong, I will tear your spark out through your backstruts."

"Define looking wrong. You know, other than being wrong looking, which is what you are ..."

"Hey, did you just insult my _appearance_?" Sunstreaker protested.

_:Either they'll kill each other or they'll end up good friends,:_ Thundercracker predicted.  
_  
_Ratchet shuddered. :_Did you have to say that? Now I'll have nightmares.: _


	83. Chapter 83

Chapter 83

* * *

"... I've had a lot of guests show up in sweet rides, but this is the first time the guest really _is _the car." The radio talk show host went by the name of Big Mike, and he had a booming deep voice to match his handle. "Let me describe to you what Sideswipe looks like. He's a little tiny silver Corvette that turns into a reaaaaaaaallly big robot. How big is he? He's so big he had to crawl on his hands and knees into the studio here, and ... you okay, there? You feeling a little claustrophobic, buddy?"

Sideswipe's voice, amused, said, "I've spent most of my life on military starcraft. I've shared quarters with my twin brother that were smaller than this, and if you know my twin, you'd understand when I say that claustrophobia was the least of my problems."

"You have a twin?" The talk show host said, sounding surprised.

Fang, listening to the interview as he worked on rebuilding someone's hip, shook his head. The man was either clueless or playing to his audience. Human fascination with Cybertronian family structures was rampant. That transformers claimed to have siblings, and that Sideswipe was a twin, was fairly well known.

"I do. Of course, I'm the better looking twin."

Fang tilted his head to the side, listening for a howl of outrage. None came. Either Sunstreaker was out of earshot, or he had his radio off.

"You say you've spent most of your life on military craft. Were you designed for war?"

Sideswipe's snort held a wealth of amusement. "No. I'm a civilian model, heavily modified and reinforced for combat. Makes it all the more satisfying when I take down some fat-aft warrior who was built for fighting from the cores out."

"You mean Decepticons?"

"Less of those in the future, if the 'cons uphold their end of the bargain." Sideswipe's grin could be heard over the radio as he added, "Though I'd love to show Lord Fangface how a real warrior fights ..."

Fangface choked, and promptly composed an e-mail to Sideswipe, _"Oh, you're so on."_

Sideswipe's laughter had to be mystifying to his audience until he explained, "And, apparently, Fang is listening in to this radio broadcast, because he just e-mailed me to tell me the fight's on."

The host said, with concern, "Do you think he's a threat?"

"Who, Fang? Nah, I can wipe the ground with him." Sideswipe's boasting made Fangface smile slightly, though he couldn't summon the energy up to shoot another retort via e-mail at the mech. Sideswipe was cocky and arrogant, hot-headed and brilliantly intelligent. He was also nobody's fool and he was playing to the audience with surprisingly good skill.

"So while you're talking here to me, you're also able to read your e-mail?" The host asked.

"Yes. Actually, I can monitor several different sources of input simultaneously, though it's considered rude to speak aloud or over the comms to more than one person at the same time." Sideswipe chuckled. "Sort've like talking on the phone and talking to a friend in front of you at the same time would be considered rude."

"So," Big Mike asked, "what guarantees do you have that the Decepticons will not betray you?"

"Guarantees? As we say, nothing in life is guaranteed but death, oxidation, and taxation." Sideswipe's sarcastic retort was probably toned down a good bit from how he would usually respond to that question. "But I've _worked _with Fang. He may be obnoxious fragger most of the time, and he's way overconfident if he thinks he can beat me, and the only time he's not hyperactive is when he's in recharge or depressed, but he's fiercely protective of those who are smaller and weaker than him. He apparently took one of his own lieutenants _down _this afternoon, because they idiot picked on one of our humans. So no, I don't believe that _Fangface _will betray us as long as there are the children to think about."

"And if there were no children?" The host asked.

"I will _die _to defend those children," Sideswipe said, "as they're our people's future, and the world would just have to mourn my passing. Since Earth's our home now, that means I'll die to defend _Earth_."

"Would you die to defend a human?" The host challenged.

"Depends on the human," was Sideswipe's response. "I've met some humans who are a waste of oxygen. The human soldiers are my comrades in arms. I'd like to think we felt that way about each other."

Fangface listened absently as the radio host questioned Sideswipe about his feelings towards humanity. Fang had sat down at one of the work stations in his lab, and was in the process of retrofitting a Cybertronian processor core's fittings to work with a Nebulan system. It wasn't a straightforward adaptation. Nebulans used less overall voltage in their system, and had less data transfer capability between their cores.

He'd put the processor core into a clean box, carefully sterilized inside, with an atmosphere of argon. Retrofitting the core was finicky work using waldos and a tiny remote-control drone with pincer claws. The incredibly delicate circuitry of the core could not be safely exposed to the atmosphere, andmuch of the work he was doing was on a microscopic level.

He'd just isolated and clipped off an unnecessary sensory feed when Prism stirred. Fang turned to her, hurrying over to the table where he'd left her to recharge.

He was expecting a joyful cry and a happy greeting when she woke. She sat up, however, and gave him a suspicious look. "Where's Ratchet?"

"You're staying with me now," he assured her, reaching a hand out. She let him pick her up, but she didn't exactly snuggle into his hand. "I'm your mentor. You'll stay with me."

"For how long?"

"Forever."

"You gave me to Ratchet. He didn't keep me either." Her words were challenging.

"That was a mistake. I'm sorry." He held her to his chest, feeling the hum of her circuits and her uncertain movements. She smelled odd, of wax and something else -- flour? Where had she been that she'd gotten into flour?

She finally pushed at his chest in a clear attempt to get some distance. "I want to draw. Got crayons?"

"Um." Well, that explained the smell of petroleum based wax that lingered around her. He didn't have crayons, though he was willing to indulge her desire to draw. A quick check of the lab's drawers didn't turn anything up she could draw with. "Sorry, I don't." Even as he apologized, he shot an e-mail at Optimus reminding Optimus that they really needed to talk about finances. He needed money to buy things, including crayons for his kid! It wasn't fair that the Autobots alone benefited from the sale of Cybertronian technology ... and he still needed a human assistant and that meant he had to be able to pay a wage in human dollars, not to mention all the supplies they'd need to continue building the base.

"I want _crayons_."

"And if you use that tone of voice, you won't get any until tomorrow," he shot back, exactly the respond he'd used on Wheelie when Wheelie had hit a similar level of whine. He'd learned that trick from Compass, who had demanded manners from Fang when Fang had been a sparkling himself.

"Everybody _else _gives me crayons. Or markers. Optimus gave me markers. I want Optimus, if you don't have crayons! Optimus has markers!"

He winced. She clearly had an expectation there, and really, it was a reasonable one. She wasn't asking for anything excessive, just crayons. He felt absurdly guilty for not having any. "Let's see if we can't find something else fun to do." He walked over to the lab sink, which was the size of a human jacuzzi. "You need a bath anyway ..."

He filled sink a third of the way up with warm water, mindful of the fact that they were still trucking water in to the base. They hadn't yet drilled a well. He added a detergent, then plunked her into it. It was up to her shoulders. "There, have fun."

Wheelie had loved water, and would play in it for hours. Giving him a sink full of water to play in had resulted in both an entertained and clean sparkling. Prism splashed a couple of times, then started to scramble back out, clearly uninterested. He snagged her up and said, "Uh-uh. Let's at least get you clean."

She hissed at him in protest when he tried to remove her armor. "No!"

"It does come off, kiddo," he said, finding the latches to both her armor and her wheels. He scrubbed her struts underneath, despite her ticklish protests, because she really was filthy ... had nobody thought to _bathe_ her? Sheesh. He handed her armor back to her and the rag as well.

With surprisingly meticulous care, she washed all the grime off her own armor while he watched. "Dirty," she observed. "Yucky."

"Smelly," he agreed.

"Ewwww!" She'd found something stuck to one of her wheels. She held it up for him to see, and he determined it was gum.

"Gross." He laughed, for the first time in a long time. He found a can of WD-40 and showed her how the oily substance made the chewing gum dissolve into goo that could be scrubbed off.

"Yuck, yuck, yuck." She held the wheel up to him to inspect. "All gone?"

"Is it?" He turned the question back on her.

"All gone!" She said, in satisfaction. "Back on now?"

"You can put them back on yourself." He showed her how to work the catches to both her armor and her wheels. "See? On. Off. On. Off."

"On! Off!" She demonstrated this new knowledge, then splashed the water at him.

"Hey!" He ducked. She'd gotten him in the optics. He squirted them with cleaning fluid and then wiped them dry with a towel. "Twit!"

She tried to splash him again, and he snagged her out of the water. From experience with Wheelie, he knew that the most fun way to get her dry would be to get her running really fast. He stepped out into the hall, and set her down. "Hey, kiddo, bet you can't beat me to the end of the hall."

"You'll win," she said, dubiously. "Your legs are longer."

"I'll give you a two hundred foot head start." The hall was close to four hundred feet long.

"Okay," she said, happy with that compromise. They arranged themselves in the hall, and she transformed into her tiny scout-vehicle mode. Wheelie had transcanned an RC truck, but Prism's body was still entirely Cybertronian design. She was designed for surveillance, and had a flat body with large wheels that could travel at a high rate of speed over rough ground.

He let her win three times, and then, just to teach her that she wasn't _always _going to win, he beat her the fourth time. She took the loss with surprising good grace, then transformed and held her arms up in a clear request to be picked up. Once he had her cradled to his shoulder she said, "I like playing with you. You're fun."

He _melted, _beaming at her with pleasure. "I think you're fun too, kiddo."

Echoing footsteps warned him of the approach of a large mech, plus someone substantially smaller. He tilted his head, listening, and realized it was Ratchet and Wheelie. "Your brother's coming," he told her.

"Wheelie! Ratchet!" She sprang out of his grasp and pelted down the hall.

Ratchet was carrying someone's legs tucked under his arm, but he scooped her up with his free hand and lifted her up to his chest, where she promptly disappeared under his armor. He shook his head in bemusement and said, "I brought you help," and gave Wheelie an affectionate shove with his hand.

"Oh, thanks," Fang was surprised by just how friendly Ratchet was to Wheelie these days. Apparently, Wheelie was really starting to fit in with at least a few mechs.

He waited for Prism to reappear. She didn't. Ratchet chuckled softly and said, "I think she's fallen asleep. It's amazing how quickly they do that when they're this age. C'mon, I'll show you what I need done on these legs ..."

Fang managed to keep an expression of disappointment of his face by sheer force of will. If Prism was going to take a nap, he wished she'd done so in his arms ...

* * *

Sunstreaker's armor was _crawling_. The slagging 'con was right next to him. The week of hard labor that Ratchet had assigned still had six days left, and they seemed like they would last forever.

"Quit it," Wildrider said, irritably.

"Quit _what_?"

"Twitching. Flinching. Whatever the slag it is you're doing." Wildrider glared at him.

Sunstreaker glared right back. "Quit being a 'con, and I will."

"As if."

It really was going to be a very long week. He'd have killed Wildrider already, but then Wildrider would _win_. Because it was clear to Sunny that Wildrider was trying very hard to provoke him. He wasn't going to give the Pit-born 'con the satisfaction of hitting him first when they were both under orders to behave.

* * *

Sam was sprawled, asleep, across a desk, head resting on one arm. His laptop was displaying a screensaver beside him, and a cup of coffee had long grown cold beside the computer.

Bee slung his jacket over the back of a chair and then walked over to the desk. Lightly, he touched Sam on the shoulder. "Sam, you should go to bed."

"Was waiting for you," Sam said, blearily. He lifted his head up from his arm, then wiggled his fingers. His hand had apparently gone to sleep. "What time is it?"

"Nine PM."

"It's only seven in Nevada." Sam rubbed his eyes. "You done politicking for the night?"

"Yeah." Bee rested a hand comfortably on Sam's back.

"Good day?"

"Other than being assaulted by the police this morning?" Bee asked.

"Point."

"Optimus is already raising a stink about that. We're not going to let it go." Bee rubbed Sam's shoulders. "I'm fine, though. The worst part was, honestly, my concerns about political repercussions."

Sam twisted to face him. "I was worried that you might have flashbacks to, you know, Hoover Dam ..."

Bee shook his head, denying that. There had been some similarities, but they were not significant. He explained, "The essential difference was that I knew I could get away at any time this morning, and I was genuinely held prisoner two years ago. They pissed me off and it _hurt _like everloving slag, but I wasn't captive. It was my choice to stay."

For a long moment, Sam didn't respond. When he did speak, his words surprised Bee, "You know, this is going to come up again. The cops were totally in the wrong, but I'm betting they were scared to death and didn't have a clue how to deal with you, and they were improvising on the fly, and they were just clueless, and got it wrong."

"Probably," he agreed. "They were badly frightened."

"You guys ought to establish some protocols when cops _do _need to arrest mechs -- the rank and file mechs do not have diplomatic immunity. It'll happen sooner or later, particularly with the 'cons ..."

"Or Sunstreaker. Or Tracks, when he gets here. Ironhide has his moments of temper, too. He's covered under our immunity, but that's no guarantee they won't take him into custody if he throws a fit at someone." Bee chuckled, seeing what Sam was getting at. "And we're already expecting do deal with traffic tickets when Blurr shows up."

"Protocols. What the 'bots are supposed to do, what the cops are supposed to do. The cops are going to want to disarm you guys, but you can't allow that because you can't let mech weapons tech end up in the wrong hands." Sam twisted around to face him. "So what are the cops supposed to do to deal with that? And then when they do arrest somebody, where do they take them? If it's a little mech, a human holding cell would work, but I've _seen _some of the 'con constructicons at a closer range than I'd like ..."

Bee laughed.

"... and they're sure not going to fit anywhere. Hell, try arresting Teletraan ... they'd have to find a football stadium to put him in."

"Good points," Bee glanced out the window. A silver sports car had just slipped past the guard post and was approaching the house. He continued to Sam, "Though I cannot imagine a scenario where Teletraan would get arrested! If we're going to function in a civilian world, we need to give the authorities the tools and knowledge to deal with us."

Sam stretched and rose from the chair, rolling his neck to get a kink out. He spotted the car out front as he did, and said, "Is that Jazz or Sideswipe? I can't tell in the dark."

"Jazz. Want to get out a bit?" Bee suggested. "We can get a late dinner and go dancing or something."

"You're so on," Sam straightened up, eyes lighting. "I haven't been dancing in forever. Sounds like fun."

* * *

"Frag you."

"Frag you back."

Ironhide overheard the insults, delivered with only mild heat, as Sunstreaker and Wildrider approached. They were pulling a flatbed trailer with a seeker protoform laying on it, and, apparently, each was convinced the other was slacking off. After they'd unloaded the seeker sparkling into a cargo container and then lifted (with Grimlock's help) the cargo container onto a tractor trailer rig, they stomped back in the direction of the SOA building.

Ironhide turned to Strika, who quirked an optic ridge upwards at him. 'Hide grunted, "Those two _deserve _each other."

"Swindle's maintaining a betting pool on the outcome of this," Strika said, blandly.

"Five bucks says they 'face each other unconscious by the end of the week." Ironhide was mostly joking. Sunstreaker was faithful to Sideswipe. It was, however, both an amusing and frightening image.

"You also realize that Swindle has a pool about _us _becoming lovers."

Ironhide shuddered. "Primus forbid."

"My thoughts exactly."

* * *

Skywarp sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the roof, gaze focused on the three seeker sparklings. Silverbolt had returned from DC, and was supervising the trio as they chased each other in circles around him. The play was rough and aggressive, and smaller mechs were giving them plenty of cautious distance.

Thundercracker landed lightly behind 'Warp. Skywarp glanced back at him and favored him a beaming smile and said, "They're having so much fun."

"The sparklings?" Thundercracker said.

"Yes." Skywarp patted the concrete next to him, inviting TC to join him. "I like watching them."

Thundercracker lowered himself to the ground. He observed, "Silverbolt's altered his sparkling's features."

"The kid was upset because he was scaring humans." Skywarp's scowl said all that Thundercracker needed to know about 'Warp's opinion of that. Thundercracker knew that Skywarp tolerated the humans, finding them vaguely amusing, and would not hurt any of them because he was under orders to play nice. However, he had no particular emotional attachment to the native variety of squishies.

Seekers were, by any human definition, hideous in appearance. In an obvious attempt to compensate for this the Autobot seeker now sported a pair of overlarge and bright blue optics and a humanoid face, along with what appeared to be a mod to his software to give him truly human facial expressions. His armor was also sleeker, more organic looking. Thundercracker thought that wasn't a bad idea, given that their sparklings would grow up on this world, and comm'd Silverbolt, _:Hey, Autobot, you got a copy of the schematics for your brat's face?:_

Silverbolt glanced up at them, and then straightened up, the smile slipping from his face. Silverbolt was coldly formal with them, and nothing Thundercracker had tried was helping that. He'd attempted to be painfully polite, he'd attempted teasing, and the occasional pointed insult. Silverbolt had never been anything but professional, but it was clear he did not want to be friendly.

He was, however, downright affectionate with the sparklings. His cool towards 'cons did not extend to their children. As one of the few fliers, and the only flier big enough to handle the seeker sparklings, they'd agreed to help each other out. Additionally, Silverbolt's sparkling was a _seeker _and would need to be taught to fly like a seeker by another mech with a similar form. Silverbolt was polite to them for that reason, but Thundercracker had no illusions that Silverbolt had even begun to forgive them for everyone and everything he'd lost.

After a moment, Silverbolt sent the plans his way. Most of the design was a simple armor change, something the nanytes could handle, and would not require major mods. The illusion of greater size and blue color over Silver's sparkling's optics had been accomplished with a simple filter and a surrounding ring of LEDs of the same color that Thundercracker estimated would take him five minutes to install once he had the parts. It was clever and effective; humans saw creatures with big eyes as "childish" and cute.

Silverbolt added, _:I've got to make a run back to DC tomorrow. I'm leaving my sparkling with Grimlock, but if he needs help, will you be available?:_

_:I'm going to LA to pick up some supplies we need before the Nemesis departs,: _Thundercracker said. _:Skywarp will be here.:_

There was silence from Silverbolt, for a long moment. _:Thank you,: _Silverbolt responded, _:I'll keep that in mind.:_

_:Silver, Skywarp can handle the sparklings,: _Thundercracker said, with absolute confidence. He knew his partner's limits quite well. Babysitting was well within them.

_:Thank you,: _Silverbolt repeated. Somehow, Thundercracker knew that Grimlock would not be calling Skywarp if he needed help.

Silverbolt collected his sparkling and left, saying something about needing to get some recharge. Thundercracker's pair started a rambunctious chasing game, and TC watched them as they played tag in the dark.

Skywarp put a hand on TC's arm. "It's okay, TC."

"Yeah."

"They don't like me," Skywarp said. "None of the Autobots."

"Given the numbers of Autobots we've fragged, do you blame them?"

Skywarp smirked. "We did fight good, didn't we?"

"Yeah, we did, 'Warp."

"TC?"

"Yeah?" he asked.

"I like to fight. I like this more."

"What's this?"

"Not fighting with the Autobots." Skywarp watched the sparklings as one tackled the other and they tumbled wildly across the ground. He relaxed, limbs going just a little more slack, and covered Thundercracker's fingers with his own hand.

"You're not the only one." Thundercracker shuttered his optics and listened to the squeals of his children playing. _Children_. He had children, and hopes and dreams for a future that wasn't war and death, but rather rebuilding and peace.

Skywarp asked, "Can I use your processor for a bit?"

"Yeah, sure." Skywarp wanted to interface, probably because he was trying to puzzle something out and it was taking too long with the limits of his operational code. Thundercracker produced a data cable and discretely connected them.

As always, Skywarp's mind seemed a perfect compliment to his. 'Warp slid smoothly into the interface with the skill of long, long practice. He was darkly funny, delightfully snarky, and better at emotional processing than anyone gave him credit for. His emotions had never been touched by the restrictive coding, and TC basked for a moment in the love that came across the link from the one mech in the universe that he truly trusted. They had known each other since they were younglings, and had stood by each other's side for nearly an entire lifetime.

Skywarp found the partition in his own processor that TC had set aside for 'Warp's use, and he felt Warp send a query to it, seeking an answer to a problem he hadn't been able to resolve on his own. Thundercracker's own processor crunched through the data, and to TC's surprise, 'Warp's queries accessed files pertaining to Fangface and recent memories.

Finally, 'Warp said, _:He asked you to 'face with him and you said no.:_

_:Yeah.:  
_  
_:You should have said yes.:_

_:No, 'Warp.: _Thundercracker rubbed a hand over 'Warp's craggy shoulder armor. _:No.:_

_:Were you worried about what I would think?:_

_:A little.: _It was an easy admission.

_:You shouldn't be. I'm not worried you replacing me. I'm habit forming.:_

Thundercracker laughed aloud. Skywarp's confidence in their relationship was rock solid. _:That you are.:_

_:If he asks again, do it.: _Skywarp's comments were pointed. _:He needs all the support we can give him.:_

_:I don't love him. I don't think 'facing would change that.:_

_:But you like him, and respect him, and can show him that, right?: _Skywarp's words held a rather expressive amount of amusement. _:Besides, there's times when you've 'faced with me when you didn't even like me, though you loved me.:_

_:Like every time you got us in a bad stink with someone__?: _Thundercracker shot back. There had certainly been periods of time where he had been resentful and angry towards Skywarp, whose sense of humor got them both in trouble with someone -- either officially or unofficially -- on a fairly regular basis. However, no matter how much he'd been pissed at 'Warp, his love for the other seeker had never been shaken. There was a difference between frustrated irritation and a loss of affection.

_:Exactly.:_

_:I'm going to miss you,: _Thundercracker said.

_:It's just for a month.:_

_:Which is too long altogether ...: _Thundercracker protested, and then jumped half out of his armor when klaxons erupted with warning shrieks. One of the sirens was just below their dangling legs, mounted high on the wall. Both he and Skywarp scrambled to their feet with the datalink cable dangling between them.

He rapidly closed the connection and subspaced the cable. "'Warp, get the sparklings down into Fang's bunker, then join me. I'm going to the Nemesis."

He comm'd Optimus even as he was teleporting, _:Optimus ...: _he leaped to the Nemesis's observation deck, _:... what's the alert about?:_

_:Incoming mechs on radar.:_

_:Don't those slaggers ever _learn_?: _He shot back, as he ran down the ramp to the Nemesis's interior hold, and then across to the bridge. Strika was already there, as was Obsidian.

_:They were cloaked until they hit the atmosphere, but there's only five signatures.: _Optimus explained both to him and Strika. _:One of which is extremely large.:_

_:Another warship?: _Strika asked.  
_  
:It's possible. Can you have one of your seekers check it out?:_

_:Yeah, sure.: _Strika turned to Thundercracker and lifted an optic ridge. "What are you waiting for?"

"Yes ma'am!" He'd been waiting to hear that Skywarp had the sparklings safe, but this sounded urgent. He pinged Inferno, who was currently manning the Autobot's radar installation, for the coordinates.

_:TC, this might not be an enemy. They just started sending me telemetry,: _Inferno reported. _:Man, they're coming in hot, though.:_

_:Optimus,: _TC asked, _:Still want me to check this out?:_

_:Yes, but careful. If they've been running silent they may not know about the peace accord. -- Inferno, do we have an ID?:_

_:No, sir. They're coming in fast and hard, and if it's our guys, I suspect it's because they've detected enemy ships in orbit ...: _Inferno replied.  
_  
:Patch me through to the shortwave transmitter. TC, go ahead, but be prepared to leap out if they shoot at you. Those are some big signatures on the radar. I don't want you getting hurt.:  
__  
_Thundercracker ran back up the ramp, leaped airborne and transformed, and teleported the two thousand miles to the coordinates, adding mach eight of speed as he popped out. Thin, high atmosphere tore at his wings, immediately heating up to plasma. He forced a visual through the heat as his path paralleled the unidentified incoming craft. The plasma was causing radio interference, and he would only be able to communicate with them with his sensors and transmitters turned up to the max, at very close range.

_:Don't shoot!: _he said, frantically, as he identified the five mechs as definite Autobots. He knew at least one of them was capable of blasting at him even at this speed, because Omega Surpreme had done so before and he had the scars on his _spark chamber _to prove it. That mech carried one hell of a big plasma gun, and what in the Pit was he doing on Earth anyway? _:Don't shoot, don't shoot!:_

_:Thundercracker!: _Omega Surpreme growled at him, hostile and unfriendly. _:Tell me why I shouldn't.:_

_:Because I'm on your side right now! We're under at truce!:_

_:There's three 'con warships in geosynchronous orbit, all cloaked, all armed to the teeth, and we're supposed to believe this ... why?: _Skylinx snapped.  
_  
:What?: _That was news to him. _:Hold on a sec, I know who everyone here is except the really big guy.: _He'd identified them as Omega Supreme, Stratosphere, Broadside, and Skylinx, plus a very large mech who absolutely dwarfed the other four. He was easily twice Ark's size, and Thundercracker wracked his brain trying to figure who he was, and what he transformed into.

_:Fortress Maximus,: _the voice was calm.

_:Primus. I'm surprised you're able to survive reentry:_

_:I have quantum engines.:_

_:... right.: _Thundercracker coughed. Of course the giant freaking _city _also had flight capability. _:I'll go tell Optimus who's incoming. Don't shoot when I get back and I'll escort you guys in.:_

He teleported to Optimus's location, landed lightly, and said, "It's Autobots."

"That is certainly a relief." Optimus's face brightened.

"Looks like your housing problem's solved."

"Do you have their designations?"

"I certainly do." He told Optimus, whose reaction wasn't nearly as happy as he'd expected.

"They're supposed to all be on Cybertron." Optimus's scowl was intense. "Holding down that end of our supply chain. It can't be good news if they've been forced off the planet."


	84. Chapter 84

Chapter 84

* * *

Author's notes: I probably have pneumonia again, I am just waiting on the official word from the doc. Because of this, there may or may not be an update next week. Depends on how I feel. This is not anything unusual with me, unfortunately.

On the one hand, I have the perfect excuse to neglect housework, ignore real writing projects, call in sick to the day job, sit on the couch with a laptop, and write to my heart's content without feeling guilty about the time spent doing it. One of the reasons I write so much is that it is truly an escape. I'm in a fair amount of pain most of the time. Losing myself in a story is a great way to forget how much I hurt.

On the other hand, my brain is so fried that it took me 24 hours of game play to beat level 2 of Super Mario Bros Wii, and I killed Mario so many times that even my cats had to be laughing at me. Also, I have a blister on my thumb. (I'd play a bit of Mario, die spectacularly after thirty seconds, pick up the laptop, write a few paragraphs, throw a ball across from the living room for the cat who fetches, prop my feet up on the dog, and then go back to Mario ...)

Here's to hoping this chapter makes sense.

(And I'm off to kill commit suicide with Mario against penguins now.)

* * *

"... wow." Mikaela breathed out slowly, watching as the _frigging enormous _Autobots cruised overhead. The five of them were all flight capable. Big, monstrously big, giant _flying _alien robots.

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up." Bee scooped her casually up and transferred her to his shoulder. She never took her eyes off the sight as he settled her into place.

Though the five of them were moving very slowly by the time they reached the ground, the earth still trembled as they landed. The seekers circled overhead, then transformed and touched down in the distance, at the base. The 'cons had made themselves remarkably scarce when the five newcomers had arrived. The Autobots, by contrast, rushed forward to greet them.

Mikaela surveyed the scene, unsure where to look -- what was most improbable?

One of the fliers had _legs _and a head emerging from a shuttle-like body. "That's Skylynx," Bee identified him. A second mech was half the size of the Ark. He had to turn into a very big damn robot. "Broadside." One robot had landed in _robot _form, and split into three robots as Mikaela watched. "Omega Supreme. He's like Arcee and me, only on a rather big scale. His alts are a tank, a shuttle capable of insystem flight, and a fortified base big enough for several mechs my size to take shelter in." The fourth robot appeared to be a very, very, _very _large plane, bigger even than Silverbolt, and apparently capable of atmospheric entry. "Stratosphere."

And the fifth ...

He came in last, so large he blocked out the sun, so large that the heat rising off his hull was creating thunderclouds overhead. He was bigger than the Ark by several times over, and Mikaela was utterly stunned when he hovered, slowly transformed in mid air from a featureless shiplike form to a mech, and then touched down. The air vibrated from the power of his generators. The ground shook with each of three steps he took as he approached their location. His head and shoulders were lost in the clouds, and she couldn't fathom why anyone would _need _a robot that big. The earth compressed and cracked beneath his feet.

"Fortress Maximus." Bee sounded proud. "Biggest mech every built who's capable of bipedal travel."

"... why?"

"He's a base of operations on legs, designed to be able to get up and move if tactical operations require it. Or, as you saw, actually fly. He uses an astounding amount of energon when he needs to move -- it's not an efficient design -- but that ability to get away has saved our afts a few times." Bee waved up at the giant mech. "It's pretty hard to lay siege to a base that can _step _on you."

Mikaela laughed. "Okay, I see the reasoning there."

"He's not really designed for interstellar travel. He says he didn't think he was going to make it, a few times, and they had to stop for repairs to his engines on three occasions. -- Oh, he's asking Optimus where Prime wants him to set up. Prime's conferring with the base commander. The base footprint is nearly a half mile in diameter, so we may need to excavate some land ... ah, they're going to have him put down next to the 'con base because it's flat enough. The 'cons are protesting that, _wow_. You should hear the language Strika's using."

"Strika's swearing?"

"The 'cons are scared spitless." Bee chuckled. "I just ran the math myself. Between Skylynx, Stratosphere, and Broadside, we have the capability to get all the energon we need for the sparklings without their help. Strato's _built _for hauling cargo."

"Yeah?" She wondered why this group hadn't been summoned to Earth before. If the sparklings were so important, why had the Autobots claimed not to have the ships to support them?

"Plus Max has onboard refining capabilites, and Omega Supreme can fight like nobody's business, _and _they've got about a thousand Autobots on board split between the five of them." Bee suddenly sobered. "Omega's the commander. He just transmitted a list of personnel and it's everyone from Cybertron. They packed up and brought the whole base of operations here ..."

Bee's expression darkened, and he went very still.

"Bee? What is it?"

"The 'cons won on Cybertron." His armor clamped flat to his body in a reaction of stress and anxiety. "Straxus, that's the 'con commander, apparently had some of the new pulse cannons, and about five thousand reinforcements. That's half the 'con army. There was a surprise attack a several months ago. They evacuated with the survivors, deciding that retreating to Earth was better than losing everyone in a final battle ... _damnit_. They don't know anything about the events of the last several weeks. And we didn't know because subspace communication takes more time to get here than our hyperlight travel."

"Bee?" He sounded so upset.

His fingers stroked her leg as he reached up to her for comfort. "We lost Cybertron. We have nothing left there, now."

"But you're ending the war with the 'cons."

"Cybertron was _home_, Mikaela." He covered her knees with his palm and rubbed the outside of one thigh with his thumb. "Replace 'America' with 'Cybertron'. It's that sort of emotional attachment."

"I'm sorry." She leaned against his head, fingers tracing the edge of his battle mask.

He said, in a brighter tone, "There's going to be one _hell _of a party tonight."

* * *

Optimus pulled Ratchet aside into the secure confines of the med bay, and activated the privacy field. Without preamble, Optimus said, "Ratchet, if there was ever a time for love to triumph over fear, now is it."

"... sir?"

"I need you to convince Fang that we will hold our end of the bargain."

"Sir?" Ratchet repeated, feeling odd. He knew what Optimus was asking. Optimus was an idealist, yes, but he was also a romantic. He fully understood the power of personal relationships to sway the course of historic events. Ratchet felt almost as if his feelings for Fang were being used, cheapened, by the request ... but by the same token, he saw exactly where Optimus was coming from.

"The balance of power just changed." Optimus's eyes were troubled. "We now hold the upper hand on Earth, and Fang must realize that we could easily take complete control of the sparklings. I have no intention of doing so, but that has to have crossed Fang's mind immediately. He has the overall upper hand and far greater forces and would win in the end, at great cost to Earth and the children. We _cannot _resume hostilities. Too much is at stake."

"I wasn't aware you knew how I felt about Fang."

"I've known you most of my life, Ratchet. You're fooling the troops, but not me." Optimus's eyes were kind.

"He's not in a good state of mind for a relationship. He's not _healthy_. And it will be far more politically dangerous for him than for me." Ratchet knew his objections were valid.

"Do not underestimate Fangface's personal well of strength, nor overestimate the stupidity of the Decepticons," Optimus replied. "Both will surprise you. You have my permission to do whatever you feel is necessary, Ratchet. We _cannot _lose Fang's support."

* * *

Fangface stood on the edge of the Decepticon base's roof. He had been so proud of the reinforced structures that his constructicons had built. They had trumped anything that the Autobots had. Now, he felt insignificant and small and pathetic.

Fortress Maximus, so big that he was creating his own _weather_ system, standing with his head several hundred feet above the ground, and still smoldering hot from atmospheric entry, slowly descended to his knees, then sat on his haunches. He seemed to fold and twist in on himself, and then expand outwards, in a slow-motion transformation would take close to fifteen minutes.

Gears bigger than houses turned. Pistons the size of human skyscrapers rose and fell as his armor slid and folded and churned. Whole city blocks opened out from his legs, unfolding like a human's child's pop-up book. His arms became two massive towers, expanding outwards for greater interior volume and extending upwards into the clouds. The shadow from one fell across the Decepticon base, and Fang found he was _irritated _by that little bit of symbolism.

Worse, each tower was armed with a laser cannon, and that intimidated him; those cannons could punch through several feet of solid concrete in an nanoclick and could incinerate any mech in their way. His bunker was no longer safe.

The top of his head folded back over his torso, becoming a missile installation. His feet rotated so that the soles touched and became an vast arched entryway to a what Fang knew -- because he had been in Fort Max once -- was a truly enormous, echoing main hall formed of the space between his legs, and a warren of offices, living quarters, storage, labs, machine shops, conference rooms, and more, woven throughout his limbs and torso.

Everything that was once a robot now merged and twisted and blended together until he was a twin-spired city and no longer resembled a bipedal creature at all. Fang, watching, wondered if he was ever bored, or if he ever got cabin fever, since he was often left in one place for tens of thousands of years. He'd asked the mech that, on his sole visit, but had received no response. Fortress Maximus was not the chatty sort.

He was incredibly reinforced and nearly impenetrable.

Nearly.

Somehow, Straxus had won. Fang knew that Shockwave had given the order to make one last push against the 'bots on Cybertron, and Fang had not sent a transmission countermanding it until very recently. However, his order for a cease fire had been far too late for Cybertron. Straxus had won, and the Autobots had already evacuated, long before the transmission had even been sent. Fang knew he would lose face in Straxus's eyes with the order given for a cease fire, when Straxus had already won. Straxus would see it as a loss of faith in him, a betrayal of his sacrifices.

Fang found he was scared, though not just because of Straxus's likely response.

The peace had hinged on the Autobots _needing _him. They'd needed the Nemesis, they'd needed his help with defense, and they'd been willing to deal. Now they had everything they needed themselves, here, on Earth ... and a lifetime of grudges against his people.

Footsteps, behind him, made him turn around.

Ratchet walked across the roof to him.

"I heard Strika on the radio earlier. She made her point rather strongly." Ratchet sounded only amused.

"They're too slagging close." Fort Max was less than an eighth of a mile away -- he could hit his walls with a thrown rock. Fang watched as a row of radar dishes unfolded like flowers, and a drilling rig emerged from the base's substructure. It was too far away to tell if the rig was a mech or a drone, but he was willing to wager that they would have a well, and running water, installed within a few hours. "They need to be farther away! Ratchet, it's ridiculous! I'll have Autobots practically on top of me!"

"You're scared."

"By the pit, _yes_! Yes, I'm slagging scared!" He'd admit it to Ratchet, but none other, simply because he knew he wasn't likely to fool Ratchet for long.

"Optimus won't go back on his agreement." Ratchet spoke soothingly. "He wanted me to come talk to you and to assure you that our deal holds."

Fangface hunched his shoulders. "It's not just that. Straxus has a position of power now. He's _conquered _Cybertron. I don't know if he'll follow my orders to stand down, or even follow me at all, and he certainly won't let the Autobots return."

Ratchet stopped next to him, and the Autobot's blue eyes seemed to pierce through him. "Does he have the capability to come here?"

"... No. Not in any great force." Fang had reasonably good control over the Decepticon armada of starships. There were one or two ship captains who might not side with him, but the Nemesis alone could deal with them.

"We'll worry about that later." Ratchet put a hand on Fang's arm. Fang fought the urge to lean into that touch for the comfort he craved. "Come with me, for a second."

Puzzled, he followed Ratchet down the ramp and out of sight of any other eyes. Much to his surprise, as soon as nobody could see them, Ratchet dropped to one knee so they would be close to the same height, and rested both hands on Fang's shoulders.

"Ratch ... what?" He sputtered, surprised, and confused. Then, for fear Ratchet might think he was _objecting _he took a step forward, and reached his hand up to rest it over one of Ratchet's. The touch was welcome, if unexpected.

"Shh." Ratchet squeezed for a second, and then let go, hand sliding out from under Fang's grasp. He didn't pull away, however, and Fang could hear the hum of the larger mech's systems, and smell the odors of energon and coolant that lingered about Ratchet after days in the med bay without a break. "Shhh. Don't worry so much."

"Don't worry?"

"Don't worry about _us_. We still need you. More to the point, we still _want _you on our side." Ratchet smiled at him. "You've upheld every deal we've agreed upon, willingly, and gone above and beyond.

Something of his inner turmoil must have shown on his face, because Ratchet looked both ways up and down the corridor, and then the medic wrapped him in an awkward hug. Grouchily, Ratchet said, "I swear, you have more blackmail material on me than the entire rest of the Autobot army."

"Yeah, yeah, the scary badaft of a medic really has a soft fluffy side." He leaned into the medic's arms. "I'm going to go _right _out and blab to Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Ironhide and they'll never respect you again."

"Do, and I'll reformat you into a Robodog."

"Oooh, threats, I think I like that. _So _sexy." He lowered his voice to a sultry murmur and trailed fingers suggestively down Ratchet's sides, finding the cover to his dataport. Well, if Ratchet was going to hold him, he was going to take _full _advantage of the proximity.

Ratchet reached back, caught his hand, and stilled it, but to Fang's surprise, he didn't pull away. He just lowered Fang's fingers to his own hip, a slightly less suggestive grip. "I'm not hitting on you, you little twit."

He gave up, for the moment. Ratchet clearly wasn't in the mood for flirting. However, it felt so _good _to be held by Ratchet.

"There." Ratchet let him go. "Feel better?"

He did. He didn't feel much like a 'con leader at the moment, but he felt _better_. Nobody else had to know that he was a whimpering sparkling who needed hugs, he consoled himself. He ran a systems check once, then twice, then looked up as Ratchet rose again. "Ratch, thank you."

"Mmmhmm." Ratchet stroked the arch of his cheek with one hand, and Fang leaned his head into the touch with a small sound of appreciation. "I want you to know something, Fang, and that is that both Optimus, I, and the other Primes are behind you. I am also under orders from Optimus to do whatever it takes to make sure you know that. If you need confirmation of our intentions, I will 'face with you to prove it." A small smirk. "It'd be more fun than last time."

Fang was stunned by that. He'd expected opposition from Optimus, not encouragement. However, now that he'd had a few days to think and process what had happened, he found he didn't _want _to 'face with anyone, but particularly Ratchet. "I don't ... I don't need that. I've been in your head once. I know how honest you are."

"Good, because I don't think it's a good idea for you to take another partner right now."

Ratchet's statement should have felt condescending, but Fang heard the concern and caring behind it. He smiled briefly. "So, Optimus is okay with us?"

"Yes, he is. Completely. He sees it as a good opportunity to cement ties between our factions, and to lead by example. However, I'm certain he would also caution us to wait until your power base is more solidly established."

"How many mechs came with the transports?" Fang changed the subject.

"Close to a thousand."

"That's half your army. The humans are going to _freak_." Fang tried not to freak himself. Ratchet's arms around him helped in that regard.

"Bee's going to do damage control in the morning. The President's currently in a meeting with his Joint Chiefs of Staff tonight, Bee's not invited."

"Trouble?"

"Nah, planned already, and it's not just about us. Other crisis continue to happen, you know." Ratchet tilted his head sideways, and released Fang. "Hm. You, Aquaregia and Thundercracker are being invited to go meet the officers that just arrived. Are you up to it?"

_Not really_. He knew this wasn't going to be easy. "Someone's got to watch Prism."

"Bring her with you," Ratchet said. "Optimus is deliberately keeping this informal. There will be formal politicking enough tomorrow; right now, everyone's busy setting things up."

An informal meet-and-greet he thought he could handle. He nodded.

"Good." Ratchet seemed approving.

* * *

Creaks and muffled knocking noises, the occasional grinding of a gear, and low vibrations still eminated from Fortress Maximus's structure. The cityformer was not finished assembling some areas. Even as they approached, Fang saw a line of spotlights ripple out from a formerly featureless wall, and begin to glow in the daylight. They winked on and off a few times in what was probably a test of the circuit.

Ratchet led the way. Thundercracker and Aquaregia followed, and Fang brought up the rear with Prism tucked to his chest, under one hand. He felt self-conscious, his purple Decepticon emblem an obvious brand on his chest. Autobots, most of whom he didn't know and had never seen, bustled about the exterior of the city, helping with minor mechanical issues or things that weren't automated. Some of them might be hostile. It was unlikely but possible, and he let his officers go first for defensive reasons.

"Woah, stop right there!" A rapid voice demanded. A bright crimson and silver mech scrambled out of the entrance and aimed a laser rifle at the three Decepticons. "Ratchet, step away from the 'cons ..."

"Settle down, Red Alert," Ratchet said, tolerantly. "They're here with me."

The newcomers knew basically nothing of the situation on Earth. They'd come in fast and hard under radio silence, and while they'd picked up some radio transmissions regarding the attack from Nebulos, those had not been shared beyond the communications staff and the highest officers. Red Alert had, Fang realized, probably _no _clue that the Decepticons were trying for peace. If he did know, he only had the barest of details.

"That's Thundercracker and Fangface. Are you _insane_?" Red Alert demanded. "You can't bring them in here."

"I can, and I will." Ratchet's voice sounded amused, even as Red Alert's strident tones were drawing a crowd.

Fangface stepped forward, and said brightly, "Why, Red, one would think you were convinced I was an Evil Decepticon Spy."

Red spluttered. Fang grinned toothily, though behind the grin was a good deal of animosity. Red Alert had been on Prime's team when Fang had joined them, and Red had never cut him _any _slack. He'd been treated like a Decepticon spy by Red from the moment he onlined in the med bay to the day he left them for good, with open and naked hostility from the other mech.

"I was _right_ about you being a 'con all along, and I'm not letting you in now!"

"Funny, I understand I'm the guest of honor for a little meet and greet with your leaders." He was irritated and old anger surfaced with startling force. Red had never treated him well.

"You joke. Badly." Red Alert's eyes narrowed.

"Don't bait him, Fang." Ratchet sounded tired. "Red, be nice."

"I'm not going to be nice to a 'con!"

Fang could hear Aquaregia clicking with effort to prevent his capacitors from charging, and even Thundercracker, normally level headed, was beginning to look pissed. Prism was hiding under his hand, very still and quiet and scared. Autobots were beginning to mass, drawn by the Red Alert's agitation. He didn't know most of them, which might actually be to his advantage. Fang stepped up between Aquaregia and TC and addressed the growing crowd. "My name is Lord Fangface, leader of the Decepticons. As most of you are aware, these are my officers, Thundercracker and Aquaregia."

"Starscream leads the 'cons." Red Alert's words were flat.

"He did," Ratchet grunted. "Fang here took him out. We got Megatron -- for the second time around -- and Shockwave in the same fight, and Soundwave a little bit later."

A murmur ran through the crowd.

"There's a _lot _you don't know, Red, but ..."

"The war's over." Fangface said, tiredly. "Look, not officially, but as soon as we can get a moment to figure out the particulars, that's my goal."

A louder murmur. They probably hadn't known yet about the coup, Fang realized. Red Alert, however, growled, "Pretty words. I'll believe them not only after you sign on the line, but after you _prove _yourself."

"He already has," Ratchet said calmly. "To the satisfaction of Primus. He's a Prime, Red. So knock it off."

"So was the Fallen," Red Alert snapped. The word _Prime _rippled through the crowd, though, as mechs caught the word, and all its implications.

"Yeah, well, he's dead too," Ratchet growled back.

"He is?" Blaster straightened up, giving Ratchet a keen look.

"Whatcha got under your hand?" Red Alert was just not giving up. Fang nearly had a spark attack when Red gestured at his shoulder with a charged plasma rifle. He had Prism hiding under his fingers. Defensively, he turned away, presenting his back to the security director, and Thundercracker and Aquaregia both inserted themselves in the path of the gun with swift efficiency.

Ratchet clapped a hand over his optics. "Red Alert, _put the gun away_."

"He's hiding something!"

"Some_one_, not something, you idiot. Put the gun away if you want to keep it." Ratchet's tone threatened real trouble if he didn't. Fang tensed, planning to throw Prism to safety (likely to Ratchet) and launch an attack if Red got any more aggressive. He measured the distance, and thought he could probably spring before Red could get a shot off, but the need to get Prism to safety would slow him down.

_Next time, I'll have Thundercracker or an Autobot carry her in Autobot territory. _

Red Alert lifted his aim skywards, and though he neither powered down his capacitors nor folded the weapon out of sight.

"_Thank you_," Fangface ground out. If he hadn't had Prism to think about, he would have added a few more sarcastic comments.

"Scary!" Prism observed.

"Sorry, kiddo. Some people are just afts."

She poked her head out between his fingers and surveyed the crowd of excited, staring mechs. "Scary!"

"What was that?" Red Alert demanded.

"That," Ratchet said, "was Prism, who is Fang's sparkling. You're very lucky that he didn't decide to disarm you in her defense. I told you, there's a lot you don't know."

"A sparkling?" Blaster pushed his way to the front of the crowd, with Steeljaw following after him. "A real sparkling?"

Fang had heard of Steeljaw, but he had never seen him in person before. Blaster's symbiote, one of several, was an Autobot predacon. The other mech looked at him with clear curiosity that matched Fang's own. Their designs were not that different, either, though Steeljaw was designed of familiar duryllium alloy. "Yes, a real sparkling," he said, to Blaster.

Blaster and Steeljaw traded a look that Fang thought could be interpreted perfectly as baby-lust. He had a sneaking suspicion that _someone _would be begging to be at the front of the queue for sparklings.

With absolute perfect timing, Prowl drove up, white paint gleaming. Red Alert shifted his attention to the former SIC, who transformed and said dryly, "Red Alert, as thorough as always, I see."

"Designation?" Red Alert rapped out, though he had to have recognized Prowl's stance.

"Prowl." Prowl lifted an optic ridge at him. When the crowd collectively cried out in surprise and joy, he said sternly, "And if anyone hugs me, I will remove their arms at the shoulders." This got a laugh that Prowl probably hadn't intended to cause, because he frowned. "Lord Fang, if you will follow me, I will take you in to the conference room."

"Prowl, you're alive?" Red Alert said, clearly dumbfounded.

"Prowl is alive," Ratchet confirmed, neglecting to mention he hadn't removed Prowl from medical leave yet, and didn't intend to do so for a fairly long time. Fang suspected Ratchet didn't want to talk about it. "Jazz is back with us, too, by the way."

Red Alert finally put his weapon away, collapsing it down under his armor. "Anything else I should know?"

"Let's see ..." Fang said, inspired to a verbosity by relief when the weapon disappeared, "Grimlock's alive, we have several hundred thousand sparklings in stasis lock and Optimus, First Aid, Wheeljack, and Thundercracker have all adopted some, there are Nebulan survivors with a serious grudge, Bee has human partners, and I was never a _spy_."

The Autobots boggled at him. Ratchet chuckled, "You're forgetting the four million year old exploration vessel with a completely equipped surgical bay, legal diplomatic recognition and visas issued by the American government, and a fat stream of income in the local currency in exchange for our technology. You guys will be getting plenty of back pay in dollars. And I think that's all ..." He was drowned out by questions, and held his hands up to quiet them. "We'll send a briefing out in a bit on all the details. Right now, we need to worry about getting everything secure and squared away."

Inside, Fang told Prowl, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Prowl nodded courteously. "And hello, Prism."

"Hi Prowl!" She stuck her head out, then held her arms out. He willingly handed Prism over to Prowl.

Prowl held her for a moment, one finger stroking her back, as they walked through the vast base. A small smile touched his lips. "You're lucky. She's a lovely child."

While Prowl was holding Prism he briefly addressed his officers. _:Thank you, both, for staying out of the scene back there. Red's stubborn and paranoid, but he's also very good at his job, and therefore has quite a high rank. I believe he's responsible for the security for Fortress Maximus at this time, and it would not surprise me if he's put in charge of the entire AOA. You two handled it perfectly.:_

_:Sure, boss,: _Thundercracker responded.

Aquaregia, however, replied, _:I don't like that they outnumber us. I fear that they will not treat us fairly.:  
_  
Ratchet was a comforting presence as he walked beside Fang. Fang could still summon the feeling of Ratchet's arms around his plating, holding him and assuring him that Autobots would not go back on their word. He'd worked so hard to get where he was, and he wasn't sure Ratchet _fully _understood just how amazing it felt to get that very personal support. It was easy to tell Aquaregia, _:We won't have a problem from the other Primes. We may have issues with the rank and file. Aquaregia, if you will, have a meeting with the troops as soon as we are out of this meeting about minding their manners. Tell them that they won't need to worry about Autobot reactions, because I'll frag them first if they're idiots.:_  
_  
:Yes sir.:_

_Deathwheels would be having a spark attack about now, _Fang thought. Picturing Death's reaction made him smile, and then the smile slipped from his face as he remembered that Death was gone, and how, and why. It felt wrong to laugh at Death's paranoia when Death had died for him. Death had predicted people would try to kill him, and had been proven far too correct.

The halls were full of mechs, bustling about with furnishings and equipment and supplies that had been stored in subspace for the trip. They had not had time to clear out all the rooms, either, in the haste to depart, because they passed some open doorways with smashed furniture jumbled about inside. When Fortress Maximus had transformed, much of his living space had compressed and folded in on itself.

As they climbed a ramp to the second level, Hoist appeared. "Oh, Ratchet! Good, I'd heard you were here. We've got a ton of casualties ithat we're bringing over here to the med bay from Strato and Broadside, and Max took some damage too, and we don't have a lot of supplies. I could use your advice."

"Hoist!" Ratchet greeted him, warmly, then shook his head. "We have a lifetime supply of salvage parts. Make a list and I'll have someone retrieve everything."

_:Ratch, if you want to check on the patients in the med bay first, I'd love to tag along.: _After Red Alert's greeting, Fang was in no hurry to deal with the rest of the officers. It felt like it would be overwhelming to summon his diplomatic skills and charm again. Watching Ratchet work, on the other hand, was always a pleasure, both on an intellectual and personal level. _:I always learn something when I see you work.:_  
_  
:Thanks, Fang.: _Ratchet readily accepted Fangs suggestion, with clear gratitude. Fang knew Ratchet's first concern was always the health of the troops. He double-timed along behind Ratchet as the others, who all had longer legs than he did, hurried down the hall towards the med bay. He finally transformed -- making Hoist jump -- and trotted on four legs so he could more easily keep up.

Hoist had been nervously eying all three Decepticons, and finally said, "Do you want me to keep an eye on them while you check on the patients, Ratch?"

Ratchet shook his head. "Fang's earned a degree of trust from us, Hoist. He's also a fairly decent medic, and we've been so shorthanded here that he's been helping me on some projects. We have a rather large number of casualties ourselves."

"Oh." Hoist's scrutiny turned more curious.

"I'm not Megatron," Fang said, meaning to try to explain that he wasn't a homicidal dictator but rather just wanted to see the war over, and the Nebulan crisis resolved, so he could devote his time to more productive things. _Sparklings. Cementing our place in this world. Creating a new Allspark cube. Helping rebuild our civilization. _By his very nature, he was a builder, a creator, not a destroyer.

"Yeah," Ratch gave him a friendly shove in reaction to his comment about Megatron, "You're too short."

Hoist's optics widened enormously as he took in the banter.

Prowl murmured, "And a hell of a lot fairer and more compassionate. I'm alive because Fang repaired me when Megatron or Starscream would have let me offline, and then got me back to the Autobots."

"Prowl, you're going to ruin my image," Fang protested, feeling the praise was a little excessive. He had repaired Barricade because he'd hoped to use the mech as a foot soldier, glitch-ridden or not. It had only been later that Deathwheels had dug up the records regarding Barricade's history, and he'd put the pieces together. When the opportunity had presented itself, he'd jumped at the chance, because Prowl had once been his friend, and because it would please the Autobots.

"Your image is, depending on how people know you, either of that of an Autobot traitor, the new evil Decepticon overlord, or a sneaky, nasty little Decepticon special ops mech who fragged up more of my soldiers in surprise raids and ambushes than I'd care to remember. Ruining this image is bad, how?" Prowl asked, a smile twitching around his lips. Prowl seemed to be in a very good mood, but then, he was a tactician and the Autobot's tactical situation had improved immensely.

"Point." He paused, and added, just to be annoying, "Please don't swear in front of my kid. She repeats it."

"Kid?" Hoist asked, glancing from Prowl to Ratchet and then to Fang, and back. Clearly, he was trying to figure out the dynamic between them. When Thundercracker shifted his weight a bit, Hoist attention swiftly moved to him. Certainly, amid the crowd of passing (and staring) Autobots, the seeker stood out.

Prowl had been walking with Prism tucked up against his shoulder. He lifted his hand away a little to display her to Hoist. "This is Fangface's sparkling."

Prism promptly scrambled up to his shoulder and poked him in the jaw. "I want to play with Ranger. Can Ranger play?"

"Not now," Prowl said, "though he says hello. Here, why don't you get to know Hoist. He likes children."

He handed the small sparkling off to Hoist, and Fang waited expectantly for a shriek of protest from Prism that didn't come. Hoist held her in the palm of his hand and lifted her up to his optic level. After a _very _uncertain glance at Fang (and the almost audible thought, 'I'm holding the child of the Decepticon leader!') he said, "And how old are you?"

"Five days!" she said, proudly.

He was clearly startled and confused by that. "Only five days?"

"You'll get a full briefing file in the next few minutes," Ratchet said, as they turned down a wide hall with an open door at the end. "Bee's updating it now to cover the Nebulans."

"Was the Allspark not destroyed?" Hoist asked, in awe. "We heard it was, but was that news wrong?"

"I wish that news was wrong. Short version is that we found a warehouse full of Megatron's sparklings, from back when he was building an army of babies." Ratchet's tone turned sour. "About half are dead, hence the parts -- or complete new protoforms, never been used, for those who are too badly fragged up."

"... Slag."

Fang sensed the promised file being sent out to the Autobots over their comms. A copy was cc'd to him.

"And none of them would be alive if not for Fang, Thundercracker, Skywarp, and Fang's late partner, and the hand of Primus himself." Ratchet led the way through the door, then continued, "Ah. There's the file. Read the parts about the arrival of the sparklings. Fang's a hero. He chose to save the sparklings, at great cost to himself. Moreover, he chose to save far more by bringing them to us. If he'd transported the sparklings to the 'con base, they could have saved enough to tip the balance of power beyond all possible recovery. Most would have died, however. For that decision, he is truly a hero."

Fang was a bit embarrassed by the praise. He suspected most mechs not named "Megatron" would have made the same call. "Tcha! The Order of the Primes kinda told me to do it. I might be willing to argue with you Autobots, but I'm not going to defy an order from _them. _I'm a good soldier and they outrank me."

"... good soldier ..." Ratchet muttered.

"Hey!"

"I've served with you, you glitch," Ratchet shot back, "and you only ever followed orders when they suited you."

Hoist said, "Are you two ... actually friends?"

"No, we're actually mortal enemies." Fangface said, brightly. It was easy to fall into banter with Ratchet, even though he felt absurdly guilty for doing so, because of Deathwheels. Shouldn't he be mourning?

"He really wants to 'face me," Ratchet said, in a low tone, with sneaky looks to either side, as if looking for other listeners, "but don't tell anyone."

Fang started to respond with a laugh and a snarky comment back, then suddenly remembered the number of times he and Deathwheels had joked around like that, and the words vanished from his vocalizer without every being voiced. His sudden silence made Ratchet turn around to look at him, and Thundercracker to give Ratchet a positively dirty look.

Realizing everyone thought he was shocked or offended, not suddenly choking with grief, he forced a smile to his face and said, "Funny, Ratchet, Deathwheels used to say the same thing to me. We know how that turned out."

What he _meant _was that Death had made the moves on him, not the other way around. What Ratchet and Thundercracker got out of it was clearly very different. Now Ratchet was frankly staring at him, and after a second's belated thought, he realized they'd thought he was referring to the ugly rest of it. He huffed a sigh and said, "Nevermind. I'm clearly not thinking completely straight."

Ratchet said, _:Shh, Fang. It's okay.: _and he could have melted right then and there with the power of that reassurance. Aloud, Ratchet said, "Hoist, it's hard not to like Fang. He grows on you, somewhat like rust. -- Where are these patients you spoke of?"

"In the med bay, through that door. Umm ..." Hoist looked up at Thundercracker and Aquaregia. "No offense, but Fang's going to be bad enough. You two are big and ugly Decepticons and I don't want the patients stressed out."

His officers traded a look. _:Fang, are you going to be okay by yourself?: _Thundercracker asked.

_:I'm not worried about my safety. Ratchet's authority is pretty solid.:_

:I wasn't necessarily talking about that,: Thundercracker said.

_:I'm fine.: _He nodded to Hoist, "My officers will stay out here, no problem." He started to chew on a talon, however, until Thundercracker saw the nervous gesture. TC made a small gesture with his own fingers near his face and that drew Fang's attention to the behavior, and he forced himself to keep his fingers down at his sides. _:Thanks.:_

:Yup. Yell if they try to kill you. I'll help clean all the spilled energon up after you're done dealing with them.:

_:Har har, if they seriously attack me, your job's getting Prism to safety, understand?:_

:Completely.:  
  
When the med bay doors opened, it was to an explosion of sound. In response to the briefing file, a cacophony of discussion at near deafening volume had begun. "... Sparklings! ..." "... Peace accord with the Decepticons ...!" "... A real home here! ..." "... Jazz ...!" "... I'd do anything to have a real home again ..."

He caught bits and snatches of the vigorous discussion, all of which ceased the second they saw him. He found he was the subject of silent, intense scrutiny. He stiffened his back and raised his head, assuming a military posture when he realized every optic was on him, and nobody was saying a word. They weren't screaming with hostility, but the stares made him nervous and it took every ounce of his control to keep his claws out of his mouth.

The med bay was full, too, with at least twenty mechs in various stages of repair lying or sitting on berths. A few were standing up and talking to their peers. He saw people missing limbs, optics, with internals exposed, with armor crumpled and shredded. A few mechs were hooked up to external monitoring equipment, but everybody looked like they were online.

"It's the 'con who fragged Starscream!" someone said.

"The Decepticon Prime!"

"... he saved the sparklings ... our _future_ ..."

Now that the story was fully out, it seemed like his reception was very different than earlier. _Take that, Red Alert, _he thought, with vicious satisfaction.

Someone stomped his foot in Cybertronian applause. More picked it up. The mechs that weren't able to stand up and stomp thumped their fists on their berths. The rumbling, thundering noise was so loud he had to dial down the sensitivity of his hearing. Stunned, he turned again to Ratchet, who simply mouthed, "See? It's going to be okay."

_:Is it okay if I find this reaction scarier than Red Alert's paranoia?: _He asked Ratchet.

_:Completely.: _Ratchet was laughing at the look on his face, but given the circumstances, he didn't mind. Ratchet held both hands up in the air, calling for silence. Eventually, he got it, and said aloud, "What, no love for _me_? Never thought I'd see the day when a Decepticon got a warmer greeting than I do ..."

"It's his lovely bedside manner," Fang whispered, just loud enough for keen Cybertronian hearing to detect over the sound of their laughter. The laughter increased in volume. Prism, in response to the noise, bounced up and down on Hoist's shoulder, cheering.

Maybe it really would work out. Hope blossomed for him.

Maybe he could _really _make this work.


	85. Chapter 85

Chapter 85

* * *

Author's notes: On week two of the lung crud from hell. I still can't fricking breath without coughing, but my fever's down, and I can think better. I'm off work through the end of the week, so I'll probably get a lot of writing done. Writing is definitely an escape, at this point.

* * *

Despite the detour through the med bay, Fang and Ratchet were among the first to arrive at the conference room. There was a _huge _amount of work in progress, and everyone had been delayed by a variety of issues. Only Blaster and Steeljaw were there before them and the two of them were setting up a holomatter projector on the table.

To Ratchet, Blaster said, "The U.S. President requested he get a chance to meet everyone too. Apparently, he likes his holomatter projector suite."

"Great." Ratchet said. "Fang, by the way, this is Steeljaw and Blaster."

Fang already knew their names. They'd met in battle a few times, and he'd made a point of learning his enemies' identities. Steeljaw apparently carried no grudges, however, because he padded over to Fang and said courteously, "Pleased to meet you outside of combat."

"Likewise."

Blaster added cheerfully, "You know, I always had a love-hate relationship with fighting against you, Fang. On the one hand, you and your teams were good and tested m'boys pretty hard. On the other hand, you kept it honorable. Never slagged the civilian populations, and never caused pain and suffering when you didn't have to. You were always all business. I always appreciated that." The communications specialist then tilted his head sideways and studied Fang curiously. "Might I ask who designed your protoform?"

"Shockwave's research team."

Blaster winced. "I'm sorry. I heard about the atrocities they committed."

"I was luckier than most." Fang looked up as the door cycled open, welcoming a chance to change the subject with the arrival of someone new.

Bee entered. "Hi, Fang." Bee then comm'd Fang a song file: Cat Steven's "Peace Train."

Fang smiled at him, though it was a bit forced. _Any _use of the word "train" brought up unpleasant memories. Since Bee didn't have a mean circuit in his body, he was almost certainly simply referring to the peace process, and he didn't want to make Bee feel bad by letting his true emotional reaction show. "Thanks, Bee."

"You doing okay?" Bee asked, despite Fang's effort to look pleased.

"Oh, I'm just peachy," he said, allowing a little snark out since good cheer wasn't working. Prism, hearing a new voice, popped out from under his armor and launched herself at Bee, who caught her in mid air.

"So when are you getting a sparkling?" Fang asked Bee.

Bee shook his head, even as he turned Prism upside down and tickled her. "I'm being sent to Nebulos in two weeks. No children for me, I'm afraid."

"Kid, you're being remarkably friendly with everyone," Ratchet observed, holding his hand out for Prism. "I thought you were scared of big bots."

She transferred happily over to him, then reached out and poked Ratchet's chest. "Autobots are not scary. _Decepticons _are scary. Deathwheels was a Decepticon."

"Oh, Primus." Ratchet facepalmed with his free hand. "Fang, we've ruined your sparkling. I'm sorry."

"Actually," he claimed her back, as the rest of the Autobots laughed, "that's not a bad thing for her to think, considering some of my soldiers."

This comment prompted another laugh, though he'd been serious.

The door slid open again, admitting a whole crowd of officers, all talking at once. Wheeljack had his twins with him, and Optimus had Paladin balanced on his hip. Ratchet scowled as Prowl brought up the rear, but didn't say anything. This was unofficial -- the real business would start in the morning, after they had Fortress Maximus fully set up, and the humans briefed.

Prism took one look at the dozen large mechs, squeaked, and scrabbled to get under Fang's plating. He obligingly flared a piece of his chest armor, and she vanished under it. Apparently, individual Autobots were not scary, but hordes of them were.

However, she peeked out for a moment and said, "Hi, Optimus!" before disappearing again, earning laughter from the whole mob.

"She looks happier now that she's back with you," Optimus said. "Paladin, say hello to Prism."

Paladin obediently waved at the red optics peering out from the shadows of a crack in Fang's armor, "Hi, Prism."

Pulsar ran over too, with an ebullient, "Hi, Prism!" His sister, following behind, waved.

"Array is still not talking?" Fang asked Wheeljack.

"She will," Wheeljack said, stroking Array's helm as he walked up beside his children. "I'm just glad she has Pulsar. They're definitely quantum bonded. He'll help her more than any therapy we could come up. Right, Pulsar?"

Pulsar glanced up at him, and nodded. "Array doesn't know _how _to talk. But I know what she wants to say."

_Well spoken child, _Fang noted. Prism tended to clip her sentences short when she was excited, and she was excited about something most of the time. Pulsar was probably far calmer and more patient at a spark-deep level than his own child.

Wheeljack scooped Array up and met her gaze, optic to optic. "And what do you want to say, sweetheart?"

Pulsar, still standing at Wheeljack's feet, said, "She wants to know everyone's names."

"Not a bad idea," Optimus said, and promptly introduced Impactor, Red Alert, a medium-sized red mech who turned out to be Fort Max's holomatter avatar (and Fang still hadn't heard Fort Max speak), Omega Supreme's smallest alt mode (the tank) in bipedal form, Hoist, Blaster, Grapple, Scattershot, Star Saber, Sandstorm, and several others. Just when he was done introducing the newbies, Stratosphere's avatar materialized in the room, and Broadside ducked through the doors. Fang boggled at the amount of subspace translocation Broadside was doing to his mass to be able to reduce his size to that of a mech roughly twice Optimus's girth and ten feet taller. This was not everyone -- some of the other officers were busy with tasks related to setting up Fortress Maximus -- but it was a good portion of the them.

The rest included all the Primes on earth, Optimus's officers, Prowl (who had taken a position up in a corner, away from the crowd), the medical staff (including, to Fang's surprise, both Wheelie and Mikaela), Keller, the mayor of Tranquility, and several N.E.S.T. soldiers. Into this chaos the U.S. president materialized a holomatter avatar and looked around as everyone's attention turned to him.

Introductions were repeated. The president was polite, and curious, and eventually ended walking off to have a conversation with Keller and Ironhide in one corner of the room.

It was a decidedly unofficial meet-and-greet, set up spur of the moment to make sure everyone knew everyone else by sight. Fang was shocked by the amount of attention he was getting, too, as questions and comments came at him fast and furious. He would have liked to have a chance to talk to the president himself -- he wanted to make sure the man knew he wasn't anything like Megatron -- but a wall of curious Autobots blocked his progress in that direction.

"... you're really a Prime? ..."

"... thank you for saving the sparklings! ..."

"... I never thought I'd see the day a Prime led the 'cons ..."

"... you really fragged Starscream in the middle of a fight with the Autobots? You've got bearings! ..."

"... you've never really known a life without war, have you? ..."

"... what's it like having a sparkling? ..."

"... tomorrow, I'd like to talk to you about security issues involving your forces ..." That was Red Alert, and it was all Fang could do not to sneer spitefully at him.

The questions continued, and he made polite replies while he tried to remember to keep his hands out of his mouth, and he stretched himself to his full height in reaction to mechs who towered way over his head. Then, much to his relief, Ratchet waded through the sea of strangers and said loudly, "Okay, folks. I'm sure Fang's kid is about to glitch out from lack of recharge. I'll walk Fang and his goons home before I have more repairs on my workload."

Outside, in the hall, Fang commed Ratchet, _:Thank you for the save.:_

:Fang, you amaze me. You can take down mechs the size of mountains in combat, and a few friendly Autobot officers nearly send you running with your tail between your legs.: Ratchet's teasing was affectionate.

_:I was doing fine.:_

:Yeah, yeah.: Clearly, he hadn't fooled Ratchet. _:You were doing great at _acting _cool and calm. I figured you'd had about enough, though.:_

:Yes,: he admitted, wondering how Ratchet had known.

Ratchet walked all the way back to the Decepticon base with him, while Aquaregia and Thundercracker trailed after them. Inside the base the halls were empty, and after verifying they had no observers, Ratchet brushed a hand lightly over Fang's arm. "Stay out of trouble, will you? I might not get a chance to talk to you in the next few days."

He caught Ratchet's hand and rested his head against it, turning a friendly touch into something a little more. He wasn't mistaking the longing in Ratchet's voice. Ratchet enjoyed being in his presence. It was truly amazing to know that was true. He murmured, "Thank you. For everything."

"Mmmhmm. And if you go sappy on me, I'll glitch from embarrassment. Get some recharge, Fang."

He ached to call Ratchet back when the medic turned to leave, but he knew Ratchet would refuse if he invited him up to his quarters. Instead, he turned to Thundercracker and said, "Say hi to 'Warp for me. I'll see you in the morning. Aquaregia, first thing tomorrow I want you to get with the 'bots and figure out where we stand on guarding the sparklings now."

"Which 'bots?"

"Ask Optimus in the morning. They're probably still figuring out assignments." He had a feeling the Autobots were going to pull an all-nighter or two as they sorted out staffing.

"Optimus?" Aquaregia took a literal nervous step backwards.

For a moment, Fang couldn't figure out why Aquaregia would be so worried about talking to Optimus. Then he chuckled, low, as he reminded himself that Optimus was still their enemy, and 'Regia had very little experience with him. Fang knew that Optimus could be trusted (truthfully, he trusted Optimus more than he trusted himself) but that didn't mean the others had that level of faith. "You're my second when Thundercracker's offworld, 'Regia. You'll deal with him all the time. Just e-mail him to find out who your counterpart is going to be for caring for the sparklings."

"Yes sir." Aquaregia squared his shoulders.

"Also, we _really _need to get with Optimus on financial matters. I'm going to have you work on that, until we can get one of the bolt counters from Cybertron."

"I don't know anything about finances," Aquaregia said, "What about Swindle?"

"I'd like to keep things honest, thanks." Swindle had his uses, but Fang wasn't enchanted with the idea of him serving as an accountant.

Aquaregia's optics softened, as a smile touched his lips. "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Lord Fang, but I swear you're sent by Primus. I never thought I'd serve a leader who I could believe in."

Fang rolled his optics. "Don't gush at me, 'Regia, you'll give me rust."

Aquaregia, instead of laughing like Fang expected, looked wounded. "I mean it honestly, Fang. I'm not saying it to be flattering."

"Just ... don't." He shook his head. It made him keenly uncomfortable to hear that sort of flattery, and it was worse when it came from his own troops. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Remember you're off duty," Thundercracker said, sternly. "Sleep in. We'll deal with anything that comes up, and wake you if it's actually important. Enjoy the kid. Fix some stuff. Don't _worry_ so much."

"Yes sir!" Fang saluted him, human style, then turned away. With his secondary optics, as he walked off, he saw Aquaregia give Thundercracker a dirty look in response to what 'Regia probably saw as a lack of respect, and TC smile and lift both optic ridges in a questioning, teasing gesture back at him.

He was a lot more comfortable trading insults with his mechs than he was accepting adulation. It was just the way he was wired.

* * *

"Optimus, sir?"

The next afternoon, Optimus looked up from his conversation with a human official. Red Alert had just entered Prime's brand new office, making the human Optimus was working with nervously step back and watch Red warily. The human, a fairly high ranking employee of the county sheriff's department responsible for mistreating Bee, stood on the desk. He didn't look happy at the arrival of another robot.

"Yes, Red?"

"I sent you an e-mail about the prisoners _two hours _ago."

Red Alert had the most amazing ability to make everything seem like a crisis. Optimus hadn't even opened all of the many e-mails Red had sent him yet; he was truly overwhelmed, and Red Alert's chain of command went through either Ironhide and Jazz, depending on who was at the base. Optimus trusted them to alert him of any _real _problems. Red Alert had already told him about the possibility of the resident gopher population on the base being outfitted with spy cameras, that it was possible that Earth was being visited by an unknown alien race called "Greys", that Decepticon forces kept overflying Fortress Maximus and they could drop bombs or otherwise attack, and that the base's flight control tower was staffed by humans. The latter had merited five different e-mails on five different ways this could be a hazard, ranging from inferior human data processing ability to deliberate human malice.

So, no, Optimus had not read all of Red Alert's e-mails.

He tabbed through the folder that Red Alert's missives automatically got shunted to (which he did read ... when he had a nanoclick's spare time, and the processor power needed to send diplomatic responses), found the e-mail in question (it was between an e-mail concerning possible human telekinetic powers being used against Autobots, and one complaining that the Witwicky's dog had taken a leak on Fortress Maximus's exterior wall) and quickly scanned it.

"Ah ... thank you for bringing their presence to my attention." Optimus switched to Cybertronian, mindful of the human in the room.

It seemed there were a dozen Decepticon prisoners in the Autobot brig. All were low-level rank-and-file mechs, mostly scouts and frontliners. Red Alert was concerned with _keeping _them prisoners, and avoiding a jail break, since Optimus was so careless as to allow Decepticon leaders _into the base. _He was truly horrified by Fang's presence, never mind the seekers and Aquaregia and Rivet.

"I believe," Optimus said tactfully, "that the best way to avoid trouble in regards to the prisoners is to let them go. That will remove all chance of a jail break."

"Ah." Red stared at him. Optimus managed to keep a smile off his face. Aside from the fact that it was rude, showing amusement at Red Alert's expense only made him angry, and when he got angry, he got _stubborn_. "Optimus, they've been in the base! They know the layout! They know who the guards are! They probably have a good idea of our numbers!."

"Red," Optimus said, "thank you for bringing the prisoners to my attention."

"Sir!" Red Alert protested, "We haven't had a chance to interrogate them for intelligence yet!"

"Red," Optimus said, "I just spent six hours discussing the situation on Cybertron with Fang. I'm sure that if the prisoners have any active intelligence that is still valid after several months of travel time here, Fang will extract it from them and share with us. Fang will find it much easier to debrief his troops than we will to interrogate them."

"You'd trust him that far?" Red Alert looked scandalized.

Optimus nodded. "I would. Red, Fang will chose the _right _thing to do."

"This would be the same Fang who picked fights, insulted everyone he met, and only followed those rules he couldn't find a way to get around?" Red Alert demanded. He'd worked with Fang when he was the deeply emotionally wounded young Decepticon warrior that they'd taken in so long ago. "The one who _betrayed _us?"

Tiredly, Optimus said, "He's changed. Red, we trust him."

"If you don't mind, I'm going to keep an eye on him anyway."

"Of course." Optimus inclined his head in agreement with that. "That is why you are head of security. I know there is absolutely nothing that you will over look." And Red's sheer, absolute, complete paranoia had saved their afts more times than Optimus could count without running a few search routines through his memories to tally it all up. He'd done everything from identifying poisoned energon to spotting a 'con assassin with a _very _good disguise that made the assassin look like a trash compactor. The trash compactor had been one half a centimeter off in height from the factory specs, and that had been enough for Red to wheel the trash compactor down to the brig and lock it in solitary until the trash compactor had broken from the stress of isolation and revealed his mech identity.

"Be _careful_, Optimus. They're still 'cons. I don't want anyone getting hurt."

And that was the ghist of it. His paranoia was fueled by love. Red's reaction to the war, and all the people he'd lost, was to become fanatically aggressive about looking for hazards in an effort to protect the remaining Autobots. In the past, when Optimus had combined Red's enthusiasm with Prowl's analytical abilities, and Jazz and Smokescreen's people skills, they'd been able to ferret out dozens of spies and other personal issues.

"I understand, Red."

After Red Alert was gone, Optimus turned back to the human. "My apologies. That was my security chief. He had some matters he needed to discuss with me."

The man nodded, nervously. "Of course."

"Now." Optimus smiled at the man. "We were discussing the incident with my officer. One of our human allies had a rather good suggestion, and I'd like to see what you think of it ..."

* * *

Bumblebee had not seen much of Sam's parents since their fight a few weeks before. They had all been very busy, and he was pretty sure that Ron was avoiding him for justifiable reasons. Still, he felt he needed to make an effort at developing a better relationship with them. They were Sam's parents, and family ties were _important._

It might be years before I return from Nebulos. I don't want to leave with this sour of a note between us.

He didn't want to go. He _didn't _want to go. But it was necessary, and he understood the reasoning. Therefore, he wanted to leave on the best terms possible. _Years from now, when I return, if I return, I hope they will welcome me back ..._

He pulled up in front of the Witwicky's trailer house, and transformed. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as he rose, and then knelt and tapped on the door with one finger. He could tell they were home as his thermal scans showed their presence in the kitchen. He had not called or e-mailed them before now, for fear of a negative reaction. It was easier to be persuasive face to face.

After a moment, footsteps sounded on the trailer's hollow floor. Judy opened the door and said cheerfully, "Hi, Bee!"

"Hi." He sat down, which, given the elevation of the trailer, put them at almost the same height. "Have you two gotten a tour of Fort Max yet?"

"Bluestreak showed us around earlier," Ron said, stepping up behind her. "It's a big base, that's for sure."

"_He_," Judy corrected, "_he_."

"He's big." Ron chuckled. "Let's not piss off the _really _big giant robot.."

Bee smiled. "I think Max would forgive you for referring to him as 'it' by accident." He didn't touch on the implication of Ron's words, which was a reference to their dispute.

"How's my boy doing?"

"We're going out on a date right now. We'd planned to go dancing the other night and that sort've got canceled when the army arrived." He smiled, but also watched Ron's reaction.

"Hnh." Ron didn't say anything beyond that.

Bee tried again. "He's doing very good. He's gone out looking for property with Jazz several times, he's been scheduling interviews for me and Jazz with media outlets, and we've been invited to a state dinner tomorrow night."

"You two are attending together?" Ron said, his scowl intensifying.

"My boy's going to a state dinner at the White House?" Judy squealed. "Oh, that's a honor!"

"Yes, it is," Bee agreed.

Ron pointedly changed the subject. "So what's the government think about the Autobot army landing lock, stock, and barrel in the middle of Nevada?"

"Reactions are mixed," Bee said, honestly. "There's reason for the US government to be very grateful we're here, however, but I can't go into that with you. It's classified information."

There were three cloaked ships in orbit. The new Autobots had detected them with thermal imaging, but had assumed they were Decepticon. Bee was unsure if that was true, or if they were Nebulan. Fang denied that they were Decepticon, and the Nebulans consistently claimed that they only had one ship.

"Hmph." Ron folded his arms. "So what do you want, anyway?"

He managed to not reply rudely in response to Ron's demand. It helped his temper, however, when Judy elbowed Ron hard. "Be nice!"

Bee glanced across the runway towards the towering spires of Fortress Maxmus, drawing their attention in that direction. "We promised you two better housing. As a Prime, I rank one of the best suites, but I won't be here to use it for a long time. It's in one of the towers, with three rooms for recharging, a central entertaining area, and a wash rack. I thought you two could turn one of the recharging rooms into a loft, and Sam and Mikaela could have the other."

Ron replied, "The trailer's adequate. Shit, you guys pay us enough and all we've been doing lately is running errands in town. I'm not complaining."

Judy smacked him in the arm again. "No it's not, Ron. It's one tiny bedroom and, anyway, if we get attacked again, we'll have to get across the runway during a fight to get to safety. I imagine if there's not a billion fighter jets screaming down the runway, someone might be trying to bomb it."

Be agreed. "Security is one concern we have. The trailers here are a fairly prominent target, in and of themselves, as they stand out. The Nebulans might not realize _what _they are, only that one blast could destroy them." Bee nodded at the base again. "In case of an attack, we're building bunkers under Fort Max, but in his entire history, his walls have never been breached or even significantly damaged. He's close to two million years old, and he's been through twelve galactic wars, and has survived two direct thermonuclear strikes, including one _underneath _him that threw him airborne. He came down in one piece with only minor damage. He's got the most powerful force shield our people have ever created, and inertial dampers to cover the entire area."

Brightly, Judy said, "We'll check it out."

"I can take you up now, if you'd like."

"Sure!"

She was being excessively chipper to compensate for her husband's attitude. Bee, however, understood that Ron had lost an incredible amount of face in the argument a few weeks before. It would take time for Ron to get over that. He transformed, and simply opened both doors. "Let's go. I'll show you the rooms, and you can tell me what you think."

Ron claimed the driver's seat. Bee wasn't surprised by that, and he made no comment when Ron grabbed his wheel in a grip that was a little firmer than was absolutely polite. The man was sweating, and he reached out and rolled down the windows as soon as he entered. Bee chalked this up to the man's nerves. The last time Bee had given him a ride, he'd locked the doors and not let Ron out. Ron probably felt safer with the windows open.

"So, you must be glad to see everyone who's arrived," Judy said, conversationally.

"It is nice," Bee agreed. "Many of the mechs who arrived I haven't seen in tens of thousands of years. It's been good to talk to them, though I have been too busy to do much socializing." And what little time he did have free here in Nevada he tended to spend with Mikaela, but he censored himself and didn't mention that in front of Ron. No sense in provoking the man further.

At Fort Max, he drove around a new blast wall, designed to deflect explosions away from the entrance, then up to the doors. They were closed, and Wheeljack and Grapple were crouched over a control panel. A human was standing on Wheeljack's knee, and much to Bee's surprise, he recognized Gallardo.

The director was dressed in grease-covered jeans and a grubby white Fruit-of-the-Loom t-shirt. At Wheeljack's direction, he wormed his way behind the control panel and started rewiring something.

_:Got a helper, 'Jack?:_

:He's between projects and asked if we needed a hand. He's already got security clearance, so I said sure. Man's good with his hands and I think he's getting a real kick out of working with us.:

:Hopefully you can get to work on the TV show again.:

:He's still trying to get financing. I guess they have to pay for the distribution or something, I dunno. I don't quite understand what the issue is, there.:

Bee, who'd spent a lot more time on earth, had a lightbulb moment. _:No, it's not the distribution. Get Gallardo to explain how the business works. __It's the actual filming that would be most expensive. The distribution would be handled by syndication, most likely, unless the show got picked up by a network.:_

:Err?: Wheeljack made a surprised noise.

_:Humans don't have eidetic video memory, much less the ability to render video in their head after correcting lighting and altering camera angles. He'd need to hire a whole crew to do that, and it's all expensive equipment. Tell him we can do the same thing with a couple of mechs and their eyeballs that he'd need a huge crew and sound stage for, and see what he says.:_

_:Oh. Yeah, I guess. I never realized it was that complicated for humans.:_

:Yup.: 

Gallardo emerged from the tight space with a screwdriver clenched in his teeth. He transferred the screwdriver to his hand and said, "There, I think that got it."

While Fortress Maximus had arrived in fairly good condition, it had been a strain for him to travel so far. He wasn't designed to be mobile except under emergency circumstances, and they were finding blown circuits and damaged mechanisms all over the base. The last month of travel, in particularly, had been very hard and Fort Max had been perfectly honest in telling Optimus that he had feared a terminal system failure. He was designed to hunker down in place, not flee at faster than light speeds. He had nearly _died _a couple of times, struggling to keep up with the others with engines that were meant for insystem travel only.

After a second, the heavy blast doors slid smoothly upwards, revealing a high, arched hallway that took a sharp turn to the left around a heavily fortified wall -- a blast baffle -- fifty feet within. They could lift the blast baffles up to allow really large mechs or equipment in, but under normal operating conditions they were left down.

Bee drove around two sets of baffles, then reached the main hall. Max's legs formed the walls on either side, and the roof was his torso. The hall between was a hundred feet wide, two thousand feet long, and nearly a hundred feet high. It was so enormous that it was capable of generating its own weather; on cool mornings on Cybertron, when the gates were open, ground fog had often swirled through it. On warm afternoons, a wind would blow as the sun heated one end of his structure more than the other.

Both Fortress Maximus's legs and torso were full of hollow chambers used as rooms. Plating had been removed from a hundred foot section of his right leg, exposing both the interiors of a couple of rooms and some damaged parts. Several mechs were repairing a hydraulic reservoir -- hydraulic fluid dripped steadily from a stress fracture in a thick metal line. A small mech was towing a pallet of kitty litter in that direction, presumably to sop up the mess.

Farther down, another work crew was installing catwalks, elevators, and stairs up the sides for the convenience of human staff. Sparks flew as they worked.

Then they rolled past the Nebulan infirmary: the injured Nebulans had been moved indoors, out of the heat and dust of their camp. Against the vastness of the great hall, their razor wire surrounded compound seemed tiny, and the human soldiers guarding it truly dwarfed. He saw Ratchet and r'Oya and several Nebulan medics hard at work.

Halfway down the hall a bank of mech-sized elevators led upward into the sky. Bee rolled into one and sent a polite request to Max to lift him up to his quarters.

Never one for many words, Fortress Maximus responded, _:Yes sir.: _and the lift activated with a low hum of motors. He told the Witwickys, "If you two need to get up to my quarters, just tell Fortress Maximus. You two have clearance for my floor -- my quarters take up the whole level -- and the observation deck at the very top of the tower."

"How tall are the towers?" Ron asked, as he rubbed at his ears. Bee assumed his ears were probably popping as the lift rose. Bee vented some pressure from various systems for the same reason, with soft hisses and clicks of valves accompanying this automatic process.

"Slightly over two thousand feet. My quarters are at about fifteen hundred feet. At my level, the tower's got a width of two hundred feet, so that's four fifty foot by fifty foot rooms. Part of the reason for the height is tactical. The base is protected by a formidable force shield and the locus is at the highest point of the towe. There's an antenna we've sent down into the earth's crust of the same height. That gives us a sphere of almost four thousand feet in diameter protected within the force shield."

Fang had been considerably mollified about his base's proximity to Fort Max when he'd learned that his base fell within that circle of protection.

"Nice vantage for you to shoot at things, too," Ron observed, with a grin.

"Yes. There was a bit of a stink when Optimus gave Bluestreak a room very near the top of the same tower we're in. He's technically low enough rank that he should be in the barracks, but it's strategic. He's the best gunner we've got. He's sharing with several fliers, for the same reason."

The lift slowed to a quiet halt at his floor, and Bee rolled out into a small foyer. He pinged his door open, and rolled through, then let the Witwickys out before transforming. Conversationally, Bee said, "I could have had larger quarters if we were one floor down, but the tower has a setback right here, all the way around, and that means we have a deck outside. It's about twenty feet from the wall to the edge of the tower."

Mrs. Witwicky walked to the window and looked out. Ron, behind her, whistled. "Look at that view. We can see all the way to Las Vegas!"

"And the Grand Canyon, in the other direction," Bee said. "The last time I was living in Fort Max, I was in the barracks. This is a perk I won't complain about, that's for sure. Optimus is insisting all of us Primes take quarters in the towers. For both myself and Hot Rod, there's a certain perception among the troops that we're young and perhaps lacking in authority. It's a psychological deal. Now that we have an army here, he's reminded us to behave more formally."

Judy patted him on the knee. "You feel guilty about the fancy quarters, don't you?"

"A bit," he conceded. This was particularly true since he wasn't even going to _be _here for the next several years. He felt bad that he was taking up a whole floor even though officers of equal rank to him (minus the Matrix) had studios farther down the tower. At least his quarters would be used by his humans while he was gone (and Optimus had noted that this would help ensure their safety) but he still felt uneasy. He wasn't used to _any _luxury.

"Who's the Nebuilan out on the deck?" Judy asked, as a man walked walked around the corner.

The man was unreeling cable from a spool behind him. Bee, at first, thought that the Nebulan might be doing labor under supervision from someone else. Then, when the man looked up, saw him, and pinged them his ID, Bee recognized him belatedly.

"Oh, that's Hawk. He's a pretender." Bee opened the exterior door and stepped through. A stiff wind swirled around his armor, and tugged at the Witwicky's clothes.

It was ten degrees cooler than the toasty temperature at ground level, and Judy commented, "It'd be nice to leave the doors open up here."

Bee agreed that the breeze would be pleasant, but his focus was on Hawk. "Steelhawk," he said, "It's been a long time."

"Since Nebulos," Hawk agreed, raking hand through his fluffy white hair. "Never thought I'd see Nebulans again."

_Oh, Primus. _A continent away, a slow smile spread over Bee's humanoid form, causing Sam to glance up at him suspiciously over their dinner. He thought, _Primus. Hawk's a _scout. _He lived on Nebulos for hundreds of thousands of years. His entire team did. He was a Nebulan citizen, part of _their _military, and they were so much in love with Nebulan culture that they took Nebulan forms to blend seamlessly into their world. He's more Nebulan than Cybertronian. We used to tease him that his energon had blood in it._

"Yes," Bee said, politely. "It's a shame it's under these circumstances."

"Meh. They're not stupid. They won't attack now that Fort Max is here. Not after you guys cleaned their clocks the first time."

He almost pinged Optimus immediately to request a meeting. He couldn't imagine a better team of scouts for Nebulos's colony than Hawk and the other pretenders. _And _it would let Bee stay on Earth. Oh, Primus. _Yes. _But then it occurred to him that it was a very risky assignment. If he convinced Optimus to send Hawk, and something happened to the other mech, it would really be his fault.

Bee was truly torn. Steelhawk could certainly handle this particular assignment. Bee truly did not want to go to Nebulos. He wanted to stay on Earth, his adopted home, with his beloved humans. He was truly enjoying the politics, the PR work. If he stayed, he could raise sparklings with Mikaela and Sam -- and perhaps a human child or two.

He wanted to _settle_.

But he didn't want to send another mech on a wildly risky assignment. The reaction of Nebulan mechs to Cybertronians was plenty enough to convince him that his discovery would be his death. Or Hawk's, if Hawk replaced him.

Over dinner two thousand miles away, his smile slipped. Sam asked him what was wrong and he assured him it was nothing. It felt like a lie.

"Bee?" Hawk said, looking up at him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine." He turned to the Witwicky's. "This is Steelhawk. He's a mech, technorganic like my other half. Hawk, these are Judy and Ron Witwicky, my partner Sam's parents."

It was the first time he'd referred to Sam as his _partner _in public. While they couldn't interface, he felt the relationship was close enough. At the moment, over dinner, Sam had just lightly touched two fingers to the back of Bee's hand and asked him if everything was _really _okay. He told him he'd talk about it later. He probably would.

"Yeah, I heard you'd joined the ranks of us squishies-with-sparks. How's that working out for you?" Hawk asked.

"It's a learning experience," he replied. "I enjoy the sensory feedback. _Eating _is still difficult, and I'm having a hard time getting in decent athletic shape with my workload."

Steelhawk chuckled. "Could be worse. My biggest problem is I _like _to eat, and I never have time to exercise." He patted his stomach. Bee didn't think he was at all overweight, but he was burly, with a sturdy build. He was close to the same height as Bee's humanoid alt, but probably a good fifty pounds heavier. It was _all _muscle.

Bee wanted to put on some muscle mass himself, but a quick calculation in his head of the calories he'd have to eat to support a comparable bulk to Hawk left him intimidated. He was pleased when he managed to force himself to eat enough to avoid losing weight. Eating just wasn't a natural behavior for him.

However, Hawk's comment earned a laugh from Ron. He'd gone tense at the mention of Sam, and seemed relieved to be on a safer subject. "Boy, I hear you there."

Steelhawk grinned. "You must be pretty pleased for your son. Bumblebee's a good mech -- and a _Prime _now. Half my team was chasing him the last time he worked with us, and I never could figure out if he was truly oblivious or if he was just deliberately obtuse."

Bee snorted. He also made a point of not reacting to the scowl that touched Ron's face. He admitted, "The second one."

Hawk laughed. "Yeah, Landmine _was _pretty obvious. It's not like you could miss him inviting you along on every adventure he could think of when he was off duty, nevermind the moon eyes he kept giving you."

A few moments too late to be spontaneous, Judy said brightly, "We _love _Bee. Don't we, honey?"

Clearly, that was for Hawk's benefit. Ron said slowly, "He's alright."

That was more of a concession than Bee had been expecting. He waited for an insult or sarcastic comment to follow, and none came. Hawk, apparently realizing there was some sort of issue here, said in nearly the same tone of bright oblivion that Judy had displayed a minute ago, "Well! I should get back to work! Blaster asked me to string some communications cables up here."

"See you around, Steelhawk," Bee said, and led the way back indoors. After the door slid shut behind him he told the Witwickys, ''Hawk and his crew was assigned to a scout ship after the fall of Nebulos. His form's not really suited for stationing on Cybertron, because obtaining food and maintaining an oxygen atmosphere are too difficult, and background radiation level is too high to permit long-term residence. He must have just been passing through when the attack happened."

Judy said slowly, "You can't go home then, either, can you?" His humanoid form would have the same problems with living on Cybertron.

"There's ways it could be done, either a new form or a protective shell and having provisions shipped in, but I can't imagine leaving Earth, and I can't imagine Sam and Mikaela being happy on Cybertron. Nor could I imagine leaving them."

"Yet you are leaving," Ron said, gruffly. "You're going to be gone for years. And you're expecting my boy to _wait _for you."

He met the elder Witwicky's sharp gaze as the man glared up at him.

Ron continued, "Oh, I understand why you've got to go, but I wish you'd kept your feelings about Sam to yourself if there was a chance you might leave. You're going to break his heart." Ron folded his arms, as if defying Bee to deny that.

"I thought you didn't approve of us," Bee said, both surprised and a bit curious about Ron's apparent change of heart.

"I don't. I still think it's a damn fool crazy thing you three have going. But I want Sam to be _happy_. And he's going to be miserable when you leave." Ron turned his back to Bee. "I just hate to see Sam upset like that. You're going to break his heart, Bee. You got him to love you, and now you're leaving."

"I don't expect Sam to wait for me," Bee said, softly.

"Then why all this?" Ron gestured around them at the empty suite. "Why would you do this for Sam and for us if you're not asking him to wait? I can't see this thing with Mikaela lasting because she's not the kind of girl who settles down and starts a family, y'know? So someday, my boy's going to be up here by himself, waiting for you, all alone, and he's going to feel obligated to wait. He's eighteen years old, Bee. He's not done growing up. By the time you get back, he could have a whole different outlook on life, and want -- need -- something completely different than what you're offering him. It's not fair to him to do all this for him, and leave."

"I'm not trying to make him feel obligated."

"No?" Ron waved his hands around. "You convince us to move up here. We remodel a couple of those great big rooms into an apartment. Then Sam meets someone special, someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with. But we're living in your home. If he falls in love with someone other than you, marries them, whatever, that means _we _have to move out of our home. You think that's _fair _to Sam?"

Stricken, Bee stared at them. "I wouldn't make you two move out. Or Sam. He's my friend. And I only ... I only wanted to help. To do a nice thing for all of you. And I hope you're wrong about Mikaela, because both Sam and I love her a great deal."

Judy reached up and patted his knee. "Bee, we know you love each other. Just make sure Sam understands that he's not _obligated _to wait for you, okay? I know that's not how you meant this. Ron's just worried he might see it that way, and I think he's right."

"I'm sorry." He wasn't sure why he was apologizing, except that they were right. He hadn't really thought this through completely.

Gruffly, Ron said, "Damnit, Bee, just ... just make sure he understands he can move on if he needs to, okay? I don't want my boy hurt. And you'd _better _come back to him, you hear?"

"And you'd better come back to _us_, too," Judy patted his knee again. "Don't let him fool you. He's just got his man pride all worked up. Ron _does _like you."

"Do not," Ron snapped, but there was a faint light of humor in his eyes.

"And we'll accept the offer," Judy said. "There's plenty of space here."

"What? Judy!" Ron protested.

"What?" She turned to face him, though her hand still rested on Bee's armor. "God, Ron, the view's gorgeous, the light's amazing, and you can't beat the security or the neighbors or the rent. Yes, we'll accept."

Bumblebee crouched down, and looked her in the eyes. "I'll talk to Sam, tonight, about this. I _love _him. If he will be happier with someone else, then I would accept that decision. I want him to be happy, more than anything else. I will make sure he understands he doesn't need to wait for me if he will be happy with someone else."

Judy reached her hand up and touched his arm. "Thank you."

He nodded, then rose. "Let me show you the other rooms, and you can pick which one you want."


	86. Chapter 86

Chapter 86

* * *

It said something essential about their forces that Optimus had reacted to the arrival of half his army with relative happiness, and was mostly worried about human reactions. Fang, on the other hand, seriously contemplated leaving the dozen prisoners in the brig for a few more days. However, they'd been locked up for months and didn't even, at this point, know what world they were on. He decided he could always put them in his own brig if they misbehaved.

The real problem was that they were all from Cybertron. He didn't know any of them, and they didn't know him. He knew this would be the first test of his ability to lead as the Decepticon Prime, rather than a field commander.

Red Alert was practically vibrating with concern. "They've not been well behaved. We've had to disable the motor functions on two of them as they were fighting with each other, but it would have been crueler to put them into solitary. Nobody's told them anything. They probably realize Fort Max moved, but they don't know where."

"So they've been in Max's brig the entire time?" Fang said, tolerantly. Red drove him nuts, but he was being deliberately polite. Ratchet, of course, consistently complimented him on his acting abilities whenever the subject of Red Alert came up. Fang couldn't figure out _how _Ratchet could read him so well, because he was pretty sure he was hiding his irritation from the rest of the world.

"It's located in Max's shoulder, and doesn't subspace or collapse during transit, so we left them in place." Red Alert tapped his own shoulder to demonstrate the location. "Nobody else stayed with Max except for some work crews to do emergency repairs. They've been alone since we left Cybertron. There's heat and light, and they have each other, and we've been monitoring their physical condition remotely."

"Nobody's even told them where they are now?" Fang said, dismayed.

"We felt it safer to leave them in the dark." Red Alert's lips pressed together in general disapproval.

"What would they do, break out and run to me?" Fang raised both optic ridges.

"Break out, escape into the human population, and hide," Red Alert said, promptly. "Which could be a possible PR nightmare, leading to increased security risks from a hostile native population ..."

"Yeah, yeah, gotcha. I'm amazed you have so little faith in your own brig's integrity," Fang said, which was probably less diplomatic than was wise, but Red pissed him off.

"I trust nothing."

"Wise mech," Fang chuckled, knowing Red would find his amusement irritating. He wasn't disappointed, either, when Red's faceplates set into a sharp scowl. "Don't trust me. I might be an eeeeeeeevil Decepticon."

Ironhide, walking behind both of them, commented, "My cannons have always made short work of evil Decepticons. Red Alert doesn't need to worry."

"Yeah, yeah, 'Hide. You know you love me." Fang didn't even bother to turn around as he said this.

Ironhide's lipplates twitched. Fang could see the expression with his peripheral optics. "I think you're confusing me with Ratchet."

"Do you have to _joke _with him?" Red Alert protested, aloud, and with a glare in Fang's direction.

Fangface smirked, "But joking with me is so much fun, Red. You ought to try it. It's good for the spark."

"Joking with you risks a dangerous lowering of our guard." Red Alert just simply refused to relent. Fang had quit taking it personally the day before, when he realized that even Optimus found the mech's agitation mildly tiresome. It had also occurred to him that Red Alert wouldn't have survived ten seconds in the Decepticon army, because somebody would have shot him out of pure aggravation. It was one thing to be suspicious of everyone. Fang certainly had his wary moments. It was quite another to be actively offensive and rude about it.

Red Alert was indisputably the best security officer the Autobots had. They tolerated him because he was good.

_We probably would have won the war long ago if we'd had different leadership, _Fang thought, _leaders who brought out the talents in their mechs rather than crushing them for their flaws._

He'd learned something from watching the way that the Autobots treated mechs like Red Alert, or Bluestreak, or Sunstreaker. They were far from perfect, perhaps even badly damaged on a psychological level, but they all had a place, and they all knew they belonged. This was a culture he wanted to develop among his own army.

He thought, _We need to start pulling together. The Decepticons have been united by a lust for power and out of hatred for the Autobots, but that has to stop. I need to change the very culture of our army, if I am going to truly end the fighting and create a better future for all of us._

Unexpectedly, his Matrix stirred. The Primes of the Past seemed to crowd close, an indefinable _presence _that made him stop short in his tracks. The Autobots -- Red, Ironhide, four guards, and Hoist -- halted too. Ironhide nearly bumped in to him, and rumbled a subvocal insult. He held a hand up, hoping they would be quiet.

_:Good, Fang.: _A somber voice rose from the Matrix. _:Make us proud.:_

"But how?"

"What's wrong with him?" Red demanded.

"Primes," Fang said, "of of the past getting talkative, all that slag."

Ironhide rolled his optics. "Slagger's Matrix keeps chattering at him. What is it this time, Fang?"

_:Find their talents. Give them a reason to live other than winning an impossible war.:_

"Find their talents?"

The presence was gone, however, swirling away with a physical rush of wind. Ironhide felt it too, and bared his dental ridges in a snarl. "Better you than me, Fang."

Fang folded his arms. "Yeah, yeah. I'm special. They like me."

Hoist scanned Fang, and saw something that made his optic ridges rise very high. "Fang, your armor's about ten degrees cooler than the surrounding atmosphere. You just came in from outside. It should be warmer."

"That means?" Fang asked.

"There's a theory that when the Primes of the past manifest, they use energy from the environment to do so. I'd say that's proof you did just have a visit."

"Well, I'm not _lying_," he snapped, irritated that Hoist thought he might be. Then he added, "They pull from my power cells, too, when they manifest. I can feel the draw."

"I'd like to study the seven of you," Hoist replied, head tilted to one side. "It's just such a remarkable thing. There's a lot we don't know about how the Matrixes work, and since they're tied to the creation of a new Allspark, it could be useful research."

Fangface could agree with that. "I wouldn't mind knowing more about the Matrix either. It has a fair amount of information within it about how it works -- I can send you the files if you're curious -- but you're right. Nobody really understands _how _the Order is able to maintain a presence in this plane of existence."

"Power draw, huh?" Ironhide said, suddenly folding his arms over his chest. A sour expression crossed his face. He addressed thin air with a barked, "Okay, what do you want from me? ..." his eyes flickered as he clearly received a communication. "... What? Oh, no, don't you _dare _leave now. _Slaggers_. Fragging _slaggers_. You could tell us more, you're just choosing not to."

Fang chuckled. "Irritating, aren't they?"

Ironhide kept his arms crossed. "They state there are eight Primes."

Red Alert counted on his fingers, probably for dramatic effect, "Ratchet, Ironhide, Bee, Rodimus, Grimlock, Optimus, and -- Primus help us -- the Decepticon. Who's number eight?"

"Damned if I know." Ironhide grumbled. "The only other thing they said was that they find my attitude funny. I don't have an attitude."

"You _are _an attitude." Fang clapped him on the arm as he walked past, heading again in the direction of the brig. They could discuss the Order's message later. It wasn't critically important, or Ironhide would have known. "You are a bigger attitude than I am. I take notes from you. I learn something about displaying attitude-ness every time I see you, and that's amazing, given the attitude problem my own army has."

Ironhide growled, "Fang, has anyone ever told you that you're the perfect size and speed for target practice?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're not too tough for me to take down?" Fangface shot back, but he was grinning when he said it. Even so, Red Alert stiffened. The other Autobots just laughed, even 'Hide.

Ironhide _hated _Decepticons. Fang knew that. To see any sort of affection from Ironhide made him uneasy. What if he couldn't live up to that faint hint of approval? He simply smiled, however, and kept any trace of unease off his face.

They proceeded up to the brig, which was deep within the base. Along the way, they passed more mechs than Fang had seen in one place in a very long time. He was used to ships with complements of a few dozen, or a hundred at the most. Not an army.

The soldiers were hard at work, painting the halls, polishing floors, rewiring damaged circuits, and scrubbing soot from a small electrical fire off the ceiling in one section. Fang, Ironhide, and their entourage wound their way around a chasm in the floor in another, and below the gap he could see several mechs deep within Fort Max's internals, welding on a coolant tank for Fort Max's nuclear reactor.

(The humans had apparently _freaked _when they learned that Max used a uranium reactor for power, despite some of their own submarines, satellites, and aircraft carriers operating with similar systems. Optimus, unimpressed by the hysteria, had reportedly responded with an offer to sell the plans for the nuclear reactor to the highest bidder. It was safer and more efficient than anything humanity had invented.)

Finally, they reached the fortified blast door that blocked off the brig. Red Alert pinged it; the door would only open by request of a handful of mechs. When it slid aside, a chorus of surprised cries greeted them. If nobody had come through the door since the Decepticons were captured, they'd probably resigned themselves to their isolation months before.

On one hand, Fang could understand the Autobot logic. The prisoners were safe, secure, and out of the way. Accessing the brig was a bit of a risk. If anyone had figured out a way to escape a cell, they could attack a guard. The whole area was under surveillance by Max and the security team, and it wasn't like mechs needed to eat or drink as human prisoners did.

However, it felt cruel. Nobody had told them a thing about their situation. They had been alone, neglected, and isolated.

_:Let me go first,: _Fang asked, impulsively, of Ironhide and Red. _:Please. This will go better if they see me in control.:_

:Anything to avoid trouble,: Red said, surprising Fang.

Ten pairs of optics stared at him, falling silent. He didn't know any of these mechs beyond their designations. Four were lightly built scouts, and five were heavy ground fighters. One was a seeker, so badly damaged that he was barely recognizable as to model type. _Good thing we've got some empty seeker protoforms. That's way beyond repairable. _The ten mobile mechs were two to a cell. The seeker barely qualified as 'mobile'

The final two were lying on the floor between the cells. One was a very heavily armored tank, who averted his gaze as they approached. The other was a predacon, with coppery armor. He was bigger and blockier than Fang, with visible transformation seams to hint at a bipedal mode. Fang estimated that the mech would stand easily fifteen or sixteen feet high on two legs, and he probably had half again Fang's mass. Currently, he was in a Clydesdale sized felinoid form, sprawled limply on his side.

Curious, Fang padded closer. The mech's optics followed him. His motor relays were completely cut, and likely his comm, too. Fang had never met this particular predacon, though he'd heard of him. Pounce was Shockwave's good soldier, fiercely loyal to the late commander, and wickedly dangerous in a fight. Many of his stats were superior to Fang's. He was faster, stronger, and a good bit heavier. He had shoulder-mounted plasma cannons that Fang simply didn't have the power generation to support, though those plasma cannons were currently sitting on Fang's lab bench. The Autobots had taken the cannons apart, and they needed repair. His struts and armor were the standard duryllium, but his hydraulics, motors and struts were very heavily upgraded, causing a bulk, massive build that made Fang feel almost frail in comparison.

The only real advantage Fang would have in a fight with this mech would be his agility. He could jump a little higher, bend a little more, duck a little quicker. His small size _might _be to his advantage if they were fighting in a tight space.

He considered all of this, then asked, "Are you able to speak?"

"Who are you?" The mech said, proving the Autobots hadn't been so cruel as to cut his vocalizer. Fang was mildly irritated at the question, because Pounce really should have recognized him. Granted, they'd never met face to face, but he knew who all the other predacons in the army were. The only reason they hadn't actually served together was that Fang had sized the other 'con up from a distance and decided he didn't want to risk a fight with a mech with a close-quarters fighting style similar to his own.

"My name is Lord Fangface, Decepticon Prime. I am Megatron's successor in leading the Decepticons."

The room _exploded _into questions and comments from the other prisoners.

Pounce hissed, "A trick! Lord Shockwave would never follow you."

"The Autobots killed Shockwave several weeks ago." Fang glanced around at the prisoners. They fell silent at this news, watching him closely. He wasn't fooled into thinking that they believed him. Still, he told them the facts. The would get confirmation from the other Decepticon soldiers later, when they got back to their quarters. "Soundwave, Megatron, and Starscream are dead. Starscream at my hand, and Soundwave and Megatron in battle with the Autobots. I now lead the Decepticon army, with Thundercracker and Aquaregia as my second and third in command, and with the full support of many of the upper level officers."

"A trick!" Pounce insisted. "The Autobots would never allow a Decepticon commander into Fortress Maximus."

"Naw." Ironhide smiled, slow and easy. "We let Lord Friendlyfangs in. He's ..."

"... Don't you _ever _call me that again!" Fang spun around with a real flare of anger. Ironhide's amusement at his expense could cost him authority with his mechs.

Ironhide snorted, unimpressed by Fang's swift reaction. Fangface realized he'd just guaranteed that Ironhide _would _use the hated nickname again, and probably at awkward moments. With a disgruntled growl, Fang turned back to Pounce. "It's no trick, Pounce. You'll see, soon enough. I'm here to take you home."

"Now I _know _it's a trick," Pounce insisted. "They haven't even interrogated us."

"The Autobots and I have an agreement," Fang said, "and there was no need for an interrogation. They do not intend to reclaim Cybertron, as there would be no tactical advantage to it and the battle would only lead to a great loss of life ..."

Pounce said in a slow tone of voice that left Fang wondered what he was thinking, "You mean, they're letting us go because we won?"

"No." Fang glanced over at Hoist, who was readying a datapad to access Pounce's autonomics and restore his motor functions. "They're letting you go because it's the right thing to do, and as a show of good faith to me. We've been taking small steps towards formally ending the war. Your release is one of them."

"And you're here, personally, to get us out."

Fang chewed on his nail. He couldn't help it the nervous gesture, and when he realized he was nibbling he didn't even bother to lower his hand. Pounce's stubborn refusal to believe him was unnerving. How likely was it that other 'cons were reacting the same way to the news of his coup? Was the 'con army rife with skepticism and mistrust?

_Of course they are. They've never had a leader they can believe in, before. They were simply united by anger and rage towards the Autobots. _He knew that.

Finally, Fang explained, "Pounce, Hoist is going to restore your ability to move. If he does so, will you promise to mind your manners until we get out of Fortress Maximus? You can talk to the other 'cons when we get home and verify my story."

"I'll behave," Pounce said, a bit sullenly.

Fang turned to the other motionless mech. He had damage to his armor very similar to the sort of destruction Fang's own claws could wreak. "And you, Boomer?"

"Hnh."

"Use your words, please," Fang said, in exactly the tone he would have used on one of his children if he'd gotten a non-verbal grunt.

"Yes," Boomer said, sounding a little surprised by the rebuke. "I won't make trouble, unlike a certain cat I know."

"You better be referring to Pounce and not me," Fang said, lightly. He borrowed a trick from Ratchet and patted Boomer firmly on the shoulder. The mech was big enough that Fang only needed to bend over a little to do it, even though Boomer was flat on his back. His torso was massive, paired to short, solid legs and stubby arms. Ratchet's habit of getting in the space of his patients seemed to give him a psychological upper edge, and Fang hoped it would work for him, too.

Boomer's optics flashed in surprise. Yep, Fang decided, he'd definitely learned a new trick for psyching mechs out.

"And the rest of you. I want a promise from each of you to behave. That means you will walk quietly with me out of the base. You will not speak, you will walk calmly between the guards, and you will make no sudden moves. If the Autobots have to take any of you down, I will not stop them. I may help them. Is that clear?"

A chorus of agreement followed. Fang suspected they were all so eager to get out of the brig that they would have agreed to almost anything. He made sure he'd heard each mech voice their assent, then nodded to Hoist. "Go ahead and let Pounce and Boomer up."

Hoist released Boomer first. The large mech, with a creak of long-unused joints, sat up. He winced and rotated his shoulders. Fang, who'd been punished a few times in his life with forced immobility, felt a little sympathy. "Take your time," he said, patting Boomer on the arm again. "There's no real hurry."

"Optimus and I have a meeting with Keller, the President, and the chiefs of staff in half an hour," Ironhide pointed out. "On strategic placement of our forces. It's one I'd rather not be late to."

"Like I said, no real hurry." Fangface bared his teeth in a grin. Ironhide clicked his machine gun a couple of times in reaction. He asked Ironhide, _:And how come I'm not invited to that meeting?:_

:Ratchet says you're still supposed to be off duty,: Ironhide's tone of voice over the comm was friendly. _:Thundercracker's attending. He's got a surprisingly good head for tactics. Honestly, you should have let Strika fetch these prisoners. We've got you covered, kid.:_

:Almost sounds like you like Thundercracker.: He ignored the comment about his leave, and the 'kid' endearment both.  
_  
:What?: _Ironhide grinned. _:I'm not allowed to like 'cons? Guess that's your loss, Friendly ...:_

He cut the comm before Ironhide could get out all of his hated nickname. And then he realized that Ironhide had just admitted he liked Fang. Fang blinked at him.

Ironhide rotated the barrel of his cannon.

Right.

He turned back to Boomer, who was giving Fang a somewhat suspicious look. Fang knew exactly what that look was about, and rested a hand on Boomer's shoulder. "I know that most of my predecessors would have kicked you until you stood up, but it's really more efficient to treat people well. You'll find I'm a fair boss if you work with me. I can be a real aft if you don't."

Boomer grunted acknowledgment.

"Okay, Pounce. You next." Hoist knelt, hooked the data pad into the mech's port, and released the motor lock.

Pounce started to roll to his feet in a swift rush, and only got as far as pushing himself up into a sitting position. An expression of raw pain crossed his face. Fang heard a grinding noise within Pounce's torso, and he guessed that the problem was worse than stiff joints. "Pounce, you have injuries?"

"I'm fine. The auto-repair's almost done."

"Don't lie to me. That didn't sound good at all." Fang turned to Hoist. "Can I borrow your scanner?"

Hoist calmly passed it over. Fang made a face at what he saw. "That's not going to auto repair, Pounce. You've got some pretty massive damage to your primary gears. One of the gears is dislocate and fractured, and there's too much tension on it for your repair nanytes to pull it back into place."

"I can still fight," Pounce asserted.

"I don't doubt it. Your hydraulics pistons in your hips are compensating for the broken drive gears, but you'll eventually blow a hydraulic seal, probably in the middle of a fight." Fang found some other, minor, injuries. They all looked like stress damage. "Bet you did all that fighting with big and ugly here," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Boomer. "I've had similar things happen."

"Yeah," Pounce said, reluctantly.

"Don't worry." Fang handed the scanner back to Hoist. "It's all fixable. I need good mechs, and you'll all have a place in my army here once you're repaired."

Boomer's voice was slow and thoughtful when he said, "You know, I'd heard of you. A buddy of mine said he went on a couple missions with you. He got hurt on a mission and you had to leave him behind, but he said you did some field repairs so that he could get himself back to the base, then you checked on him later. Most commanders would have left him to die, because you were in hostile territory at the time. He never expected you to see how he was doing, later."

"Which buddy?" Fang asked.

"Gunpowder."

Fang sighed, recognizing the name of a small, tough little scout. "He died about ten year ago. He was a good mech."

"I know." Boomer tilted his head sideways, studying Fang. "I didn't know he was still serving with you."

"He wasn't, but I'd kept tabs on him. I was sorry to hear about that. I liked him."

The big mech slowly stood up, bracing one hand against the wall. "He liked you, too. Said you were fair and you were good at keeping people alive."

"I try." He resolved not to think of Deathwheels, without much success. Death's betrayal and Death's loss were a constant presence in the back of his processor and any mention of anyone dying brought that pain back.

Red Alert opened the cells with a series of transmitted commands, and most of the other mechs walked out. The seeker remained in his cell, seated, legs limp. His cellmate said, "Airfoil can't walk."

"Boomer, will you pick him up?" Fang said. Boomer's injuries were all superficial, mostly shredded and bent armor.

The big mech nodded, stepped into the cell, and knelt. The seeker didn't say anything as he was lifted up, he just offlined his optics. Fang wasn't sure if that was depression or a reaction to pain, and he walked over to them. "Hey, Airfoil, you're going to be okay."

No response.

His cellmate grunted. "Don't bother. We all know he's scrap. He knows it too."

Fang reached up and squeezed Airfoil's hand. "You're going to be at the head of the list for repairs. I promise."

The seeker didn't answer.

"If you're done kissypooing at your troops, can we get a move on?" Ironhide headed for the exit, not waiting to see if they were going to follow.

The procession of prisoners and guards headed down to the main hall, and then outside. It was very late in the day, and Fang said cheerfully, "You guys will sleep in proper recharge berths tonight. Airfoil, I'm going to get the medics to work on you now. Pounce, I think you can wait a few days since you're mobile. We've got some other patients who need work who are a bit more badly damaged. However, I _promise _you'll be fine."

Boomer said softly, "I don't think Airfoil believes you. I think he's just given up. He's waiting to die."

Honestly, Fang wasn't even sure if Airfoil had his audio sensors turned on.

"Yeah." That was Pounce. "You're going to have to prove yourself, Fangface. You can't just walk in with pretty words and expect us to believe you."

Ironhide and the Autobots dropped back as they approached the Decepticon base. Fang gestured at the cement structure. "It's under construction still, but it's home."

"Too close to the Autobots. _Primus. _They could decide to slag us ..." Pounce's attention shifted from Fang to the towers, heavily armed with laser cannons. His words were sharply critical.

"Honestly, I'm not worried about the 'bots." Fang slowed his pace, hoping for a little time to talk to all of them. Only Boomer and Pounce were really talking, and he hoped the others would start. It would help him figure them out.

He continued, "Times are different, now. When I took command, I really did plan to defeat the Autobots. We outnumber them, and we have an overall tactical superiority. However, there's a lot that's happened -- I'll send you briefing files with the details as soon as your comms are back online -- and we ended up working together for the greater good of all."

Pounce snorted. "Working _with _the Autobots?"

"Yes."

"That'd be treason," Pounce stopped short.

Fang turned to face him, and that was the _only _warning he got. Pounce leaped, claws out, in a frighteningly familiar attack style. It was very like Fang's own. Fang had already determined he was more agile, however, and now he used that to his full advantage. He ducked very low to the ground, and Pounce's claws skimmed his shoulder, screeching over smooth armor.

_There's a reason my armor has so few protrusions, slagger, _Fang thought, as Pounce couldn't get a grip. He shot back up as Pounce slid over his back, dug his own claws hand into Pounce's lightly armored abdominal plating, and flung Pounce hard into the ground. He kept moving, teeth closing on Pounce's foreleg just above the elbow. He crunched down, making Pounce screech in agony, at the same time as he drove a clawed back foot into the inside of Pounce's back leg.

Pounce twisted forward, his own jaws closing on the back of Fang's neck.

_Slaggit! _he thought, as Pounce rammed the claws of his good hand into Fang's throat, aiming to disable his cranial sensors. Pounce hadn't been kidding when he said he could still fight.

_And you're moving using hydraulics alone. You're letting your drive gears in your hips spin free because they're broken._

Fang got his back feet underneath him, spun, and managed to fling Pounce off. Pounce came down on his back feet, landing in exactly the position Fang had intended. Fang drew on his solid knowledge of design tolerances for mech hydraulics and flung his full weight at Pounce. Pounce braced himself, and Fang went _low_, causing Pounce to bend over and dig his hind claws into the ground.

Fang wasn't particularly heavy, but he hit hard. Pounce strained against Fang's attack, and Fang saw snapping jaws inches from his optics. Pounce staggered, off balance, as a hydraulic piston bent. Fang abruptly pulled and twisted, throwing more of Pounce's weight onto his other leg.

_CRACK_.

Something gave in Pounce's internals. A hot gush of hydraulic fluid rushed out between the plates of his abdominal armor, and one back leg went limp. The other was frozen in an extended position by the bent piston.

Fang took advantage of Pounce's surprise and pain to get a good grip on the larger mech's throat and rip a chunk of his chest armor off with a kick from his back feet. The bigger predacon howled in shock. Fang pressed his tail-mounted laser rifle to Pounce's memory core. "Do you want to live or die?"

Pounce growled. "Just kill me!"

Fang released him in surprise at the answer.

Pounce pushed himself up into a sitting position. Hydraulic fluid puddled around his back legs. He didn't cringe or beg, he simply shuttered his optics and bent his head. "Just kill me."

"No." Fang transformed and stood up on two legs.

"Please."

Boomer said, "He's suicidal, I think."

"He'd have to be, to attack me before he was repaired." Fang shot Boomer a sideways look. There was something intriguing about him. He was listed in the Decepticon personnel records as just a frontline combat groundpounder, but Fang made a mental note to spend some time figuring Boomer out. He might be useful. Pounce, on the other hand, was potentially a problem.

"Why?" Fang asked. _Why were you trying to commit death by Prime? You know the oldest laws of our people. Even had you won the fight they would have killed you. You do not attack a Prime._

Pounce repeated, "Just kill me. Just _kill _me."

Fang wasn't even acting when his tone grew gentle and concerned. "Pounce, why do you want to _die_?

"Because," the mech hesitated, then blinked his optics open briefly at Fang, "because if what you've told me is true, I have no place in this world. You are a Prime. I can see it in your optics. I do not deserve to live. _Kill _me."

"What?" He was dumbfounded.

Pounce averted his face and turned his optics off again. "Please."

"No." Fang reached a hand out, and cradled his fingers under Pounce's chin, tilting his head up. "No, I will not kill you."

"I thought I was doing the right thing," Pounce whispered. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

Fang was aware that all the others were watching him, even Airfoil. He stroked Pounce's chin with his fingers. "Look at me, Pounce. Please."

Pounce shook his head, pulling free of Fang's grip. Fang sighed, deciding then and there to pull an all-nighter repairing the mech. Pounce's pain tore at his own spark. He stroked Pounce's cheek, "It will be okay, Pounce. I promise."

"Promises," the mech said, bitterly. "Megatron made a lot of those too."

"I'm not Megatron."

"That," Pounce replied, finally meeting his Fang's gaze, "is the point."

Pounce wouldn't say anything more. Fang finally ordered one of the bigger prisoners to pick the predacon soldier up, and carry him inside. Once in the base, he sent Airfoil to the med bay with Starcatcher, and instructed Boomer to pick Pounce up. The rest of the mechs he sent to the barracks where they could spend the night with the other soldiers. He'd debrief them in the morning.

"Where are you taking me?" Pounce asked, finally, as they descended the ramps down into the lower levels.

"My lab." Fang pinged the door open.

Wheelie was seated crosslegged on a table, coloring with Prism. He looked up, took in the damaged mech in Boomer's arm, then stood up, "Gonna need some help with the new guy?"

Fang had not really thought about asking Wheelie to help him with Pounce, but it did seem like a good idea. He nodded. "Boomer, if you will, put Pounce on the table here."

"Why am I in your quarters?" Pounce demanded, as Boomer set him down.

He didn't answer that question directly. Instead, he rested a hand on Wheelie's back as Boomer set Pounce down. "These are my children, Wheelie and Prism."

Prism had been looking at Boomer suspiciously. She finally decided, "Like Deathwheels!" and dove off the table and into the back room.

"Ah ... I take it the little one doesn't like someone named Deathwheels?" Boomer asked.

"To say the least." Fangface stroked Wheelie's back. "Don't take it personally. She only just decided Optimus Prime wasn't like Deathwheels."

"Sparklings," Pounce whispered. His optics snapped off again.

"Shh," Fang stroked the back of Pounce's neck. This only made the warrior tense up, so Fang desisted. He guessed, "Did you lose a child, Pounce? I know what that pain's like. It's awful."

"I've killed children. I _want _to kill them. I will again. I will kill _your _sparklings. I want to see them scream. I want to hear you cry their names out in grief and rage, made all the sweeter when you rage at my laughter. I want that power. I _want _it." Pounce struggled to sit up. Boomer planted a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back down. "Kill me, or I will kill them."

There was absolute conviction in Pounce's voice.

"It's what I am, Fang. I'm a killer. It's all I'll ever be. It's what I love. _Kill _me. My time is over."

Wheelie was the first to speak, with a passionate, "But you can _chose _to be different! I did it! I became an Autobot because I didn't like the Decepticons!"

"It's too late." Pounce rolled his head away from them. "Do it."

Fang very nearly pulled the trigger. There was madness in the mech's eyes. He was telling the truth, and not long ago, Fang would not have hesitated to terminate him like a mad dog. He was even _asking _to die.

_Ratchet might know how to fix this, _Fang thought, stroking a gentle hand down Pounce's shoulder. "No, Pounce. I won't do it. I'm going to put you under, and repair you. I promise I'll help you, though."

"It's too late for me," Pounce whispered.

Fang refused to believe that.

After he'd put the warrior into stasis lock, he ran a tired hand over his faceplate. He was leaning against the table and wondering if he'd made the right choice when Boomer asked, "Why didn't you just slag him? He's worse than a glitch head. Shockwave used him for the _dirty _jobs. He's not lying about killing sparklings. He used to bring the young ones back and ... do things to them. I _hate _that mech."

It didn't escape Fang's notice that Boomer had been very professional in his behavior. He'd carried Pounce as he was told, without complaint. He might hate Pounce, but he knew how to follow orders.

"C'mere," Fang pulled a cutting torch out of his subspace. Since he wasn't sure how to answer Boomer's question he simply said, "I'll fix your armor before I send you off to the barracks."

Boomer seemed fascinated by the tool in Fang's hand. He didn't move.

"What? Your chest plating's trashed. I can tell from here that the hinges are jammed. Easiest way to get the plates off is going to be to cut the mounts and weld on new ones." Fang waved the unlit torch around with one hand. "Fixing armor is sparkling's play."

"Sir." Boomer's words were very slow. "Why would you bother to repair me yourself? Surely there's medical staff for this."

"And they're all overworked, understaffed, and just had a broken seeker unexpectedly dropped in their midst. There's only fifty of us here, counting you guys. Everyone has multiple responsibilities. One of mine is helping the med bay as needed." He stroked Wheelie's back again. "I also enjoy it. Sometimes, fixing people is all that keeps me sane. Additionally, it's entirely possible that we could be attacked, though not by the Autobots. Fixing you isn't going to take me more than a couple of hours. Tactically, it's smarter to get you back into fighting condition and then work on the more seriously injured."

"You are really serious about fixing me yourself?"

"Completely. This will be quick. Now, get over here." Fang hitched himself up onto the table and sat down with his legs dangling over the edge.

Hesitantly, Boomer approached. He had to stand so close to Fang that he was definitely in Fang's personal bubble. The last time that Fang had been this close to another really big mech, it had been Deathwheels. He couldn't miss the comparison. The reminder hurt, and for a moment, Fang froze. Boomer shifted his weight uncertainly.

Fang firmly rested a hand on Boomer's chest, stretched up, and began to cut at a hinge. "Let me know if I hit a sensor, but I'm usually pretty good at avoiding them."

"You didn't kill Pounce because you want to fix him," Boomer's voice made Fang pause again, this time because Boomer had guessed right.

"Yup." Fang wasn't going to disagree.

"Makes you look weak, when you make decisions like that." Boomer's voice was a low, worried rumble. Then he closed his mouth and added, "Sorry. Perhaps I overstep my bounds."

"Eh. You're right, it can." He turned to Wheelie, "Kiddo, go get me the scanner from my desk drawer, will you? There's a sensor close to here," he tapped a seam, "and I don't want to hit it."

Boomer looked down at the torch, then back up at Fang's face. The big mech's expression softened. "But you are _not _weak. I've seen you fight."

"Tcha. By myself, I am nothing. It's the support of my troops that makes me strong." Wheelie tossed the scanner up to him, and Fang located the sensor he was concerned about. He started to cut around it. "I can take down mechs many times my size, Boomer. I've done it. I took out _Astrotrain _last week." Fang thumped the plate of armor with his fist, loosening it, then started to cut through a jammed latch. "This might hurt a little as I work in this spot. It's going to warm up a pressure sensor to an uncomfortable degree."

Boomer grunted. "No biggy."

"Yeah, I figured you were a tough guy." Fang patted his shoulder. "I can take out individual mechs, Boomer, but to run an army? I need followers."

"Gunpowder adored you," Boomer said, thoughtfully. "He wanted to follow you when you were reassigned to the Nemesis. He was scared Megatron might frag you. He said you had ambition, and dreams, and that you might lead us all someday.""

"He really was a good mech. I had made him aware of some of my dreams." Fang rammed the heel of his hand into the armor plate, making Boomer sway slightly. The piece came loose and he caught it as it fell. "Here, Wheelie, go take this over to the forge and heat it up. I'll beat the dents out in a minute."

"My Lord," Boomer said, as if coming to a conclusion, "how can I serve you?"

"Well," Fang said, "we always need fighters. That's sort've the nature of having an army. However, what other skills do you have?"

"You have my personnel files, right?" Boomer sounded hesitant, now.

"It says you're a front liner. All you've done for the length of the war is to fight."

"Yeah, I'm good at it."

"Are you proud of that?"

"No." Boomer blinked crimson optics. He seemed surprised by the question. "Not really."

"Good. I'm not particularly proud of all the people I've had to kill, either."

The admission made Boomer frown. Fang continued to work. He could tell Boomer was thinking hard. He removed two more plates of armor and started on the finicky work of grinding off the remnants of broken armor mounts. This was the most difficult part, because there were many sensors he had to remove or work around. While their armor had no tactile sense itself as human skin did, there were many pressure and vibration sensors.

Boomer said, finally, "Military survey. Quintesson hunting."

"Huh. You were a surveyor?"

"Nah." Boomer shrugged. "I was the muscle. I've always been the muscle. Somebody had to keep the nerds alive."

"You like being the muscle?"

"It's a living." Boomer frowned. "I joined the 'cons at the outset of the war because I figured I had a better chance of keeping my aft alive under military leaders than slaggin' civilians. I figured it was going to be ugly. I never thought I'd live to see the end of our civilization."

"Do you regret joining the 'cons?"

A shrug was his only answer, for a moment. Then Boomer said, in a thoughtful tone, "It takes two sides to fight a war. The Autobots were better at war than I expected."

"Any idea why they're better than you expected?" Fang asked, curious to see just how insightful this mech was.

The answer he got didn't disappoint him, either. Boomer explained, "In the beginning, both sides were fighting for what they believed in. It was mostly about money, and who had it, and who didn't. The Autobots were the haves, the Decepticons the have-nots. Both sides had a lot of idealism. As the war wore on, however, most of the 'cons who were fighting out of righteousness realized their leaders were just power-hungry despots. They skipped sides, went neutral, whatever. What was left was an army of glitch heads, sadists, a whole hell of a lot of crazy-ass younglings, and psychotic, cunning nut jobs like Pounce. Plus people like you and me who had their own reasons for staying."

Boomer's slow, measured voice continued, "The Autobots, on the other hand, never lost sight of their beliefs. They're fanatical about them. That's both a strength and a weakness. The reason that we have been winning is that we are willing to do things that the Autobot's won't, and we are _better _fighters, as many of our mechs are military makes. The reason they have lasted so long is faith. They believe they're doing the right thing, and they will die for those beliefs."

"Do you believe they're in the right?"

"In the beginning, both side were in the wrong. Now, the Autobots _are _the good guys."

Fang considered the mech's words, coming to some interesting conclusions. Boomer was intelligent, well-spoken, and had good insight into people's behavior. He respected the Autobots, and his behavior so far implied that he could be trusted to follow orders and mind his manners in public. He'd also tangled with Pounce -- who was probably a better fighter than Fang -- and survived with only minor injuries. He wasn't loyal to the Decepticons, but it was probably for the right reasons. Fang thought he could earn Boomer's loyalty himself, simply by giving him hope.

"Boomer, I believe I know where I'd like to put you to work." Fang subspaced the cutting torch. "-- Wheelie, get me some armor clips, will you? -- I trust the Autobots leadership, but not necessarily individual mechs. I had a bodyguard, my partner, but he died a couple of weeks ago. I could use a good warrior to watch my back."

Silence greeted this offer. Fang waited, suddenly feeling nervous. Had he made the right call? What if Boomer turned out to be crazy, what if Fang's assessment of him was wrong and he wasn't trustworthy, or worse, what if Boomer ... what if Boomer was like Deathwheels? He couldn't handle that kind of pain again. He hoped desperately that Boomer would say no.

Boomer nodded, finally. "It could be dangerous, but what isn't?"

"Good. You can start tomorrow, after you get a night's recharge." Fang hid his sudden worry with a brisk tone and a bright grin.

The big mech returned the expression with a brief smile of his own. "Thank you for the opportunity, sir. I won't disappoint you."

* * *

The observation deck was windswept, and at this late hour, empty.

Mikaela said, as the lift doors opened onto the expanse of silvery metal, "Thank you, Max."

"You're welcome."

Mikaela jumped at the deep voice that seemed to come from all around her. She hadn't actually expected an answer. Fortress Maximus rarely said anything. Bee claimed he was just naturally quiet. He was an observer, who watched rather than interacting, and who would go years without speaking. It was considered polite to thank Max for responding to requests -- operating a lift, turning on lights, locking or unlocking doors -- but she had been warned not to expect a reply.

"You spoke!"

Silence stretched for so long that she thought he wasn't going to say anything else. However, finally, his words rumbled around her. "You are human."

"Yeah." She walked to the edge of the deck, where a wall of metal bars ten feet high provided protection from the drop. She could feel the tower swaying slowly beneath her feet, a barely perceptible motion caused by today's stiff wind. Overheard, stars gleamed.

"What is being human like?"

She had no idea how to answer the question, so she returned it with a question of her own. "What's being a living city like?"

It took him perhaps a minute to answer. "Everyone within my walls is my responsibility. My duty and my pleasure is to see that they are safe. Protecting them is my life."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"I do."

"Do you do anything for fun, for yourself?" She thought she would be bored very quickly, if she had his job.

Silence. "I play Quattra with Red Alert." Silence, again, for a moment. "Do you play?"

"No. It's a bit out of my league."

When he didn't say anything, she offered, "I play a pretty mean game of poker."

"Poker. I have never played this game before."

"We'd need to find some other players, but I'd be happy to play some games with you." She peered through the railing at the Decepticon base. One of the seekers landed on their roof as she watched, far below them.

"I would be pleased to play with you."

Mikaela rested her hand against one of the metal bars at the roof's edge. "I'm going to live here, you know."

"I am aware."

"Bee's leaving." She wasn't sure how she felt about that. His love for her was overwhelming. She didn't think she could deal with his sort of devotion on a daily basis, and that made her feel terribly guilty. On the other hand, he was going to be _gone_. He might not come back. And she wanted ... longed for ... the sort of relationship she knew he would give her.

Well, he was _leaving_. She wouldn't have to deal with it until he came back, if he ever came back.

"He has duties. He goes to seek information that will help us defend Earth."

Max's words were a sort of confirmation. Bee was leaving. Even the _city _knew it. She felt a stab of relief that Bee would be gone, followed by absurd guilt.

She yawned, a bit pointedly. "Nice talking to you, Max. I'm going to go to bed. I've got work tomorrow, early. But we will have to play that game of poker."

"Have a good evening, Mikaela. I look forward to speaking to you again."

Bee was waiting for her in his quarters, seated in a mech-sized chair by the window. He was reading a datapad, and shut it off as she approached. A number of blankets and some pillows were in his lap. She realized he probably wanted her to sit in his lap; it didn't takke a rocket scientist to make that connection. However, seeing the way he'd turned off datapad she laughed. "Don't mind me if that's classified. I don't read Cybertronian anyway, remember?"

He smiled at her, cheek plates bunching up. "Are you ready for bed?"

"Let me get changed." Bee had brought most of their furniture up earlier that day. She padded into the enormous, echoing room that was to be hers and Sam's, and slipped into her pajamas and a pair of boxers she was "borrowing" from Sam.

When she returned, Bee bent over, picked her up, and set her down in his lap. She'd expected to be cuddled, and perhaps a bit of talk before bed. However, he asked quietly, and a little nervously, "Will you sleep with me while I recharge tonight?"

"... sure."

After she'd lay down in the blanket-covered hollow between his thighs, he handed her the pillows and spread a final blanket on top of her. His hand rested, very lightly, on her back.

"What brought this on?"

"Sam's holding me," he said, explained. "I didn't want you to be left out. It's not right for you to be alone when we're together."

"Oh."

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yeah. Bee?"

"Yes?"

"I wish you could stay." She meant it, though she knew the morning would bring new worry. She was scared to _want _something so badly as she wanted Bee, because it would hurt all the more if she couldn't have him. "I'm so worried you won't come back."

"I might not." He sighed. "Mikaela, I'm going to be gone a long time. I _could _die. I promise I will do everything in my power to come back to you, but I also don't expect you to wait for me. You and Sam may or may not work out. I hope that you will. However, no matter what happens, you should not feel obligated to _wait _for me. You may find someone else to love, and I will not be angry or disappointed in you."

She sat bolt upright. "Wait, what?"

He tried to stroke her hair with fingers that could crush a man, but were so gentle when they touched her. She flinched aside and shoved his fingers away with both of her hands. "What?"

"Mikaela, I _love _you. Because I love you, I want you to be happy. I want you to understand that you _can _move on. I am in no way asking you to wait."

"No!" She tried to stand up. The blankets slipped under her feet and she landed on her butt, the impact barely cushioned by the thick pile of fabric. She felt tears spring to her eyes. "I thought you wanted me more than that!"

"Mikaela, I _love _you."

"But I thought you _wanted _me." She thumped her fist down on his leg. "I thought you wanted me a _lot_. If you wanted me as bad as I thought you did, you'd never tell me to move on!"

"I'm not telling you to move on, I'm telling you that you _can_. If you want to." He sounded shocked by her words.

She burst into tears. It hurt so bad to know he would let her go so easily. She'd thought he cared more for her than that. And yet he was just saying, _'Go. It's not that important to me. Go.'_

"Mikaela," he murmured, trying to stroke her back. "Mikaela, I love you. I _love _you."

"You'd never tell _Sam _he could go!" She flung the accusation at him like a weapon.

He flinched, visibly, as if it really had been a painful blow. Then, softly, he said, "I did tell him, Mikaela."

"Yeah? Bet you pissed him off, too!"

"He says he will wait for me. _He _understands what I am saying. I do not believe you do."

"I hear your words."

"But not the intent behind them." His hands were still, resting on his legs on either side of her. She stared up at him, naked tears running down her face. He offlined his optics, as if he couldn't bear looking at her. "My intent is only to see that you are happy, Mikaela. You and Sam, both."

"Then _fight _for me!" she sobbed out. "If you really cared, you'd fight! Not tell me it doesn't matter!"

"It does matter," he didn't move, and his words whispered out of his vocalizer as if on a gust of wind. "But I am strong. I can bear the pain if you leave me. It would hurt me more to know you felt honor bound to stay and wait for me, when you were not happy to do so."

"Yeah, well, we're talking about me. If I'm not happy I damn well _will _leave. You don't have to give me fucking permission to do so." She found her feet again. "Put me down. I'm going to sleep now."

"Will you stay with me tonight?" he repeated.

"Put me _down_."

He did, then handed her the blankets after. His face was more expressionless than usual. She wished he'd beg her to stay, she wished he'd try harder to convince her to remain cuddled with him. Instead, he rose. "I think I'll take a walk, Mikaela. I'll be back later. I am sorry."

* * *

Sam woke sometime close to midnight to soft, sighing noises from Bee.

"Hey, you okay?"

Sam's shoulder was wet. He realized Bee was crying.

"Mikaela didn't understand," Bee whispered. "I told her she could go. She thought it meant I didn't love her enough."

"Aw, shit. She got mad?"

"Yeah."

"I'll talk to her."

"In the morning, we both can." Bee clung to him. "Just hold me, tonight. Please."

"... okay."

"Sam, thank you."

"For what?"

"... for understanding."

"Yeah. Love you." He put his arms around Bee's shoulders and held him close and tight. "Love you, Bee."

"I want to stay, Sam. I want to stay with you _so _bad." Bee sobbed. "I want to _stay_. I want to _stay. Stay. _I don't want to go ..."

"Shhh."

"I want to _stay ..._"

"I'll be here, when you come back. I promise."

Bee just keened at that point, a sound of inhuman pain and grief. Sam didn't let go, held him for a very long time, until Bee finally cycled down into a fitful recharge. Sam didn't sleep at all, though. He was furious at Mikaela. How could she not _understand _that Bee would let both of them go precisely because he loved them so very much?


	87. Chapter 87

Chapter 87

* * *

Sam sat on the bed, folding his jeans and shoving them into his suitcase. He was somewhat surprised that Bee didn't plan to extend his stay in DC, but Bumblebee had said that the holomatter transmitter he'd brought was working out well. The President was now able to have face to face talks with various Autobot leaders. Given Bee's state of mind -- he'd been silent and very uncharacteristically broody this morning -- it was probably best that he take a vacation.

They were now off to a two-day engagement at a science fiction convention in the Midwest, followed by a long trip home by ground. Bee insisted that the convention qualified as 'R and R' and he was clearly looking forward to it. However, getting there had proved to be a little more problematic than Sam had expected.

While the Autobots had considerably more fliers now, the FAA was pitching a fit about Cybertronian flight models that lacked proper licensing, perhaps prompted by political maneuvering. Most of the new fliers were therefore grounded, except for a handful that the president had authorized on an emergency basis, with a surprisingly quick bit of legislation. However, there was talk of making the remaining Cybertronian fliers qualify for human-type pilot licenses before most would be allowed in the air. Silverbolt was currently the only flier capable of transporting cargo other than Stratosphere (and Strato was being readied for a run to Nieryl Six), and he was far too busy to transporting mechs to strategic locations around the globe to take just two people anywhere.

Sam had started to suggest taking a commercial flight, then had thought that through, and decided that idea was just full of fail. Nail clippers and more than three ounces of liquid were banned, not to mention a number of types of electronic devices. Getting permission from the TSA for an alien robot to fly commercial was not happening.

So, driving it was. This made him nervous, primarily because they'd be a long way from any backup if they ran into trouble. Bumblebee's experience with the human policemen had shown just one danger they might encounter. Sam worried about everything from Nobots to mass media mobs. Bee seemed less worried, but Sam wasn't sure if that was a brave front or an honest assessment of a low threat level from Bee.

In any case, Jazz was their ride. Ratchet had agreed to release him to full active duty after this weekend, and had ordered him to enjoy the convention until then. The convention had apparently been ecstatic about the addition of another mech, this one of the 'giant' flavor. Jazz was curious, though restless. At the end of the convention he would return to DC, and Bee would pick himself up with his Camaro half to return home to Nevada.

Bee padded out of the bathroom, and Sam looked up at the noise of his footfalls, and then focused on him with appreciation. Bee was only wearing a pair of jeans, he was bare chested, and his long blond hair was curling down around his collar bones. He really was gorgeous, in either form -- hot car or hot man. Sam had no problems admitting to himself, now, just how hot Bee was.

However, Bee's expression was very serious. Nothing of the side of Bee who could flirt until Sam died of embarrassment showed on his face at the moment. He sat down on the edge of the bed, one long leg tucked up underneath him. Very seriously, he said, "Did you have a good time last night?"

He had. Bee had taken him out to a dance club. They had not been the only 'gay' men there, and while Sam had not danced (and Bee hadn't asked him) Bee had danced with both men and women, and Sam had enjoyed watching. Bee's sense of rhythm and movement was amazing to observe. They'd ended up laughing until they were both out of breath on the way home, telling Jazz about the night.

"Yeah, yeah I did." He smiled. Bee smiled back. "I wish Mikaela wasn't being such an idiot."

"She will either come to understand, or she will not. I said what I needed to. I hope that she'll remember my words, and find some peace, one way or another." Bee blew a sharp breath out, and closed his eyes. He said, "I'm glad, at least, that _you _understand."

After that evening, when he'd arrived home last night, and before Bee had spoken to Mikaela, Bee had said, "Sam, we need to talk."

"Huh?" He had wondered what he'd done wrong, briefly.

"I had a discussion with your parents."

"Uh-oh." He had straightened up. "What'd they do?"

"Pointed something out to me."

There was a click, and Bee had cast a rendered image into the air of both his parents, and Bee's Camaro half. For the moment, they were frozen in place. "You know, they both love you a lot."

He remembered his exact words. "Yeah, I know. Wish my father wasn't such an ass."

"Well, he wasn't too bad. I want you to watch this, and tell me what you think." Bee had smiled at him, but it was a quick, nervous flash.

Sam had, truthfully, expected to see an argument. He wasn't proven wrong, but the argument wasn't the type he had anticipated. Bee sat silently as he watched the discussion between his parents. He'd known Bee was going to offer them to use of his quarters, and thought it a great idea -- the rooms were secure, and well defended.

His parents were worried he'd feel obligated to wait for Bee to return.

Bee realized this was possible.

Then Bumblebee had told him, very slowly and very calmly, "I just wanted to make sure you knew that you don't _owe _me anything. I'm going to have the same discussion with Mikaela. I may be gone a long time. You are both young. Things change. It's okay. I will understand, and I do not expect you to wait for me to return."

Bee had meant every word, every nuance. Sam could hear the truth in his voice. Bee _loved _him, however, and behind the truth was also pain. It hurt Bee to say this. Bee didn't _want _to let him go.

"You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?" Sam had asked him, quietly. "Even walk away and leave my life, if you thought that's what I wanted."

The Autobot looked down at his hands, and sighed. "Yes."

The truth was, he felt the same way. There was very little he wouldn't do for Bee. It had been that way almost from the first moment they'd met. He had said, simply, "Bee."

Bee had not wanted to look at him. He was hurting. He might not expect Sam to wait, but he would grieve if Sam didn't.

"Bee," Sam repeated, drawing the mech's gaze up towards him. "Bee, I'll be here when you come back. I'll wait until I'm old and grey and decrepit if I have to. You're worth it."

He'd meant every word. It was funny. It was far easier to make this declaration of love -- for that was what it was -- than it had ever been to tell Mikaela he loved her. He was more sure of the response. He was never entirely certain that Mikaela wouldn't throw his love for her back in his face.

Bee responded exactly as he expected, with acceptance. "Thank you, Sam. I will still tell you to move on, if you need to. However, I will be very pleased if I find that you have waited for me. It is entirely your choice."

"I'm going to miss you so much," Sam whispered. He was going to wait ... for the rest of his life, if need be. Bumblebee was worth any amount of waiting.

"I know." Bee let out a slow breath. "I'm sorry I can't stay. I want to stay, Sam."

He had held Bee the rest of the night. He'd drifted off to sleep and woken to Bee's tears when Mikaela wasn't so understanding. He was coldly, truly _furious _at Mikaela for the way she'd responded to Bee's self-sacrificing offer.

Now, in the morning, Bee looked tired and somber. "Sam," he said, resting a hand on Sam's fingers. "Sam, you can't be mad at her. She needs us to support her. I'm leaving, and she's going to need _you_."

"Yeah, well, I am. Damnit, Bee, you'd die not just for us but for _Earth_. You nearly have a couple of times. Forgive me for being a little bit pissed at our girlfriend."

Bee sighed, and simply said, "When I come back someday, I hope to find you two are still together. It will be difficult if you have become enemies."

* * *

Thundercracker gave Boomer a sharp look as TC entered the lab. Boomer, who had been propping the wall up with his shoulders, abruptly straightened his stance. Fang, up to his elbows in Pounce's innards, hadn't really been expecting Thundercracker to come down. He was busy with preparing the Nemesis for launch.

"TC ..." Fangface said, not liking the dark look on the seeker's face.

His officer ignored Fang, and stalked over to Fang's new bodyguard. "I'm going to make two things perfectly clear to you," he growled, "the first is that if you fail and Fang is injured, I will kill you. The second is that if you hurt Fang, I will make you _wish _you were dead."

Boomer, eyes wide, said, "Yes, sir."

Fang objected, "TC, quit harassing my thug. He's going to do fine. I've got faith in him."

"Your faith has been misplaced before," Thundercracker grumbled.

_Ouch_. That comment stung, and Fang snapped, "TC, you forget your place, I think."

The seeker bristled, armor twitching, head coming up. Then he rubbed his face and apologized. "Lord Fang, I overstepped. I'm sorry. I'm just worried about both you and 'Warp. The Nemesis leaves in an hour."

"I know." Fang's flare of irritation disappeared as fast as it came. "Tcha! I'm worried too. If anything happens to you, I end up adopting three more sparklings!"

"Three ...?" TC said, then his lipplates twisted into a smirk. "Nah, 'Warp's not a sparkling. And if anything happens to me, Skywarp will raise my kids. He's my partner and the secondary mentor to them _now_. It's his right and responsibility."

"... are you sure?" Fangface was surprised.

"He'll need help sometimes, particularly as they get older," Thundercracker said, judiciously, "if his code can't be repaired. However, he's certainly capable of being their primary guardian when they are small."

"If anything happens, I'll make sure he has that help," Fang promised. He was dubious about TC's faith in Skywarp's parenting abilities, but he could give Skywarp the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise. Skywarp wasn't nearly as actively malicious as Fang had once believed. He had a deviously evil sense of humor and a love of explosions and practical jokes, but that described half the mechs Fang knew.

"I know you will." Thundercracker gave Boomer a wary look, then slowly knelt before Fang, and drew him into a hug.

"Hey!" Fang protested, though he didn't push away. He wouldn't have protested at all if not for Boomer's presence. "Leggo!"

A furious hiss at Fang's ankle height made TC step back and laugh. "Hello, Prism. You're getting bold."

"_My _Fang!"

"Be nice, Prism." Fang bent down and picked her up, then pointedly stepped back into Thundercracker's space. He trusted him. He wanted to show it. "Thank you, TC."

"Mmm." Thundercracker surprised him by running a slow hand down Fang's arm. He froze, not because he felt threatened, but because he simply didn't know how to react. "Skywarp insists that I tell you that if it doesn't work out with you and that medic, he doesn't mind if we 'face. He just wants to be part of the fun."

"... what?"

Thundercracker turned away and headed for the door. _:Think about, it Fang. We can talk when I come back.:_

The door cycled shut. He comm'd after him, _:TC?:_

No answer. His second in command had just blatantly propositioned him. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be annoyed, uncomfortable with the idea, or intrigued. _Ratchet_, of course, was foremost in his thoughts. He knew who he really wanted, but the odds of it working out with Ratchet were pretty low. Ratchet was an Autobot.

"Fragger," Fang muttered.

"Fragger!" Prism agreed.

He facepalmed. "Prism, don't say that word."

"Okay." She leaped from his shoulder onto his desk and deftly leaned over the edge, poked the latch, and when it slid open she dropped down into a drawer containing a selection of drawing supplies.

"Sir," Boomer said, hesitantly, "should I have ... interfered there?"

"No," Fang walked back to Pounce's position. "Honestly, I can't decide if that was welcome attention or not. There's a mech I really care about, but I don't know that it'll ever work out between us. Thundercracker and Skywarp would be a good choice, politically, and I do like them."

"Ah. I see."

Fang tossed his bodyguard a smile. "I believe I could grow to love them. Thundercracker's a good mech, and a friend." He started to unbolt Pounce's posterior hydraulic pump. "I didn't realize they were interested in me that way. TC and 'Warp have been partners a long, long time. TC turned me down once, actually, but I wasn't in a good frame of mind, and I think I took him by surprise. He was right to say no."

"I had a partner," Boomer said. "He died."

He didn't particularly want to hear about Boomer's lost partner. Talking about grief made him remember his own pain too much. Fang pulled the pump out, and set it down on the table. "Hey, Prism, c'mere a second. I want to show you something."

"We weren't together very long. Shockwave killed him." Boomer sighed. "I never did find out why."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He didn't particularly want Boomer talking about death in front of his sparkling, either. Fortunately, Boomer took the hint and fell quiet. Prism had jumped to the floor and ran to Fang while he worked. He picked her up and set her down next to the Pounce's part. "This, kiddo, is a hydraulic pump, and the seal's blown out on it. Want to see how to fix it?"

"Okay!" she agreed, settling down beside him.

Boomer, across the room, seemed to also be watching in interest. Fang summoned him over with a wave of one hand, as he was feeling a bit guilty about shutting him down when he wanted to talk about someone he'd lost. "If you want to watch too, come join us here. Knowing some medicine is always useful."

A half hour later, Prism was (rather helpfully, actually) scrubbing spilled oil off some parts, and he'd put Boomer to work pounding dents out of Pounce's armor. The propane forge in the corner of the lab was big enough for average sized armor plates, and he had set up an anvil and work table next to it. Boomer didn't know much about even basic repair work, but he was a quick study, and had nimble hands. It had only taken him about three times the time that Fang would have required to bang the plate into shape, and now he was working on the second with more efficiency.

"Loud," Prism complained. She held the little piece of circuitry she'd been working up. "Clean enough?"

"Clean enough," he confirmed. "Good job, kiddo."

"Oil _yucky_." She reached for another part in the pile he'd given her.

Ratchet pinged him from outside, adding, _:I've got Smokescreen with me.:_

Fang straightened up, and told Boomer, "Ratchet, the Autobot's CMO, and Smokescreen are going to help me have a look at Pounce's code here. Be _nice_ or I'll tear your plating off."

"I understand, my Lord." Boomer shut off the forge, then padded off stand against the wall again. Deathwheels had always assumed a dull expression and an aggressive parade rest when he was guarding Fang. Boomer seemed far more inclined to giving off casually menacing vibes. It wasn't faked, either. Deathwheels had not been a goon, had only played the role, but Fang had established that Boomer had done his share of, as he put it, 'guarding the nerds.' Boomer's relaxed stance could very easily flow into an aggressive attack. "I assume this is a classified meeting."

"Not really." Fang pinged the door open. _:Come in, Ratch.: _He explained, "It'd probably scandalize the the Decepticon army proper, but after that fight last week, the medical staff on both sides pretty much pulled together and worked as a team. Nobody _here _will be surprised to find that Ratch helped me out with Pounce."

Ratchet clanked through the door, moving with a certain efficient speed that told Fang the big medic was probably irritated at something. Smokescreen, behind him, was a small, lightly built mech of the same model as Bluestreak and Prowl.

Ratchet surveyed the repairs in progress. "You've got to be the next generation of his model, Fang," Ratchet said, finally. "He's real similar in design to you, you're just more refined in some areas, and you're made of that slagging rare alloy. Blew his hydraulics out, did he? You'd think they'd have fixed that weakness when they built you."

Fang shrugged. "At least I knew exactly how to hit him to blow his seals out. It was easy. He'd stripped his drive gears fighting this big lug," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Boomer, "who's now my new bodyguard, by the way."

The medic surveyed the guard with lifted optic ridges. "Boomer, right?"

"Yeah. How'd you know my name?"

Ratchet shrugged. "Wheelie."

"Oh."

"So." Ratchet peered into Pounce's internals. "Looks like you've got his repairs nicely under way, and some good help here ..."

"I'm helping!" Prism showed him the parts she was cleaning.

"So I see." Ratchet complimented her, "And that's a good job you're doing, too."

Ratchet checked over the repairs that Fang had already done, then gestured to Smokescreen. "Do your thing. Let's wake him up and see if there's any sanity left in this bugger."

Much later, after thoroughly hacking Pounce's processor, the two Autobots turned matching grave expressions to Fang. Ratchet shook his head said,"Why don't you comm Wheelie to come watch his sister? It's about time for him to take her over to Mrs. Lennox's, anyway. We need to talk about this problem with Pounce."

* * *

He didn't like the look in Ratchet's optics. Smokescreen was an unknown quantity, though Ratchet respected him. He was trained in psychiatric medicine, though he was better known among the Autobots as a hard-gambling mech with a decidedly working class air.

"My medical opinion is that he's batshit crazy." Ratchet used the vulgar human term with casual ease as he settled into one of the chairs in Fang's quarters. Smokescreen, with a somewhat wary look at Fang, claimed another. Fang remained standing.

Fang acknowledged Ratchet's words. "Thanks for confirming my guess. Can we fix him?"

"No." Ratchet snorted. "We can neuter him with code so he's less of a threat, but you don't _fix _that sort of damage."

"Virus?" Fang asked.

Smokescreen folded his arms and shook his head. "Nah. He's not glitched. That's the Pit of it. You know what Shockwave used him for? Killing things."

"That's generally in the job description of a soldier," Fang snapped.

Smokescreen's response was a scowl. "He has been sent on missions killing things that no sane mech would want to kill. Pounce was sent to kill babies, innocents, other Decepticons, his teammates, neutrals, and the odd Decepticon officer, most of whom had done nothing to deserve being killed other than frag off the 'con command or, in the case of some of the children, were just used to send a message to someone ... Shockwave gave him a choice of doing it or dying. He chose living. Then he had to find a way to justify it emotionally. He could either live with the guilt, or learn to not _be _guilty. He took it one step further. In his position as Shockwave's dog, he felt impotent, powerless, and helpless. He grew to enjoy, even _revel _in sadism. Killing became an outlet for his anger, a way to exert control on others, and a way to demonstrate a mastery of his skills. His self worth is tied up with his fighting ability."

"You know," Fang said, "I really hated Shockwave."

Ratchet snorted.

Smokescreen chuckled.

"So ... what can we do for him?"

To their credit, neither mech seemed shocked that Fang would want to help someone who _enjoyed _killing. However, Smokescreen's words were cautious. "He's crazy, Lord Fangface, and he's dangerous. He _will _kill again, if left as he is. He already has a fantasy about killing your children while you watch, then leaving you alive to suffer. Specifically, he saw the forge in the corner and thought he'd like to throw Prism in it and _melt _her while you watched."

Fang growled. He couldn't help it. It was the existence of mechs like Pounce who made him terrified for Prism's safety. Neither Autobot was smiling now, either.

Smokescreen explained, "He lost a lot of control over his life in the last few months, after he was captured, and he desperately needs to gain some personal power back. You'd be a prime target. He has no respect for you -- he thinks he could beat you in an even fight. And yet, he knows it's wrong to fight a Prime and he's struggling inside with himself. That's why he asked you to kill him. He knows he won't win that internal battle. The demons riding his spark are just too strong."

"Great." Fang rubbed his forehead. "Maybe I should just kill him."

"That was going to be one of my three suggestions. He can't be left as he is. It's not something Optimus would approve of for an Autobot, but ..." Smokescreen held both hands with their palms up. "... it's something I would consider as appropriate. He's _suffering _as he is, with pain as bad as anything physical. He'd be a prime candidate for a compassionate reformat, both to end his own pain, and for the safety of everyone around him."

"Okay. What are the other two options?" He wasn't averse to having one more sparkling around, but there'd been enough killing.

"Very rigid restrictive coding would probably work to prevent him from acting on his impulses. It would be tricky to write, but Elita is capable of doing so. Done properly, he would be punished every time he fantasized of violence and reward him for more appropriate thought patterns. Coupled with heavy-duty counseling, he could, potentially, be healed, but it would take a long time and I'd never, ever trust him. He'd need to be kept under lock and key for everyone's safety for a very long time." Smokescreen rubbed his forehead with two fingers. "It's clinically appropriate in this case, but it would need to be done under close medical supervision. That kind of coding can easily be abused, it _will _alter his personality, and it can have unexpected complications. It also doesn't always work."

"The third option?" Fang didn't like the second. He'd reformat the mech first.

Smokescreen hesitated, then said, "We take him back to a point before the war. He's a young mech, but he wasn't a sparkling when the war started. Everything from the point that Shockwave got his claws into him and onward we lock behind an iron-clad partition. He wakes up, he doesn't remember anything that's happened. At some point in the future, with a good psychiatrist -- _not _me! Primus, I don't want that responsibility -- can unlock each memory, one by one, and help him process what happened to him during the war." Smokescreen drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "If he manages to access his locked memories before he's ready, in an uncontrolled fashion, it could be very dangerous."

Ratchet added, "The other problem with the third approach is the trauma inherent in essentially waking up in a whole new world. It'll be worse than what the mechs from the Ark are going through. They were explorers, chosen for a fair degree of mental stability. Also, they knew they were going to sleep for a very long time and might not even wake up. From his standpoint, he'll have no warning, and let's just say I think he's a bit of a high strung mech even under the best of circumstances."

"So am I, as far as the high strung goes," Fang's lips twisted up into a smile that Ratchet returned. "I won't hold that against him. -- What age will he remember being?"

"We found a good point around his thirtieth year. He'd just signed up with the army and accepted Shockwave's offer of a fancy new body. We think the best thing is for his last memory to be of off-lining for the procedure. He'll wake up in a med bay, as he expected, it will just be a hundred and four thousand years later."

Fang nodded. He weighed simply reformatting the mech. It was what he planned to do with the virus-addled glitch-wits in his army. At a certain point, he figured some people were just past the point of saving, and the safety and welfare of the rest of the universe outweighed their personal right to life.

However, Pounce had once been young, healthy, and innocent. If they could turn back time for him and give him a second chance, perhaps that was a better.

Still, he hesitated. _What do you think? _He asked his Matrix. _Okay, my holy ancestors, what was the outcome on this sort of thing, in your experience?_

The Matrix found him memories of other Primes who'd been faced with similar choices. Some were good, some bad. He examined the events the Matrix showed him, and determined that most of the bad results had happened when there wasn't enough supervision. Either a mech had accessed the locked partition with his memories before he was ready, or he'd been allowed to make the same bad choices (perhaps due to spark-deep personality traits) a second time around.

This wasn't a decision he could make lightly.

"Fang?" Ratchet said, finally.

"I'm ... thinking." He was torn between just reformatting the slagger and giving him a chance to start over, with _some _of his memories locked away for a time.

"You know you get this incredibly distant look in your eyes when you're communing with your Matrix?" Ratchet teased him. Then the medic huffed a sigh and said, "With the third option, someone needs to be responsible for him, personally, to guide him. Someone you trust."

"I'll do it myself," he said, impulsively.

Ratchet covered his face with his hand and shook his head. "Fang, do you even have the time?"

"Meh, he'll be an adult. And a good fighter. It's not like a sparkling. I'll put him to work on something -- maybe he'd like to learn accounting."

Ratchet raised both optic ridges. "With his psych profile, I highly doubt it. He won't have the patience."

"I'm joking, Ratch. Geeze." He chewed on a nail, realized he was doing that, decided he didn't give a damn if Ratchet saw him do so, and kept gnawing. Finally, he said, "I'm going to authorize the third option. And I will take personal responsibility for him. He _scared _me, Ratch. -- Even if we do a complete reformat, there's some spark traits there that I don't like, and he could easily end up just as psychotic as he is now, if someone doesn't make sure follows a different path."

"Hnh. Very well."

Fang nodded. "And by the way, Smokescreen, you have my full permission to download and strip his memories for any useful intelligence on what's going on with Straxus. We're hacking the slagger anyway. We might as well give him the works. Send me a report of what you find."

Smokescreen froze, then turned an absolutely incredulous look towards Ratchet. "Did the leader of the Decepticons just tell me to hack one of his own mechs and share the data?"

"Welcome to Wonderland," Ratchet chuckled. "Fang's got the smile for it."

Smokescreen tilted his head sideways, regarding Fang. Slowly, he said, "Lord Fangface, you were built for a very similar role to Pounce. I bet you were sent on some pretty rough missions, too."

He admitted, "I was."

"And how do you deal with it?" Smokescreen's question was pointed.

He bared his teeth. This time, it wasn't a smile. "Who ever said I'd _dealt _with it?"

Both Autobots stared at him. Then Smokescreen nodded. "I think you have, though. You had to do some pretty crappy things, but you also did good where you could. You tried to balance the scales. Right?"

"Maybe." He narrowed his eyes. He wasn't sure he was comfortable speaking to Smokescreen. The mech was too sharp, too likely to see through Fang's acts, and he was a complete unknown quantity. Fang didn't know what he would _do _with the information he gleaned.

Smokescreen rose, and Fang suspected it was in reaction to his suspicious look. The Autobot produced a data cable from his subspace as he stood up. "I'll get to work on the partition. Ratch, I won't need you until I'm done. That'll take half an hour or so. Then you can check my work and then we can wake him."

Fang pinged the privacy shield on his quarters as soon as Smokescreen was gone. Prism was still asleep. "How are you doing, Ratchet?"

He got a surprisingly candid response. Ratchet leaned back in the chair, optics clicking off. "I'm exhausted, but the worst of the medical issues are finally behind us."

"When was the last time you recharged?" Fang walked over, genuinely worried.

"I got four hours last night." Ratchet didn't online his optics, but he did reach out towards Fang as he approached. Their fingers twined together. "I know, I know. It's not enough."

"'s probably not, but I didn't get _any _recharge last night, so you're ahead of me. I was afraid I'd have bad dreams, so after I fixed Boomer's armor I got to work on Pounce." Fang studied the hand holding his. The thin, sensitive plating of Ratchet's nimble hands was scuffed and worn, and he had grit and grease in the seams. If they'd had more time, Fang would have insisted that Ratchet let him tend to his hands. The plating needed to be taken off and polished, all his joints cleaned out and re-lubricated, and it was almost impossible for a mech to do that for himself.

"Fang!" Ratchet's eyes lit. He straightened up. "No sleep? Glitch. You need to get some rest."

"I'm fine. I'll take a nap this afternoon when Wheelie brings Prism back. She'll be ready for some recharge too." Fang couldn't resist the urge to get closer to Ratchet. He stepped between Ratchet's legs and rested his weight on Ratchet's knee. Ratchet put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him against his grill, not objecting to the momentary intimacy. "I'm fine, Ratch."

"You just said you were afraid of nightmares." Ratchet wasn't fooled.

"Yeah, okay. I _am _doing better, though." He closed his eyes, wondering if Ratchet was holding him because Ratchet was worried about him, or if Ratchet desired him.

The medic's agile fingers rubbed circles on his back. "If you need to talk, I can spare some time tonight."

"Mmph. Did you get a chance to look at Airfoil?" He changed the subject, though he might take Ratchet up on the offer. He didn't really need to talk, but it would be pleasant to spend a few hours in Ratchet's company.

"He's already installed in a new body. Starcatcher and I got to that first thing." Ratchet rose, causing Fang to slide off his leg. Fang didn't back up very far, though. Alone in his quarters, it felt so right to be this close to Ratchet's bulk. Ratchet didn't disappoint him, either. The bigger mech put a hand on his back in a casually friendly touch. "I assumed you wanted to be there when we booted his processor."

"Yes." Fang appreciated that consideration. "Want to do it now?"

"Yeah, I've got the time. Let's go."

He started to turn to the door. Ratchet's soft words made him twist back, though, optics widening. "Fang," Ratchet said quietly, "how much of your attraction to me is loneliness and desperation and how much is real?"

"Huh?" He wasn't _desperate _as Ratchet implied. Was he?

"Because it's not loneliness on my part." Ratchet smiled, a bit raggedly. "Do you know why I care about you?"

Fang blinked at him, completely clueless about how to answer that question. He finally defaulted to sarcasm. "Tcha! I'm a special snowflake?"

Ratchet responded with a chuckle, and a brighter expression, and the medic's laughter made him grin. Ratchet shook his head, and stood back up. "Let's go, Snowflake."

_Oh frag! _He'd given Ratchet inspiration for a new nickname for him. Awful realization warred with deep amusement. "Okay, Ratch. Give. Why do you care about me?"

"Because you're a special snowflake," Ratchet said, as the door cycled open.

Clearly, both Boomer and Smokescreen overhead Ratchet's words. Smokescreen glanced up. Boomer looked startled.

"C'mon, Boom," Fang waved towards the door. He'd ruined the mood between him and Ratchet with his snark. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed by that. What had Ratchet been about to say? Well, there was no extracting it out of Ratchet now, given he had an audience. He told his new bodyguard, "We're gonna go wake Airfoil up. I'd like you to tag along. Smokescreen will be fine by himself for a bit, I hope."

Smokescreen gave Fang a very, very, very surprised look.

"Comm me when you're done," Ratchet said, reassuringly. "Fang's door locks automatically, so you'll be fine."

"I suppose." Smokescreen turned back to his work.

* * *

Airfoil physically looked a hell of a lot better than the broken mech that Fang had seen last night. His new protoform was shiny and utterly unused, and had been completely overhauled by the medics. It would run like factory new.

Ratchet ran a final scan, then handed the datapad to Fang. "You want to do the honors?"

"Sure." He poked the appropriate glyphs, and Airfoil's processor booted without any additional ceremony. A hum of power told him that Airfoil was awake, but he didn't move. Fang said softly, "Hey there."

It took a minute before his optics came online. "Primus," the mech groaned, then fell silent again.

"Hey, flyboy," Fang smacked him on the chest with one hand. "Quit malingering. You're all fixed."

Airfoil lifted his hands up to where he could see them, and then did a very audible series of several systems checks. Fang knew he was discovering he'd been put into a new body. His new protoform was a close match, but not identical, and they'd preloaded him with an F22 transcan.

"Why am I still alive?" he said, finally.

"Because I ordered you saved." Fang poked him, deliberately trying to antagonize him a little. The young mech's apathy grated on him. "And my standing orders are that no mechs are scrapped if they've still got a spark in their body. So you live."

The mech finally started to sit up. Ratchet reached out and helped him upright. When the mech realized _who _had just touched him, he recoiled. "Autobot!"

"Wow, he's a smart one." Ratchet released Airfoil's arm. "Any vertigo?"

"No. All sensor reports are green." The mech answered promptly, if a bit defensively. "Where am I?"

"At the Decepticon Base. Do you remember us bringing you home last night?" Fang was finding the mech hard to read.

A smirk. "You slagged Pounce."

"Okay, you were aware of what was going around you. I wasn't sure."

"Yeah, pretty hard to miss Pounce finally getting his aft handed to him even when I was actively trying for catatonia. Slagger'd had it coming for a long time." Airfoil slowly slid off the berth, after a dubious glance in Ratchet's direction. "You're really a Prime, Lord Fangface? Not that I doubt you, sir! I meant no disrespect by the question."

"Both of us are," Fang said, indicating Ratchet. "There's been a lot of changes in the last few months. I'm sending you a briefing file now."

He commed it to the mech. Airfoil's optics flickered faintly as he processed the data. Then he said grimly, "I never expected to be repaired. I'd resigned myself to dying."

"I kinda got that." Fang smirked. "You're not allowed to die. There's too much work to do."

"Yes _sir_." The response was firm.

* * *

He hurt.

Pounce's first awareness was of pain. He felt disoriented, and was utterly unable to identify his location. His chronometer was _way _off, displaying a date tens of thousands of years in the future. Data from sensors he'd never had before informed him that the atmosphere was rich with oxygen and a ten percent saturation of water vapor, nitrogen, carbon dioxide, and some volatile carbon compounds. It was a very unusual mix for Cybertron. _What_? Was he in an artificial environment? However, the gravity was off, too. As was the atmospheric _density_. And the temperature. It was well above the freezing point of water. Cybertron was normally _cold_.

Where the slag was he?

He _hurt_.

"Tcha," a voice said, "you're awake."

He onlined his vision, but found his motor functions were disabled. He could roll his optics to one side and see the mech who'd spoken, however. He was slim, with silvery armor and bright amber optics. A smile framed long fangs.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Lord Fangface, Decepticon Prime." The mech's voice was warm and deep, a little rough, and pleasant on the ears. Pounce wondered what a _Decepticon _was. If he was telling the truth, he was a Prime, which meant ...

"Did something happen to Optimus?"

"Huh?" The mech blinked wide amber eyes. "Err, no. The missing Primes were found. I received one of the Matrixes. Actually, I tried to _steal _the Matrixes, and the Order of the Primes decided I made a better hero than a thief, slag them all, but that's another story."

"Uh?"

"You're going to be confused, Pounce." Fangface sighed. "It's a hundred and some thousand years after Shockwave upgraded you into the body you now wear. Your chronometer's time is correct."

"What happened?" He found he was very frightened, all at once. What? What happened? _What? _

"I'm going to release your motor functions. When I do, go ahead and roll onto your chest. Don't try to sit up yet. You're going to be in a fair amount of pain as your joints and gears seat in."

When the lock was released, he tried to scramble up anyway. He found he was both uncoordinated and in a slagging huge amount of pain. He froze in a halfway sitting position. "What ... happened?"

Another mech stepped forward, steadying him. He glanced over, then recognized the mech's faceplate, and nearly lurched off the table in surprise. "Senator Ratchet!"

"Nobody's called me _that _in a long time," Ratchet said. His voice confirmed the identity, and Pounce _stared _at him.

"I voted for you," Pounce stammered. It had been the first time he'd been allowed to vote. Ratchet had been the lesser of two evils, by his estimation, an assessment that had proven correct when Ratchet's opponent had tried to assassinate him right after Ratchet had won the election. Ratchet had lived, but there had been considerable loss of life in the bombing, including a well-known musician who had been an outspoken _opponent _of Ratchet.

(It had also occurred to Pounce that it would have been smarter to try to kill the mech _before _the election votes were cast. You couldn't elect a dead mech to office. However, if an incumbent senator died, his successor was chosen by the governor of that district. The governor of the district in question had not been a fan of Ratbat. Really, Ratbat had been _so _stupid.)

"Hnh. Maybe you're saner than we thought," was Ratchet's only response to Pounce's declaration.

"Ratch!" Fangface smacked him with the back of one hand, knuckles ringing on heavy armor. Pounce didn't remember Ratchet as being so massively armored. He almost looked military, now. Then Fang apologized, "Sorry, Pounce. Don't mind my beloved enemy here. He'd joke about the Coming of Unicron, I swear."

"What _happened_?"

"Do you remember Shockwave?" Fangface said, voice suddenly serious.

"Yeah. He liked my test results. He said I'd make a good scout." Pounce examined the new code that had come with his new body, and found the routines for transformation. He'd never been able to transform before; he'd been sparked into a standard bipedal form. In his current four-legged mode, he felt awkward. "Do you mind if I, err, transform, Decepticon Prime?"

"Call me Fang." The mech's voice had a kind tone to it. "And yes, go ahead and try it. Just take it slow."

He triggered the routine. It _hurt_, and was dizzying and disorienting. Both mechs steadied him. However, he finally made it and he sat upright, legs hanging over the edge of the berth, hands braced on the edge of it. He did a systems check to focus himself, and then looked over at Lord Fangface.

"Anything feel like it's broken?"

"... No. Please, I'm begging you, tell me what happened?"

"I'll tell you everything," Fang rested a hand on his arm. He flinched, shocked that a _Prime _would be so touchy-feely. "The first thing you should know, however, is that you were badly injured last night. You tried to kill me."

"... what? I wouldn't attack a _Prime_!"

"Heh, trust me, you wouldn't be the first to want to kill Fang ..."

"Ratch, _shut up_." Fangface picked a wrench up and threatened Ratchet with it.

"You know that my aim's better with a wrench than yours."

Fangface rolled his optics.

"The penalty for assaulting a Prime is _death_." He couldn't believe they were joking. He was _terrified_. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and stared at the two mechs in horror. "You'd have to kill me, if I attacked you. Why am I alive?"

Fang reached up, caught his hands, and tugged. "C'mon, stand up. Let's get you on your feet."

He hesitated, then allowed Fang to guide him into a standing position. The Prime was surprisingly slight, but strong. Heavily reinforced hands, probably designed for hand to hand combat, held tightly to his hip armor and elbow until he was stable and standing without swaying.

"There." The mech took his hands, now, and tugged. "Take a step."

It hurt. He whimpered. He took another. And another. Slowly, the errors lessened, as stiff and not-quite-perfect joint surfaces moved together. Fang led him once around what looked more like a machine shop and design lab than a med bay, then stepped by Ratchet.

Ratchet scanned him. "Hmm. He needs his hydraulics adjusted a little, but that can wait. And yes, Pounce, you tried to kill Fang last night."

"I can't ... I can't remember."

"That would be deliberate." Fang looked up at him. "I could have reformatted you. I seriously considered it. However, we decided you should have a second chance."

"A ... second chance." He had no clue what Fang was talking about. "I don't understand. I _can't remember_. I can't remember!"

"Tcha. Told you, that's deliberate. Your memories aren't gone, but they are completely locked."

"You ... you did this to me." He stared at Fangface, aghast. "You ... you did something to me. To my memories. I can't remember anything. Why? Why?"

"Shhh." Fang tried to pat his arm.

He recoiled, batting Fang's hand away. Then he froze. He'd just struck a Prime. There had to be punishment for that. He backed up, so disoriented that he stumbled right into Ratchet, who simply didn't move. It was like running into a concrete wall that clanked.

"Pounce," Ratchet said, "Fang's going to show you a video capture."

"I am?" Fang said, clearly surprised.

"You are. Show him the attack last night."

"Oh. Good idea."

Ratchet's firm hands guided Pounce to a seated position on a lab stool. The senator -- who apparently wasn't a senator any more, if his reaction was to be believed -- then stood behind him, with one hand very firmly planted on his shoulder in grip that was as much about restraint as comfort. Well, if he'd tried to kill a Prime, he was astonished that he was still living. He just couldn't figure out why he'd even _want _to kill a Prime.

And so far, Pounce thought he _liked _Fang. He was unnerved by him, but he _liked _him. The mech seemed warm, caring, even worried about him.

Fang cast a holographic render into the air before him. Over a dozen mechs were walking through a field. He recognized Fangface, and his own new form -- though it was clear he was injured. He had an uneven, limping gait that matched with the soreness in his joints and gears now.

He watched as the holo-Fang tried to explain something about 'Autobots' to him. "Honestly, I'm not worried about the 'bots ... we ended up working together for the greater good of all." Fang's demeanor was completely unthreatening.

Then Pounce saw his face twist into a rictus of rage. He launched an attack on Fang, who ducked with lightning quick reflexes. He stared in shock, stunned at how well both he and Fang could fight. Where had he learned battle skills like _that_?

Fang won. The outcome of the fight was clear from the beginning. Fang was in fighting trim, and Pounce was badly injured.

Pounce watched, stunned, as a rather justifiably fragged off Prime demanded to know if he wanted to live or die. When he begged to die, however, the mech's expression softened. The more that Pounce tried to convince the mech to kill him, the more Fang's resolve to _not _kill increased.

Finally, the holo-Fang promised the holo-Pounce, _It will be okay, Pounce. I promise. _And touched him with gentle concern. Heavily clawed hands that could have killed him instead touched his faceplate, giving comfort.

The Decepticon Prime shut off the render.

"Why didn't you just kill me?"

"Because I've developed a distaste for it." Fang walked over to him. Standing, with Pounce seated on a stool, Fang had a head and shoulders of height on him. "Pounce, I've killed a lot of mechs in my life. You've woken in a time and a place very different from what you last remember. Cybertron is a dead world. Our civilization is gone. All that are left are scattered bands of survivors who've spent the last several tens of thousands of years trying to kill each other, with a great deal of collateral damage along the way."

That gentle hand stroked his jaw, making him look up. "I didn't want to kill you, Pounce. I wanted to help you."

"You helped me by taking away my memories. I don't ... I cannot believe that was me, yet I believe _you_."

There was something about Fang that told him the mech was telling the truth. Perhaps he should have been more skeptical, but he wanted to believe him.

"Your memories are still intact." Fangface's voice was very calm, very steady. "You have been through an absolutely horrific war, and you did things that will tore your spark apart. Horrible things. Sadistic, terrible, criminal things."

"Then I should have been executed." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Mmm. But what good would that serve? No. You have a second chance, Pounce. I promise you, I will support you every step of the way, as long as you _use _that chance. We need good mechs. _I _need good mechs. You have a chance to be a part of the rebuilding of our world. That's why you signed up with Shockwave in the first place, wasn't it? You wanted to help your people? Well, now we need you more than ever.

Uncertainly, he looked up at Fang.

Fang pulled him into a hug, like someone might do with a youngling. He found he didn't mind. He was just that scared of what had happened. It was only after he reached up and wrapped his arms back around the mech that he remembered he was embracing a _Prime._

_A Prime who cares for me, personally. _

He didn't want to let go. He grasped at Fang as if he was a life raft in a storm-tossed sea.

"Tcha. It'll be okay, Pounce. I promise."

This time, he believed that promise.

* * *

_  
:Fangface, do you have a minute?: _Optimus's comm woke Fang out of a half-doze a few hours later. He wasn't quite powered all the way down into recharge, but he was close to it. He roused, realizing he still had Pounce wrapped up in his arms, and Pounce _was _recharging. He carefully disentangled himself.

_Poor kid, _he thought, leaving Pounce on the floor as he rose. _:What's up, Optimus?:_

:May we borrow Skywarp? The Ark just arrived in high orbit. It'll be seven days before they have a good landing window, and I would like a few of the scientists on board down now. Perceptor is going to be in high demand, in particular.:

:Yeah, fine.: He was exhausted. _:Don't you have mechs who can jump now?:_

:Perceptor and Skywarp worked together a long time ago. They were once friends. I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for both of them.:

:Back when Skywarp was a scientist.:

:That is correct.: There was a pause, then Optimus added, _:Ending a war requires more than signatures on a paper, Fang. Every bond we can forge, every old friendship we can restore anew, is one step towards peace.:_

:... You've got it easier, on your side. Your mechs are mostly sane_.:_

:We have our share of troubled mechs, Fang.:

:How do you do _it?: _he asked, suddenly.

_:Do what?:_

:Inspire them? Lead them? Convince them to work together rather than at each other's throats? Build such a culture of support and trust among your mechs?:

Optimus's response sounded a little surprised. _:You are serious in this question?:_

:Yes, I am.:

:Fang, why don't you come over tomorrow morning, and we'll talk.:

:... thanks.: He found Optimus's invitation made him very nervous, though he couldn't say why. Still, he impulsively accepted it. He knew there was a lot to learn from Optimus. He'd do anything if it gave him an advantage.

_:And try to get some recharge. Ratchet said you aren't sleeping.:_

:Ratchet gossips.:

:Yes, he does. This is a trait I often find quite useful.:

:Heh. Yeah. I can see that.:

:We will talk later, Fang.: Optimus's smile was audible. _:I look forward to it.:_

After Optimus closed the channel, Fang stood in his lab for a moment. At his feet, Pounce's internals clicked and hummed through a maintenance cycle. He was deep in recharge, eyes half shut. He also didn't look very comfortable, sprawled on his side on the floor. He was going to be stiff enough when he woke without recharging the whole night in an awkward position.

After a moment, Fang crouched and shook him gently. Pounce's optics opened after a second. "Hnnnh ... Prime?" He looked confused and disoriented again.

"C'mon. You can recharge in the other room." Fang helped him up, and guided him to one of the benches in his entertaining area. "Here. You can share a room across the hall with Boomer starting tomorrow ..." and if Boomer had any objections, Fang would smack him, "... but for now, just stay here."

"Thank you, Prime." Pounce definitely sounded sleepy. He cycled back down into recharge in moments.

It took Fang a lot longer to power down. His head was full of worries, some of which he couldn't even fully define.


	88. Chapter 88

Chapter 88

* * *

Author's notes: Here's the last of the productive spurt I had while hom sick. My lungs are still completely cruddy, but I went back to work Friday and put the nebulizer away today.

I can't be sick anymore. I don't have time.

Obviously, I have an upcoming chapter with Bee, Jazz, and Sam at a con. I'm taking requests on what sorts of fannish insanity ya'll want to see poor Sam have to deal with at the con. LOL. (There WILL be hall costumes ...)

* * *

_:Bumblebee?:_

_:Yes, sir?: _Bee responded with instinctively swift attention when Optimus comm'd him.

_:I would like to speak to you in my office.:_

_:Whatever it was, I didn't do it, sir.: _The rejoinder came swiftly, fueled by a real need for a laugh.

Optimus didn't disappoint. His response was a rumble of amusement over the radio. _:You've been too busy for pranks. I'll begin to worry when things slow down.:_

_:I'm a Prime. It's not allowed anymore. It'd be a terrible example for the troops.:_

_:You are aware that I was the one who glued Prowl's aft to his chair, correct?:_

_:... no.: _He knew exactly the incident Optimus was referring to, even though it was over five thousand years ago. Prowl had gone nuts for weeks trying to figure out which likely miscreant had pulled that prank off. They'd all had alibis. Both sets of twins hadn't even been in the base at the time. Ratchet had been with patients. Jazz had been in the field. Bee himself had been _with _Prowl all day.

_:Practical jokes are good for morale. Nobody had managed to prank Prowl in a very long time. He was due.: _Optimus was truly laughing now. _:It was most satisfying to be the one to do it.:_

_:Did he ever figure it out?:_

_:Yes.:_

_:.... What did he do?:_

_:Do you remember the time that my office was filled with small ball bearings clear to the ceiling?:_

_:I thought that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe pulled that off.:_

_:Prowl shared my schedule with them and let it be known he would look the other way. He also located the supply of ball bearings, and ensured the entire command staff would be in the hall to witness the avalanche when I opened the door. He also hacked the ship's AI so that I would not receive an advance warning of the unauthorized access to my office.:_

_:I'm ... amazed.:_

_:It was a prank well executed.: _Optimus sounded honestly approving. _:Of course, it took Jazz's and Inferno's help for Prowl and I to fill Red's office here in Fortress Maximus with the same ball bearings, along with Fort Max's cooperation to erase the access trail in the audit logs.:_  
_  
:Oh, Primus! Red still complains about that. I thought he was going to glitch when it happened. He has no idea it was you, does he?: _Bee was grinning. He'd never imagined Optimus would indulge in the practical joke wars that occasionally raged through the ranks. _:How did you convince Max to cooperate?:_

_:After seeing the footage of the incident on the ship, Max specifically requested that we prank Red Alert. He and Red Alert have been friends for a very long time, and I believe Max was as bored as the rest of the army.: _Optimus chuckled. _:However, we eventually had to tell Red who was responsible, as he was very worried that someone had actually hacked Max, due to the altered access logs. It would have been cruel to remain anonymous.:_

_:How angry was he?:_

_:He wasn't, surprisingly. I think he was flattered that we saw him as a worthy target of a prank. It made him feel included. However, randomly, for the last few thousand years, I've found individual ball bearings anonymously hidden in my quarters, attached to my person, and left on my office desk. I also once found some glued to the hilt of my energon sword in a decorative pattern. Red is definitely the source, however, I am relatively certain that Max is involved. He's nearly as good at tactics as Prowl is and he has a small army of cleaning drones at his disposal.:_

Bee laughed. Optimus's tone was deeply amused. _:I'll be up in a minute, boss.:_

* * *

When Bee stepped through the door to Optimus's office, however, he stopped short. Hawk was standing on the desk, reading a data pad full of classified data.

"Sir?" Bee said, uncertainly, his emotions suddenly thrown into a swirl. Wildly, desperately, he hoped that this was what it looked like. On the other hand, he didn't want anyone else taking a truly dangerous mission and dying in his place.

Optimus steepled his fingers together. Tone no longer laughing, voice grave, he said, "One of the hardest parts of my job is deciding who can be sacrificed."

Belatedly, Bee had realized Optimus's uncharacteristic show of humor had been at least partly because Optimus was _troubled. _He had been putting on a cheerful front.

Hawk came to attention, and, "Bumblebee, sir!"

Bee smiled hesitantly. "Good morning, Steelhawk. -- Prime, you are thinking of sending him to Nebulos?"

"When I asked you to go to Nebulos," Optimus said, "it was because we needed the intelligence, and you were the best mech for the job. I was unaware that Steelhawk and his team were on their way. Our last report on their location had them over a year's travel from Nebulos, and a year and a half's communication time from Earth. At a minimum, it would have taken them two and a half years to reach Nebulos."

He drummed his fingers on the table, metal tapping on metal. "Bee, by virtue of your experience, you are marginally more likely to survive the mission. I believe we can all acknowledge this. It is why you have been my scout for so very long. You are capable of feats of survival that few mechs can equal. You can blend in anywhere, and work with anyone, Cybertronian or alien. You have amazing insight into people's behavior, including a very striking ability to understand alien psychology. Even when you were unable to speak aloud, your abilities at communication were phenomenal. You are a cohesive force on a team, bringing unity and improving morale wherever you travel. You make deeply loyal friends with great ease."

Bee straightened up, confused by Optimus's assessment. These were all reasons he should be the one to go.

Optimus continued, "You are also a Prime, which means you have many enhanced abilities. You have only begun to understand the gifts you now possess. Here, on Earth, you have earned the trust of key politicians. You've used your spark-born gifts to further our cause. You've shown a real aptitude for leadership, even if you would prefer to follow others. Within your Matrix you carry a vast sum of knowledge and wisdom, some of which is not duplicated in the Matrixes of the other Primes. Each Matrix is slightly different, influenced by the histories of the Primes who carried it before."

Optimus glanced at Steelhawk. Steelhawk stood quietly, simply listening.

"My honest assessment is that Bee is more likely to survive this mission. I have had both Fortress Maximus and Jazz run tactical analysis on the mission and they agree. However, Steelhawk, you and your team are capable scouts. You have a very high probability of success. The difference is about four percentage points. All else being equal, I would send Bee. It is a very important mission and we _need _as much intel as you can send."

Bee balled his fists. "You should send me, sir. This is critical. Or send _both _myself and his team, and double our chances of valid intel."

Optimus put both hands down on the desk, palms down. That meant _I have decided among the options presented. _"Bee, your loss would be devastating. In the long term, we need you more here than we need the intel from Nebulos. We know enough to know they are a threat: that they will attack without provocation, that we should assume they will do so again, and we have a good grasp of their technical abilities. We believe there are, at minimum, three cloaked Nebulan ships in orbit, based on trace molecular evidence from atmospheric leaks."

He turned to Steelhawk. "Hawk, I do not wish to lose you, but you are not a Prime. It is an absolute truth that we can suffer your loss better than we can suffer Bee's."

"Yeah, I know, I'm more expendable." Hawk grinned. "It's okay, I get it. I'd put myself straight in the line of fire to save any of you Primes anyway."

"Nobody is expendable," Bee growled. He didn't like this. And he didn't understand why Optimus was going into such depth on his decision.

"Hawk, you're dismissed. Please take the datapads I gave you and share them with your team, then erase them. Ultra Magnus and Hot Rod are coordinating the drop on Nebulos. Get with Magnus for the particulars."

"Yes sir." Hawk neatly jumped over the edge of the desk, landed nearly nine feet below, and trotted out of the room. Bee, watching that, was a bit envious. His own technorganic form _should _be capable of similar feats of athletics, but he didn't have the muscle mass or associated balance and strength to pull that far of a drop of without injuring himself. He still got winded and sore just walking moderate distances.

"Bee," Optimus said quietly, after the door slid shut behind Hawk, "I was waiting to see if you'd suggest sending Hawk to Nebulos. Why didn't you?"

"Sir?"

Optimus waited.

"I didn't want to send him on a mission that would be so very dangerous, sir. It didn't feel right. It was my assignment."

Optimus leaned back in his chair, and blew out a long sigh. "Bee, I listed your strengths. One of your weaknesses -- one we are all aware of -- is that you find it difficult to make hard decisions that may result in harm to _others_. That is actually one of the reasons why you _are _a popular, and much-loved officer. You would put yourself in the line of fire before you would ask your troops to risk themselves. You've done so, many times."

"Yes sir."

"But sometimes ..." Optimus ran a hand over his face. "Sometimes you have to weigh the consequences. If we lose Hawk, we lose a good scout. If we lose you, we lose a Prime. It's not an equal equation. All life is valuable, Bee, but from a _strategic _standpoint, I would far rather lose Hawk than you."

"Yes sir."

Optimus tapped his fingers on the table. "Sometimes, I have difficulty determining where line on the cost/benefit analysis lies. I am not impartial. You are my brothers in arms. There have been times when I've struggled with who to send: myself or my officers. This is why we have tacticians, mechs who have the logic and training to make those hard decisions."

"Yes sir." Bee was feeling rather sharply chastised by Optimus's words.

The leader of the Autobots regarded him with soft optics that were at odds with the stinging embarrassment that he felt. While he had not exactly screwed up, he'd made a wrong decision. Bee waited, and Optimus tapped his fingers on the desk, and neither of them said anything for a long time.

"Our tacticians advised against my trip to Earth several years ago," Optimus finally said, "and I told them to go to the Pit."

Bee's head came up in surprise, both at this fact and Optimus's mild profanity.

Optimus smiled. "As I said, I am not impartial. Also, the stakes on Earth were _very _high. We believed Megatron and the Allspark were on Earth. It would have been worth my death to stop Megatron forever. I knew it might mean an end to the war. That was a price worth my very life, though the tacticians disagreed. And so, I gathered my best officers, tested and proven by the war, and left to go to a far away world. Events have proven, with certitude, that this gamble was worthwhile."

"Yes sir."

"In the future, Bee, remember that you can often consult others to help you make the hard decisions. It is not something you will _ever _find easy. I fear you will sometimes make the wrong call. Your instincts to protect, to serve, to _love_ others, are spark deep. You may find the counsel of trusted advisers very useful, and even necessary, at times."

"Yes sir."

Optimus fixed him with a sharp gaze. "And there will also be times when you will need to make snap decisions. If you must chose between yourself and the lives of your troops, put yourself outside the situation. Mentally substitute one of the other Primes, or one of our highest officers, for yourself. Decide if the sacrifice of someone with critical skills -- and you are all officers because you are talented and highly trained -- is worth it."

"Yes sir."

"Sometimes the answer will be yes. In your case, I have _no _doubt you would sacrifice yourself for what you see to be the greater good. I am concerned, however, that you would sell your life too cheaply, Bee."

"Yes sir."

Optimus's smile was warm again. "Lecture over, Bee. Do not make me repeat this one."

"Sir."

"You're dismissed." Optimus waved towards the door. "Go tell your humans the good news. I'm sure that, at least, will be a bright spot in your day."

He nodded sharply, and fled. On his way out he passed Fang, who had Prism with him. Prism was giggling about something he didn't quite catch, and Fang was chattering back at her, his attention more on his sparkling than anyone else around him.

_We could have children, _Bee realized, with sudden, electric awareness. If the leader of the fragging _Decepticons _could adopt sparklings, surely _he _could justify it. Really, it was almost a requirement. They needed as many parents as they could find to start raising the next generation.

Children. _Children. _

He could see it: sparklings of his own, small so they would not endanger his humans. Sam and Mikaela, helping raise them. His children would grow up to be a part of the human world, loved by his humans, loved by him. Mikaela could have babies of her own, raised with them as brothers and sisters. With the three of them working together, they could certainly raise a healthy and happy family.

... except he wasn't sure what his humans would think of the idea. Reality came crashing down. He suspected Sam might want to be a father, but he honestly wasn't sure what Mikaela would think.

_Primus._

Well, at least he wasn't leaving. That was huge.

He felt absurdly guilty for being so elated over that fact. He wasn't leaving. He was _staying_. He'd wanted so badly to stay, and now he could. Now he could settle. Now he could work things out with Mikaela, and watch Sam flourish and grow every more confident. He was on top of the world. And yet, he also felt terrible, for Hawk who had to go in his place.

* * *

"Hello, Prism." Optimus held his child in the palm of her hand. He stood before his office window, with the morning sun shining in and illuminating his red and blue armor. Prism, all silver armor, glowed in the palm of his hand. Paladin played at Prime's feet, ignoring Prism for the moment.

Fang found himself holding his breath. Optimus, twenty-eight feet of massive power, dwarfed Fang. The top of Fang's head was well below the level of Optimus's hip. Despite all the trust he'd built between them, when standing next to Optimus, he felt physically small and weak and vulnerable.

Prism, eighteen inches tall when she stretched on her toes, was a fraction of the size of the hand she sat on.

Fang recalled that fight in South America -- Optimus running across a field in battle, deliberately stepping on mechs not much bigger than Prism, and not much older than Wheelie. That had been war, and those young insecticons had been a truly dangerous threat to even far larger mechs. However, that sudden memory was a reminder that Optimus, for all his grave courtesy and Primus-given wisdom, was a killer.

It was completely irrational. Fang knew that Optimus would never hurt a sparkling. Therefore, the fierce protective urge took Fang completely by surprise. It wasn't so much that it was _Optimus _holding her as it was that a _very large _mech who _killed things _was holding his child.

"Hi, Optimus!" Prism bounced in place, fearless. "Fang got me crayons!"

"Mrs. Witwicky got her crayons," Fang clarified. "I _still _don't have any earth money to buy the things we need."

"Sorry," Optimus actually apologized. "Fang, get a bank account set up. I'll transfer some money to you from our slush funds. Then, when things are calmer, we can figure out the details of how we're going to handle funding and we'll work it out. I do believe that all Cybertronians should benefit from the money we're earning on technology royalties."

"... how do I get a bank account set up?"

"Call the bank. They'll help you." Optimus chuckled. "The local banks have set up several hundred accounts for my Autobots. You'll need to follow the same process. Incidentally, you'll need an account for Decepticon business, and a personal one for yourself. Pay yourself -- and your troops -- a wage from what I give you. We're setting up the Autobots as a nonprofit with the IRS. You might want to do the same, rather than running the Decepticons as a business. You'll have to assume one organizational form or the other. They don't have a financial option for 'alien army from outer space.'"

"... what's the difference?"

"Taxes." Optimus was stroking Prism's back, very gently, with one finger. Again, Fang found himself nervous, just watching that. He forced himself to not react because it was a completely illogical feeling.

"I need to find an accountant and a business advisor. There's nobody really left in our army good at finances, though." Fang ran a hand over his face.

"So hire a human. It's what we did."

He blinked. Why hadn't he thought of that? "I'll do that, and a slagging _secretary _too_._ Primus. I got Prism to fill some forms out for me yesterday afternoon. These hands," he wiggled his fingers, "were not made for human writing."

Optimus's smile was nearly mischievous. "I've been making good use of Judy Witwicky's penmanship of late."

"Could I borrow her?"

"I believe her son would object strongly to that idea."

"I seem to remember Sam killed Megatron. I'll pass." Fang looked up at Optimus. "You're in a good mood, aren't you?"

"Somewhat." Optimus flashed him a smile. In response to that, Fang had the stray thought that it was probably a good thing that Optimus was already in a committed, exclusive, relationship. Because, really, when he smiled like that it made Fang regret being a Decepticon.

_Slaggit. I really do have a thing for the tall, dangerous ones._

Optimus elaborated, "I am very worried about the ships we have detected in orbit. I fear we will fight again, and soon. However, it is very good to see old friends, and to be a part of a larger community of mechs. I've missed them all a great deal."

He didn't quite know what to say to that. He had friends -- there were plenty of mechs he _liked _-- but they'd always seemed somewhat interchangeable. Until recently, he couldn't remember being deeply attached to any particular mech more than others. If he lost friends, either because he was transferred to a new ship or due to death, he briefly missed the old friends, but always made new ones. People generally liked him, and he was always fairly popular, so it was never a big deal to fit in wherever he was.

With sudden, searing clarity he realized something had _changed _within him. Because, somehow, his current group of friends were worth so much more to him.

Fang rocked back on his heels as he realized just how much he'd miss Ratchet, or Prism, or Wheelie, if he had to leave them. It would hurt as much as losing Deathwheels would hurt. This frightened him. A second thought followed hard on the heels of the realization of just how attached he'd allowed himself to become: what if something happened to them too?

Hastily, he changed the subject. "Optimus, I asked you for your advice."

"Hmm." Optimus bent over and set Prism down next to Paladin. Prism squeaked in protest, but he ignored that. "Paladin, why don't you show Prism your Legos?"

"Sure!" Paladin stood up and trotted across the room to a chest that had been set against the wall. She pushed the lid open, revealing a sizable selection of toys. Paladin took a box out of the chest, closed the lid, and carried the box over to an out-of-the-way corner. Prism followed, curious. Fang watched closely, because Paladin was much larger than Prism, but Paladin seemed reasonably well behaved.

"She has toys in your office?"

"She does." Optimus pulled his chair out from behind his desk, and gestured at the desk. "Have a seat up here, Fang. I would prefer not to loom over you."

Fang hauled himself up, grateful for the consideration. Optimus sat down on the chair next to him. This put them at nearly the same height.

After a moment, Optimus said, "I could certainly find babysitters for my children. However, this would mean that I would not see them from for most of the day. As much as possible, I try to keep them close. It's good for them, and quite honestly, it's good for me, too." He smiled. "Ranger's helping a work crew paint, but he'll be up later.

"What do your staff think?"

"Somebody usually has Paladin in their lap when we're talking, if she's not playing in the corner." Optimus smiled. "If it is anything sensitive -- or if it is a subject sparklings should not hear about -- I send them out of the room, but for many things, she can stay. Ranger often sits at my feet and actually listens to the discussions, and I suspect he is learning more about the army's operations than most people realize. The only issue I've had has been with visiting humans, who have a different cultural expectation of the place of children."

"Mmm." Fang pictured Thundercracker's rambunctious pair of seeker sparklings in the middle of a meeting. The meeting would be lively. Prism, on the other hand, would probably hide under his armor and remain unseen.

Optimus leaned back in the chair. His eyes were on Paladin and Prism, who had decided to build a tower of legos together. "She's picking up cooperative play, I think."

"I've been insisting she cooperate with _me_," Fang snorted. "If she says 'mine' whatever she was being possessive about isn't hers anymore. I only had to take her crayons away twice before she started letting Wheelie or me color with her."

Optimus nodded. "She had a bit of a rough start. Do you think she'll be okay?"

He glanced up at Optimus. "I screwed up with her. I was so scared I'd lose her that I tried to push the responsibility of her safety off on someone else."

"You're afraid of failure." Optimus's words were grave. "And you're afraid of loss, even more. If you don't care about people, you can't _lose _them. If someone else is responsible, though, it's not _your _failure."

"... so as soon as I realized how much I loved her, I pushed her off on Ratchet, because I was scared I'd fail in caring for her." Fang glanced over at him, then drew his knees to his chest. This was supposed to be a chat about improving the culture of his Decepticons, but for some reason, Optimus was poking at Fang's own problems. He found he didn't even have the energy to push back. "... If _Ratchet _screwed up, it wasn't my own failure. It would hurt less."

"Particularly since your expectation is that people will fail you." Optimus's optics were fixed on Paladin, who was rummaging through the box of legos and picking out green ones. "And that wasn't very fair to Ratchet. Or Prism."

"I know." He tried for humor. "Hey, I'm evil. I'm allowed to do bad things."

"Fang," Optimus responded with complete seriousness, "Counting my two sparklings now, I've raised thirty children. The first few times I was a mentor, I tried so hard to be absolutely perfect. I eventually learned, however, that _nobody _was perfect -- even parents. I did make mistakes. My children forgave me."

Fang considered this for a moment, before saying, "Prism's going to be okay, I think. I'll need to work hard to regain her trust, and to make sure she _knows _she's mine. I think I can do it, though."

"Mmm." Optimus nodded. "I know you're looking for mechs among your troops to raise sparklings. What do you think a mentor needs to do, to raise a sparkling?"

Prism grabbed for a tiny plastic wheel at the same time Paladin did, and their hands clicked together. The two sparklings glared at each other. Optimus made a coughing sound, at the same time that Fang hissed static. Both sparklings looked up. Both adults sent their children matching stares of warning. _No fighting_.

Optimus said, "Paladin, there's another wheel in the box. Can you help Prism find it?"

"Sure!" Paladin stood up and began rummaging through the bits of plastic. Prism watched intently, head cocked to one side.

Fang said quietly, after observing that, "It's easy to tell sparklings what _not _to do. I need to teach Prism what she _should _do instead. That's harder."

Paladin found the wheel in the box, handed it to Prism, then picked up the original part for the toy car she was building. Prism attached her wheel to a rather good likeness of Wheelie that she was making from her Legos.

"Mmm." Optimus nodded. "It is harder to encourage positive behavior, but it is rewarding."

"I have to do both. Stop the bad behavior, encourage the good." Fang inspected his claws. "She's got an artistic talent I really want to encourage, too."

"Paladin sees the world in black and white terms," Optimus observed. "That's both a strength and a weakness. She'll have deep seated convictions, but without guidance, she could be inclined towards extreme viewpoints. She's also going to be very good at the hard sciences. That's not a bad thing, as we could use more physicists."

Fang studied his claws for a minute. "I think that one of the responsibilities of a mentor is to make sure your children have the education and opportunities to make the best use of their gifts."

"Yes." Optimus drummed his fingers on his thigh armor for a minute. "It is incredibly frustrating, and can lead to anger and poor behavior, if a sparkling has a gift that they cannot develop."

Fang snorted. "I can understand that." He chewed on a claw, then said, "For me, it's _fixing _people. There's something so incredibly satisfying about taking someone who was injured and in pain, and helping them so that they are whole again, healthy, and free of pain."

"Prism probably finds the same release from her art."

Fang glanced over at Optimus. "There's so much you have to teach sparklings. How to get along with others -- they don't come online knowing that. You have to _teach _them how to play nice, cooperate, and why sharing is a good idea. You have to teach them that fighting with others wrong, and teach them how to resolve problems peacefully. It's not instinct. The with the wheel there, a moment ago -- if we left them alone, they would have been fighting over the toy in a heartbeat, even though there was a simple solution."

Optimus nodded. "I'm glad you understand this."

Fang shrugged. He had strong memories of how Compass had treated him, so long ago. Compass had been gone by Fang's third year, but the memories remained. He'd learned a lot in those few years.

"So," Optimus said, "you know you need to encourage positive behavior, and stop the bad behavior. You help your sparklings develop their skills, and you teach them how to interact with others. What else?"

Unhappily, Fang said, "And I always neeed to make sure that Prism feels safe, secure, and that she knows she can trust me to _be _there. Even if I'm upset, I can't take it out on her. My reactions to her behaviors need to be consistent, so Prism knows what to expect, or she's going to be uncertain how _she _needs to act. I fail at this. Badly."

"Not as badly as you think." Optimus's keen blue eyes regarded him intently. "You've made a few mistakes, but you can go forward, and regain Prism's confidence."

He folded his arms over his chest. "Optimus, I came here to talk about running my army ..."

Optimus sounded amused. "I believe that is what we are doing."

"We are?"

"We are." Optimus smiled at him. "It's really not that different. You need to reinforce the behaviors you want, help them develop useful skills and sparkborn gifts, teach them to work with each other, encourage them to work with one another rather than compete, and train them on ways to avoid conflict. You must also earn both their trust and their respect."

"We're talking an army of Decepticons, not a bunch of sparklings."

Optimus arched an optic ridge up. "Yes. They're adults. Still, the same principles apply."

The Autobot leader rose. "Do you mind watching Paladin for a few minutes? I need to talk to Red Alert."

"... sure, I guess." Apparently, the lesson was over.

It was only after Optimus had walked out that Fang realized that the _leader of the Autobots _had just left the leader of the Decepticons alone with his child. Fang knew that had been a deliberate, symbolic, action.

"Look, Lord Fang!" Paladin ran over to him. "I made a car!"

He slid off the desk. "That you did. So. How do these Legos work?" He sat down with the two kids, cross-legged on the floor. "Ah, they just clip together ... that's pretty clever, actually ... I bet we can make something that looks like the Nemesis ..."

* * *

Skywarp stepped out of the airlock with surpreme self assurance, greeting Ultra Magnus and Hot Rod with a cheerful, "Hello! Welcome back to Earth!"

Mirage said shortly, "Decepticon."

The seeker turned to face Mirage. "Commander Mirage," he said, politely, and a bit curiously. He tilted his head sideways, then added in a very slow, speculative voice, "You do not seem happy to see me."

"No." Mirage's tone was flat. This particular Decepticon was notorious for being violent and deadly in battle. "Not particularly."

Skywarp's expression was genuinely puzzled as he said, "But I'm supposed to take you down to the surface. Optimus _asked_."

Briefly, Mirage wondered if Optimus's processor had a few loose circuits. Was he _really _supposed to believe Skywarp was trustworthy? He had his orders, but this was a notorious Decepticon seeker.

"Hey, Skywarp." Doc walked in to the cargo hold, with Perceptor following close on his heels. "Percy, this is Skywarp."

Perceptor had his gaze down, and he seemed focused on a datapad of information. Mirage wasn't expecting the simultaneous reaction from Skywarp and Perceptor of mutual staring. Perceptor, optics wide, froze in place. Skywarp's battle mask flipped up, revealing his faceplate and intent, glowing red optics.

"Skywarp," Perceptor subspaced the datapad. "Primus bless. _Skywarp_!"

".... uh," Hot Rod said, "Granted, Skywarp's on our side for the moment, but most people don't react to Skywarp like he's a manifestation of the Order of Primes. Percy, what gives?"

Perceptor ignored that. He stood in place for a minute longer, then ran several strides to Skywarp and grabbed his forearms in a fierce hold. "Skywarp? Is it really you?"

"Hey, nerd." Skywarp greeted Perceptor with a rather awkward hug. To the Autobots, he explained, "The two of us went to the university together. It's been a long time. Nerd, I didn't even know you were still functioning."

"Nerd!" Perceptor laughed. "Nobody's called me _that _in a long time."

"At least, not to his face ..." Hot Rod said, in a stage whisper, earning himself a smack from Ultra Magnus and a chuckle from the troops and a glare from Mirage. Hot Rod was a _Prime_. Mirage didn't think he should be joking like that, particularly at Percy's expense.

Mirage didn't particularly like the way that Skywarp still had his hands on Perceptor's shoulders, either. Percy was brilliant, and Mirage had always been afraid that the Decepticons might someday capture him and use him. Skywarp was capable of teleportation. He could leap out right _now_ with Perceptor in his arms, taking Percy captive.

On the other hand, Perceptor was laughing. He poked Skywarp in the shoulder. "So? Where's your partners?"

"Thundercracker's with the Nemesis."

"And Starscream?" Then Perceptor shuttered his optics. "Don't answer that. I don't want to know. I _don't_."

"He's dead." Skywarp glanced at the assembled Autobots. "I think your team mates celebrated when he died, too."

"I didn't want to know!" Perceptor stepped back.

"Nerd?" Skywarp repeated. "Are you okay?"

"No. No, I'm not." Perceptor hunched his shoulders. Nobody said anything to break the awkward silence that fell, until Perceptor finally muttered, "I probably shouldn't even talk to you. We're still enemies."

"It's okay, Percy." Elita walked over to join them. "You're fine. Skywarp, are you ready?"

"Yes, ma'am." Skywarp regarded Perceptor thoughtfully. "Your designation's Perceptor now? I never made the connection."

"I changed it at the beginning of the war. Security reasons. Too many 'cons knew who I was. I'm Perceptor now. They were afraid Megatron might try to kidnap me." Perceptor explained this in a flat, unemotional voice. Mirage was pretty sure that Perceptor was hiding a good bit of fear with that calm tone.

Mirage sighed. "And, of course, his cover's _completely _blown now. We manage to keep his aft safe for a hundred thousand years, and what does he do? He runs up and hugs one of Megatron's command trine!"

"... command trine?" Perceptor said, staring at Skywarp.

"I'm not a commander," Skywarp said, shaking his head. "That's TC. I'm just a goon."

"Goon? You? Never." Perceptor patted him on the arm. "I ... if the war's ever over, if we can talk again, I have this theory I want to discuss with you, on stellar thermodynamics and gravitational wave pulses ..."

"With _Skywarp_?" Hot Rod sounded incredulous. Mirage couldn't keep an expression of disbelief off his own faceplates, though he tried, for politeness' sake. Skywarp was no scientist. Skywarp was, as he claimed, a _goon_. He was a warrior, ruthless and deadly, without scruples. They'd faced him in battle often enough to know how savage he could be. And how stupid. Mirage had seen him outwitted on any number of occasions, though they'd all learned to look out for his partners. Starscream had been cunning, and Thundercracker downright brilliant.

Skywarp sighed. "Nerd, we'll talk, if our faction leaders allow it. I'm not sure it'll be about science, though. However, there's this play I think you'd like ... it's about a guy who owns a candy factory ... reminds me of Fang."

"Who's Fang?" Perceptor said.

Skywarp's expression made several Autobots laugh. Mirage gritted his dental plating, as Perceptor winced. Perceptor said softly, "Sorry."

Skywarp, surprising Mirage, said quietly, "'S okay, nerdling. Fang's my boss. He's the leader of the Decepticons."

"What happened to Megatron?"

"Sure you want to know that, Percy?" Somebody said, teasingly -- one of the Ark crew. Even the new 'bots had figured out just how determined Perceptor was to avoid reality.

Perceptor turned a a glare on the speaker. "I don't give a _damn _what happened to Megatron."

That got laughter. Perceptor looked smug.

Skywarp said, "He's dead. Grimlock killed him."

"Grimlock's dead." Perceptor's words were flat, without emotion. His flare of confidence disappeared.

"Naw, he's alive. Fang had him in storage until he figured out a way to get him home. Fang saved his life. Megatron abandoned him to die when he was done torturing him. Fang snuck back later, stuck a solar power collector on his spark containment unit and stashed him in orbit around some miserable backwater moonlet." Skywarp shrugged. "Fang's pretty handy with field repairs. But you didn't know Megs was dead?"

"No." Perceptor shook his head. "Don't mind hearing that he is, though."

"Huh. Well. I guess -- everyone ready to go? I don't want to leave the kids alone too long. They might get in trouble. Aquaregia's watching 'em, but they're _bigger _than he is."

"Kids?" Perceptor said, brightly. "Sparklings?"

"Yeah, Thundercracker 'n I decided to raise two sparklings. You'll like them, Nerdling. I haven't had so much fun in thousands of years as I am having with the kids ..."

* * *

Ratchet's neon paint job was easy to spot amid a sea of blues, reds, silver, and brighter yellows. Fang lengthened his stride, following after the medic. He caught up as they both passed through Fort Max's exit.

"Hey, Ratch. Where you headed?"

"Perceptor should be here in a minute." Ratchet's smile was bright.

"Perceptor?"

"Percy's the metallurgist we brought back from Nieryl Six. That's his primary specialty, anyway, but sometimes I think there's not much that Percy can't do if he puts his mind to it."

"Perceptor's a friend of yours?" Fang felt a keen stab of fierce resentment at the thought that Ratchet might have a friend arriving. He knew that Ratchet had many friends, and he didn't particularly want to share Ratchet with more people.

"He's a buddy," Ratchet confirmed, "and you're jealous."

Fang realized he had not been able to keep his expression quite as neutral as he would have liked. He waited for an irritated response from Ratchet, but all Ratchet did was keep walking.

"Am not."

"Are too." Ratchet smirked.

"How come I can lie convincingly to everyone but you?" Fangface lengthened his stride to keep up. Ratchet seemed to be hurrying a little.

From beneath his shoulder armor Prism said cheerfully, "Lying is _bad_!"

"You're teaching her well," Ratchet chuckled. "How'd the meeting with Optimus go?"

"He thinks I need to adopt a few more children." Fang snorted.

"Prism would love that. Prism, would you like a more few brothers and sisters?"

"_My _Fang!" Prism objected, followed by, "My Wheelie!"

"Your Wheelie?" He twisted his head around so he could see her red eyes peering out from under the shadows of his armor. "He's your Wheelie, huh?"

"Don't want to share Wheelie with other brothers and sisters. Like Wheelie." She hissed her displeasure at the idea.

Ratchet, teasingly, told her, "But what if they were all like Wheelie, and doted on you? You'd be their princess."

"Okay." She stuck her head and shoulders out, lying on her stomach on Fang's collar-strut. "I want lots of brothers and sisters."

Fang laughed, as he reached up and rubbed her head. Prism just had an amazing ability to make him giggle. "Not today, kiddo. You'll get some siblings in a few more years, I promise. Then you'll be the big sister and you can teach them all sorts of stuff."

"Okay!"

At that moment, a thunderous _crack _shattered the silence. Skywarp had returned, arriving at a point midway between the DOA and Fort Max, and a hundred feet in the air. Fang glanced up, and watched as several grounders tumbled through the air to land with varying degrees of grace. Elita landed neatly on her feet. A larger mech in blue and white crashed on his aft. _Mirage_, Fang recognized. He was amused by that. Doc hit, bounced, and finally came to a rest on his hands and knees, but without too much drama. Flora went _splat _in a full belly flop. Manywinds touched down with a flourish of his multi-colored wings and then trotted over to Flora to check on her.

Skywarp had his arms full of the final mech, a brightly colored and lightly built civilian model. Metallic red paint gleamed in the sun, and complicated optical lenses mounted on the mech's helm reflected the light with the sparkle of diamonds. It was probably those delicate lenses that had made Skywarp cautious, though he seemed to be carrying the other mech with a rather familiar hold, like they knew each other.

'Warp's thrusters roared as he glided towards the ground. He saw Fang and headed his way, touching down close enough that the backwash from his engines threw sand across the ground at Fang's feet.

_I've seen that mech somewhere before._

Time seemed to stop. Fang's hand on Prism's back grew still. The memory was ancient, archived, and it took a moment for his system to find it, and make a match from unexpected visual data alone.

_Impossible._

Nothing had changed about him. Nothing at all. He was still the same bright red color, the same beautiful _color. _And Fang remembered those lenses, and how they had fascinated him. This mech had spent many hours hunched over a lab bench, inspecting ore samples or slugs of alloy, or machining small parts, or melting bits of metal in a crucible, or poking at various and sundry bits of machinery. Always, there had been his optical lenses. Other mechs might have used hand-held scanners or clip-on filters, but not Compass. Compass, for efficiency's sake, and because he tended to _lose _things, kept all his lenses attached to his helm.

Compass had lenses that polarized, lenses that magnified, lenses that filtered out certain wavelengths of light, lenses that focused. When Fang had been small, he had been so very fascinated by all the different lenses. Compass would sometimes take them off and let him look through them, and that had always been a rare treat.

Now, Compass was staring at him with bright blue optics. There were no bits of glass in the way to mask the shocked expression on his face.

"Percy," Ratchet said, "This is Lord Fangface, leader of the Decepticons."

Percy? No, this was Compass.

Fang wanted to fling his arms around the other mech's neck, scream a joyous greeting, tackling him to the ground, and tell him how much he'd missed him. Yet, weirdly, he didn't feel the wild, unbridled joy he thought he should have. Or anger, for leaving him alone. He felt no emotional reaction at all, and it was odd.

Compass -- Perceptor, apparently -- said slowly, "He's dead."

"In my medical opintion, you're wrong," Ratchet's response was dry.

"He's _dead_." Perceptor's optic shutters flicked shut. He balled both fists and lifted his face towards Earth's sun. Strong solar light reflected brightly off iridescent faceplates. "He's _dead_."

The blue and white mech was walking over to them. "Lord Fangface," he said smoothly, "I'm Commander Mirage. I hope you don't mind Percy. I'll take responsibility for any offense he might have caused."

"No offense," Fangface said, automatically.

Prism stuck her head out, and said, "_Optics_! Pretty!"

Perceptor blinked. "Is that a child?"

"Yep," Fang confirmed. "I have another kid around here ... somewhere ... he's older. Prism's just a sparkling."

"... Can I?" Perceptor held a hesitant hand out.

"Percy, I don't think that the _leader of the Decepticons _wants to share his sparkling with you," Mirage said, a bit sharply.

"Oh. Yeah. Um." Percy hung his head, and lowered his hand. "I'm sorry. You just remind me so much of ... well, there was this mech I knew. A long time ago. A sparkling. You look like him. But he's dead. He's been dead a long time. And I don't think I want to talk about that anymore."

Confused, Fang asked Ratchet, _:Is he sane?:_

_:Arguably, no.:_

_:Aw, slag. Ratch, this is Compass ...:_

_:Got that memo. What do you want to do about it?:_

_:I'm going to make Mirage glitch.: _At a loss for any other possible reaction, he defaulted to snark.

"Perceptor," Fangface said, as he plucked his kid up off his shoulder. He held her out to Perceptor. Perceptor took her with delicate, almost reverent, hands. "This is Prism. Prism, say hello to Perceptor."

"Hi, Perceptor." She pointed at his lenses. "Pretty!"

He reached up and detached one, and handed it to her. She turned it over and over in her fingers, then peered through it. It magnified her optics enormously. She giggled.

"I love sparklings," Perceptor said, softly. "I didn't think there were any left in the universe. They said the Allspark was destroyed. I always wanted a sparkling of my own. I'd have done almost anything to have a sparkling. _Almost _anything. "

Fang pressed his lips together. _Almost _was the key word.

However, Perceptor's next words took him by surprise. Perceptor's gaze was on Prism, but he sounded distant, as if he as merely musing aloud. "The oly thing I wouldn't do was work for Megatron." Perceptor stroked Prism's armor with delicate, sensitive fingers. She leaned into the touch. "There was a youngling that looked like you, Lord Fangface. I wanted him to be my child. Shockwave said he would make it so, but the price was too high. I knew there would be war and I knew I could not support Megatron's ambitions for one child's life. It was ... the hardest decision I ever made him my life."

"Shockwave told me," Fangs said quietly, "that you just wanted to leave. That your contract was up and you were going to work somewhere else."

"They didn't even let me say goodbye to him. I wanted to say goodbye. I wanted to explain. But how could a child understand that? He was only three stellar cycles old."

"I wouldn't have," Fang was aware of the silent, intent gaze of the Autobots and Skywarp. "When I was a youngling, I would _not _have understood. All I knew was that you left me, and I _believed _you didn't want me. I think I understand now, though, why you did it. Why you left me. I wasn't yours. I understand that, now."

Perceptor stroked Prism's armor. "He's dead. Kitten is dead. I wasn't even allowed to name him. He wasn't even allowed a _name_. But I called him Kitten. He was such a bright sparkling. He never should have been a warrior. It wasn't in his nature to fight. He had an aptitude for fixing things, though, and an inclination for the sciences. He was _meant _to be my sparkling, I think. We would talk about science, and he understood so much, and he loved it."

"I did love it. It meant a great deal to me."

"But they made him a warrior. He wasn't even allowed a proper name."

_:Kitten?: _Ratchet asked, with a little amusement. _:He called you 'Kitten'?:_

_:Beats 'Snowflake'.:_ And now Ratchet had yet another annoying nickname to call him, probably. Fangface took two steps closer to Perceptor. "Perceptor, I am Kitten. Or Lord Fangface, now."

"My Kitten is _dead_."

"Oh, come on. Have some faith in me. I'm hard to kill." He poked Perceptor's arm, drawing the mech's attention down to him. "Slag, have some faith in Ratchet. He's put me back together three times now."

"I thought they said you were a 'con, Lord Fangface ..." Perceptor said, with some confusion. "Ratchet fixed you?"

Ratchet clapped a hand on Fang's shoulders, making Elita blink and Mirage narrow his optics. Ratchet explained, "He's a Prime, Perceptor. He's the Decepticon Prime. That sparkling you knew? He grew up to be a pretty damn fine mech."

"Kitten?" Perceptor said, uncertainly. "Kitten became a Prime?"

Fang said, "Please call me Fang."

"... Fang," Percy echoed the word.

"Fang," he confirmed, smiling. However, the smile was an act. He felt weirdly numb inside. He should be screaming in joy at finding Compass alive, but he seemed to feel nothing at all. It was weird. Why wasn't he more elated?

"It's Percy?" Fangface tilted his head to the side, unsure what to call him. "Or Perceptor?"

"My friends call me Percy." Perceptor's blue optics searched Fang's face for a moment. "But Kitten died. I was so sure Kitten died. Kitten was a prototype. There were a lot of flaws in Kitten's design we needed to fix before that model ever hit production. I heard that the program was canceled and he was set to war. I figured he died."

Fang grunted. "Didn't die. Didn't even get slagged all that often. I'm good at ducking."

"Really?" Ratchet elbowed him, catching Fang in the shoulder. "Then you've just been showing up in my med bay because you like me."

"Ratch, you're an aft." The response to Ratchet was automatic. He continued to Perceptor, "I am Kitten, Percy. I really am."

Perceptor looked down at Prism, then up again at Fang. Uncertainly, Perceptor asked, "Would you ... would you like to ... I mean, I know you're probably very busy, between being the leader of the Decepticons and being a Prime and raising this lovely sparkling, but would you, umm ..."

He didn't remember Compass as being insecure or hesitant. It hurt to see that fear now. Fang made a guess at what Perceptor wanted and said, "I'd like you to come visit me, very much."

Mirage made a human throat-clearing noise. He'd already assimilated the English language module. "Perhaps it would be better if you visited Perceptor at Fortress Maximus, Lord Fangface. I mean no offense, but surely you understand that Percy is one of our pre-eminent scientists and it would be very inappropriate and irresponsible for us to allow him to simply waltz into a Decepticon controlled base on a social call."

Fang couldn't help the hiss that escaped from his vocalizer. He decided he didn't like Mirage much. "I would _not _hurt him!"

"'Raj," Ratchet said, tone tolerant on the surface but with warning lurking just beneath his civil response, "We trust Fang."

In a small voice, Perceptor said, "Lord Fang, I don't think I want to go to the Decepticon base."

"We can _trust _Fang!" Ratchet said, louder.

Fang held his hand up, stalling what was probably going to be a longer rant from Ratchet. "'Ratch, it's okay. Percy, you undoubtedly need to get settled in. Comm me when you've got some free time and we can get together."

"Th-thanks." Percy handed Prism back.

And that was it. Mirage escorted Perceptor and the other scientists off towards Fort Max. Fang watched them leave and suddenly felt lonely, despite Skywarp's presence behind them, and Ratchet beside him, and Prism clinging to his neck.

"Boss, you okay?" Skywarp asked.

"Primus, I must be in bad shape if _you _can tell I'm miserable." As soon as he uttered the sharp, biting words, he wanted to take them back, because Skywarp's expression immediately showed hurt. He heard himself continue, though. "I'm just slagging _wonderful_. Thanks for asking. I'm going to go throw a party for the whole wide world now."

Ratchet smacked him from behind, palm connecting with the back of his head. The _clonk _was loud enough that Elita turned around to see what the noise was, and she was already a few hundred feet away.

"What?" He spun around to glare at the medic. "Why'd you hit me?"

"If we were in private, I'd hug you. Swatting you was the next best thing." Ratchet folded his arms.

"That makes no sense!" He turned to Skywarp. "I am sorry, 'Warp."

Skywarp sighed. "It's okay, boss. I didn't tell Percy I'm dumb now. I don't know if he's figured it out yet."

"I'll tell him for you, if you want," Ratchet's voice was strangely gentle.

"Naw. Best if I do it." Skywarp favored Ratchet with a crooked smile. "Thanks, though. -- Boss, do you need me?"

"No, not right now."

"I'm gonna go rescue 'Regia from the brats, then. See you later." Skywarp was gone in a roar of engines as he transformed in mid leap and shot into the air.

Ratchet shaded his optics from the sun for a minute, watching as Skywarp headed for the river. Most likely, 'Regia had taken the seeker sparklings down to the water to play. Then Ratchet turned to Fang, and Fang was keenly aware that the two of them were alone except for Prism, surrounded by hundreds of yards of empty no man's land between the DOA and Fort Max. A light, warm breeze whispered over his armor.

He felt bereft. It wasn't a fierce grief like he'd felt in the days immediately after Deathwheel's loss, but a quiet ache that seemed to sink into his struts and slow the beating of his spark. Ratchet said, softly, "I'm sorry, Fang."

"He's alive. I should be happy." He wasn't happy at all. He felt so _empty_.

Ratchet's arm moved, as if he was thinking about touching Fang. He didn't complete the gesture, but brief motion drew Fang's attention downward to Ratchet's clenched fingers. Fang impulsively offered, "I noticed earlier that your hands need maintenance. Why don't you come back to my lab with me? I'll clean them for you."

He expected Ratchet to shoot his offer down. This was the sort of thing one either used a personal cleaning drone for, or trusted a very close friend with. However, Ratchet glanced at his fingers, flexed them, nodded, and said, "Stupid desert dirt gets into everything here. Thanks."

"Well, this world _is _called Earth."

It was an inane joke. Ratchet didn't even laugh at it, though a smile did touch his lip plates. "You've got some scratches from that fight with Pounce. You do my hands, I'll fix your scratches. Deal?"

"Deal."

He felt just a little better. Marginally. Maybe.

"I won't ask if you're okay," Ratchet said, as they walked towards the DOA. "But will you tell me if there's anything I can do?"

"Just want me." He uttered the words before he thought them through, and then cursed his treacherous vocalizer and impulsive nature. He wasn't even sure what he _meant _by his response.

"I do, Fang," Ratchet answered, very gravely. "Primus help me, but I do."


	89. Chapter 89

Chapter 89

* * *

Author's notes: I am very deliberately _not _tuckerizing any specific fans in this. However, the last time I wrote something like this I managed to accidentally match a few fandom likenesses or names/handles. Since I'm creating a few archetypal fans, it's possible that could happen again. I do want to stress that none of the fans described are real people.

Also, I am a long-time member of fandom. I'm really, really not laughing at anyone. However, Sam, while definitely a geek, is canonically not comfortable with people acting in unusual ways. ("Get out of the tree!") Please keep in mind that I'm keeping Sam's reactions to typical fan behavior in character when writing this, and I am not actually intending to make fun of anyone specific.

(And I know I said I might take awhile to get to the next chapter. Then a few ideas _ate my brain. _You guys aren't complaining, right?)

* * *

The hotel was brightly lit, with a jammed parking lot and crowds of people visible both out front and inside the lobby. Jazz braked hard as someone wearing a ball gown ran across the street in front of him. The girl (or possibly a guy, she was very tall) in the gown joined a man wearing chain mail, and the two skipped -- _skipped _-- off towards the lobby.

"Ah, I do believe we're here," Jazz said, chuckling. "They look like they're having fun."

Chain Mail and Ball Gown were now dancing down the sidewalk to music only they could hear. Sam, amused despite the fact that weird people made him squirm, wondered if that was the definition of 'dancing to the beat of their own drummer.'

Bee grinned. "They do."

Jazz pulled up in front of the hotel. Sam and Bee climbed out, and walked around to Jazz's trunk to retrieve their luggage. A bellhop walked over to help, and yelped as Jazz did his magic-trunk routine and manifested a second set of bags after the first was removed. "How the hell ..."

"Magic." Sam unloaded the two additional suitcases, and set them on the cart. He pushed the trunk shut and patted Jazz's rear quarter panel.

"Or technology sufficiently advanced to appear as magic, anyway," Bee grinned, leaning against Jazz's door. Sam had noted Bee tended to be a lot more touchy-feely with other mechs in his technorganic form. He had a theory that Bee was deliberately emulating human behavior and/or trying to subconsciously affect human perceptions of large mechanoid Autobots. If the short, squishy, humanoid Autobot wasn't afraid to get right up next to the giant alien robots, humans didn't need to be either ...

Jazz, at least, didn't seem to mind. Jazz and Bee had been brothers in arms for a long time. He wouldn't put it past Jazz to know exactly what Bee was doing.

A valet walked over. "Sweet ride."

"He thinks so," Sam said.

"He _knows _so," Jazz corrected, voice making the valet's eyebrows go up.

"Where'd that come from?" The man fidgeted in place. The Autobots' presence at the convention had not been pre-announced for security reasons, but talking cars meant either a practical joke or a Cybertronian these days. "Err. Do I need to park that?"

"Nah. He can park himself if he needs to." Sam joined Bee in leaning against Jazz's side. He wasn't sure if they should leave Jazz outside by himself, or if somebody should stay with him.

The valet's eyes grew wide. So did the porter's. Bee touched his finger to his lips, indicating,_ Shhhhh._ "It's a secret."

Both men nodded, and Sam fought down a snicker. They looked like bobblehead dolls. They mutually both at Jazz, who, being Jazz, responded brightly with, "Whaaaaaaaatcha looking at?"

Sam giggled. Bee rolled his eyes. The two men both averted their eyes, like they might do if someone who was handicapped had caught them staring.

Fortunately, at that moment, an older woman hurried up. She had a badge on that identified her as Mistress Felicity, and, also, a "staff" ribbon attached to said badge. "Shhh!" she waved her hands. "Don't let anyone know you're here!"

"Uhhhh ...hi." Sam thought, at first, that the woman looked blessedly normal. Then he revised his estimate when he realized she was wearing cat earrings, a cat t-shirt, cat ring, cat bracelet, cat watch, and had a cat sticker on her badge. Her jeans had cats in rhinestones on them. He was still playing spot-the-cats in awe when Bee took over.

"I'm Bumblebee." Bee held a hand out to her to shake. "The Solstice is Jazz. And the human here trying to pretend he's too cool for all of this is Sam."

Sam shot Bee a glare, which he totally ignored. Jazz chuckled.

The woman did shake Bee's hand, very firmly, pumping it up and down with enthusiasm. "We're so glad you came." She shook Sam's hand. "Thank you!" She turned to Jazz. And curtsied, lifting up an imaginary skirt."Thank you for coming!"

"Our pleasure, m'lady," Jazz said. "I take it we're to be a secret surprise?"

"Yeah, opening ceremonies are in an hour. There's a stage, and Jazz can drive in from the back, behind a curtain, then transform. C'mon, if you'll follow me, I'll walk around with you to where you need to be."

Jazz popped the door. "Why don't I drive you, m'lady?"

"Really?" She giggled like a little girl. "Oh, cool!"

"I'll get our stuff up to our rooms," Sam offered. "Bee? You want to go with Jazz? They might recognize you and blow the surprise if you go inside."

Jazz said, "I reserved myself a room by the pool. Can you check in for me?"

"Uh ... yeah, I guess." Sam wondered what Jazz wanted a room for.

"Oh, dear, should we have had another room reserved for you three?" The woman hesitated. "I didn't even think ... oh, dear, but ..." she ground to a halt, clearly as confused as Sam was. It probably was a bad idea to leave Jazz in the parking lot alone, because he'd never get any recharge unless he resorted to hiding under a holomatter image, and Sam had a vague idea that they'd need to cordon some area off for Jazz, or fit him into a conference room somehow.

"It's okay," Jazz said, "No worries." He started his engine. "Tell me about your plans for this surprise ..."

They drove off, leaving Sam, the suitcases, and a pair of stunned hotel employees by the curb. Sam turned to the two men. "Please don't spoil the surprise, okay?"

"The Solstice is a giant alien robot. Do not talk about it. Gotcha." The porter nodded enthusiastically.

"I'll make sure he gives you his autograph later," Sam promised.

He proceeded inside, marginally reassured. As he did so, somebody screamed. Sam, a veteran of several battles, including one that had claimed his life, very nearly hit the deck. He spun, hands coming up defensively. A woman with pigtails rocketed past him. She ran across the hotel lobby, where she tackled another woman wearing very bright colors. The two squealed at each other, jumped up and down, and then ran off together down a hall.

He blinked. _Ooookay._

"SAM!"

Sam spun back towards the lobby entrance, at his name. A boy he hadn't seen in well over a year ran towards him, with nearly as much enthusiasm as the two women had shown a second ago. Scratch that, with embarrassingly _more _enthusiasm. "SAAAAAAM!" The man was a dirty blond, two inches taller than Sam remembered, and he was wearing a trenchcoat.

Sam wasn't entirely sure he wanted to admit knowing him, but with both resignation and recognition, he said, "Miles!"

"SAM!" Miles threw his arms around Sam's shoulders in an ecstatic hug and jumped up and down. Sam suffered the embrace with a brief, awkward hug back. "You _came _to a _con_?"

"Err, yes?" He extricated himself from Miles's grip as soon as he could without hurting Miles's feelings.

"Oh, this is so cool! Wow!" Miles bounced up and down, reminding Sam a bit of Prism in his enthusiasm. "Last I heard you were going off to college, right? How's college? How's life treating you? This is the last place I ever expected to find you! Are you still dating Mikaela? Is she here? Are you here for the 'con or as a mundane or something? This is _so coool! _I just saw one of the writers for my favorite cartoons! And they've got all these panels planned at the last minute about the aliens, and even a costume contest for the best robot costume ..."

Sam cut him off. You sorta had to do that with Miles when he got going. "You really don't know yet what I've been doing the last few years?"

Miles always had been rather clueless. He'd moved away just after Mission City, though Sam had kept in touch until recently. (Sam liked him, in small doses, and preferably not when cooler people might see -- which was, pretty much, the entire rest of the world.) Sam had not been able to fill him in about the Transformers before he left. He probably should have done so after Egypt, but he'd been so busy. He'd also not wanted to endure Miles inevitably enthusiastic reaction and demands to _meet _the guys. He'd halfway been expecting a call or an e-mail accusing him on holding out with his best bud on the biggest secret of their lives, but it had never come. And he'd really been too busy to even worry about it.

It sounded like Miles had (as usual) not been watching the news much, either.

"Wanna go out to dinner?" Miles bounced on his toes, not answering Sam's question. That was fair enough. Sam hadn't answered any of his. "There's a really good sushi restaurant across the street from the resort!"

"Actually, I wanted to catch the, err, opening ceremonies." The last time he'd gone out to dinner with him, Miles had stuck spaghetti noodles up his nose and pretended it was snot. Aside from the fact that Sam was pretty much obligated to attend since his boyfriend was going to be a surprise guest, he had no desire to dine with Miles anywhere more sophisticated than Chuck E. Cheese. Sushi was right out. He'd have to endure cracks about tentacles, Miles making fish faces, and Miles' non-stop monologue on Japanese culture and bad attempts at speaking Japanese. Also, chopsticks were a fine stand-in for noodle snot.

"Oh, skip that. It's just a bunch of people blathering. The real fun's the gaming. We could get dinner and then play some magic ..."

"Play some magic ... oh, Magic, the card game." He'd grown out of Magic sometime around thirteen or fourteen years of age, after his father had thrown his cards out, declaring them too childish. As he recalled, he had not _wanted _to grow out of them at the time, but he had not had much choice.

Miles nodded happily. "I've got some cards you can borrow!"

"Umm, actually ..." Oh, boy. This was going to be fun. In the not-fun sense of sarcastic 'fun.' His weekend had just gotten that much more not-fun. R-and-R his ass. "Remember Satan's Camaro?"

"What, that old POS you used to drive?"

"Heh. Right." He ran a hand over his head and said sheepishly, "I probably should have told you this, but Satan's Camaro was really a giant alien robot, an officer in the Autobot army, and my personal bodyguard. He's also a pretty damn good friend. We've saved each other's lives a few times."

Miles burst out laughing. "Sam, you joker, you."

"I'm not joking!" He had not expected Miles to believe him. Still, the denial hurt. Sam rolled his eyes. "C'mon, then. I've got to check in and get the rooms for Satan's Camaro and his commanding officer, and me. You can fill me in ..." Sam did a double take at a middle-aged and overweight man dressed up as Xena, Warrior Princess, "... on what you've been doing while we wait."

Miles only gave Xena an absent glance before continuing, "Oh, geeze! I've been working on this campaign with my friends ... see, there's this evil wizard, and ..." Miles started chattering happily about a Dungeons and Dragons game. He kept right on chattering while Sam checked in for two rooms, a suite for himself and Bee and Jazz's ground-floor room by the pool, and Sam was pretty sure he was completely oblivious to Sam's conversation with the registration clerk.

Miles trotted after him, still babbling about D&D -- or possibly the SCA now, Sam wasn't sure -- as the porter helped Sam get his luggage to his and Bee's suite.

"... oh, hey, have you registered yet?"

"Huh?"

"Your registration for the con?"

"Oh. Uh. No."

"Your badge?"

"Oh. Where do I go?"

"I'll show you!" Miles bounced off. Sam followed, wishing he had some of Miles's energy. He had been working hard for days without a break. Bee had slept for part of the ride from DC, but Jazz's seats were not the most comfortable and the sun had been bright, and Sam had only dozed lightly. He figured he was going to sleep good tonight.

Somewhat to Sam's relief, Mistress Felicity was down at the desk. "Miles!" she said, apparently recognizing Sam's friend. "Oh, good. I need your help at opening ceremonies. Can I get you to work the stage curtain?"

"Oh, sure!" Miles looked thrilled to be given an important task. Sam was reminded, strongly, of Miles as a kid. He'd reacted about the same way to being asked to sharpen pencils for the teacher.

Felicity handed Sam a badge. It had a white guest ribbon attached to it. "Here you go! I must say, Sam, Bee and Jazz are a riot."

"They are fun," Sam agreed. Knowing Bee and Jazz, they were probably deliberately turning on the charisma and charm. Jazz would also flirt with anything that moved.

Miles squinted at Sam's badge and suddenly got very quiet.

Felicity led them both into a large auditorium at the end of the hall. She knocked, and someone pushed the door open a crack, verified it was her, and then she squeezed in through the barely opened door. Sam followed her lead, and Miles slipped in after them.

The auditorium was mostly empty, except for a few hotel staff setting up chairs and a few con staff. Most of the con staff were clustered around Jazz, who was parked on the stage, and Bee.

Bee saw Miles, with nearly the same level of energy as Miles had been displaying, he bounced over, "Miles! It's so good to be able to actually talk to you!"

"Uh, who are you?" Sam stared at him.

"Miles," Sam said, "I'd like you to meet Satan's Camaro, Version 2.0."

Bee's smile did not diminish. 'Satan's Camaro' was a standing joke between them. Miles, however, looked completely confused. Sam wanted to smack him for that. Bumblebee had been on TV on a regular basis. He was very distinctive in appearance. Miles _really _needed to get out more.

Jazz transformed, in response to a request from one of the staff. Jazz wasn't really paying much attention to either Bee or Miles. Instead, seemed to be working out the plans for their grand entrance with the staff. Sam heard Jazz say, "Like this? And then I can throw my arms out like _this _and say, _surrrpppriiiiise?"_

"Good!" One of the staff said, "But I think I need to adjust my camcorder. It's going to cut your head off, otherwise ..."

Somebody else observed, "I think we're going to need a longer cord on the microphone."

"Nah, we got a wireless mike."

The con staff were cheerfully unafraid of Jazz. Jazz had probably been turning on the charm for a good twenty minutes. Plenty of time for Jazz to work his magic. However, Miles stared at Jazz with bug-eyed intensity .

Sam said to Miles, "And that's Satan's Camaro's boss."

Miles took a step backwards, tripped over his own feet, and landed on his butt.

It was probably cruel of him, but Sam started laughing. Bee shot Sam an annoyed look, then bent over and offered Miles a hand up. "Miles, I'm Bumblebee, one of the Autobots. I've known Sam for a few years, but he couldn't tell anyone about his role with us until recently. It was classified. He means I'm also his Camaro."

"Uhh ... so you were like a secret agent or something? _Cool_!"

Oh boy. This was going to take some time.

"Jazz," Bee towed Miles towards the stage, not having released his hand before pulling him to his feet. "This is the kid I was telling you about, Sam's friend from his childhood. The one who likes Japanese rock."

"Hi, Miles."

Miles squeaked, pulled free, and retreated back to Sam. "He's _big_! They don't look that big on TV!"

"Actually, Jazz is only fifteen feet tall, and he's lightly armored. Optimus is almost twice that."

Felicity said, with some surprise, to Miles, "You know Sam? I didn't know that."

"Uh." Miles stared up at Jazz from a safe distance. Jazz was trying to figure out where to clip a microphone that he'd just been handed. "Uh."

Jazz glanced over and repeated, "Hi, Miles."

"Uh!"

Jazz tapped the wireless microphone a couple of times, then bent over and handed it back to the staffer. "Won't need that," he said, and his voice came from the auditorium speakers. "I can just transmit on the same frequency with my comm."

"Oh, that's _soooooo coool_!" Felicity declared. Then she babbled something science-sounding at Jazz. Jazz responded with similar technobabble. Bee put in his two cents. Sam completely lost the thread of the conversation.

He turned to Miles. "Sorry, Miles, I wanted to tell you, but, uh, I was kinda under government orders to keep my mouth shut. And then when the story broke about the guys I've been so damn busy."

"Yeah, I haven't heard from you since you went off to college." Miles grinned at him. "How's college going anyway?"

"It's not." He hadn't even thought about college for weeks. "I've got a job with the mechs. Right now, I'm basically functioning as Bee's and Jazz's secretary, though what I do varies. A lot of the time, they just need a human they can trust to function as a go-between and errand runner."

"Secretary?" Miles giggled, putting a ton of innuendo into his words. "Are there any fringe benefits with being his secretary?"

Sam felt his face grow hot. Miles apparently didn't read TMZ, either. He snapped, "You are so immature."

Miles laughed. "Made ya blush! He's _sooooo _hot." He grinned at Bee, who didn't say anything.

"Who, Bee?" Sam shrugged. "Yeah, I g-guess."

"Admit it, he is." Miles _really _wasn't listening, Sam realized, given that he'd just admitted Bee was.

"Miles, drop it."

"You know he is." Miles' tone turned teasing.

"Given it was a deliberate choice to look attractive to humans, I'm gratified by your response," Bee said. To Sam's ears to sounded like an attempt to draw the focus off him. He was grateful for that. Bee continued, "Mikaela helped with some design suggestions ..."

"Ooooh, she's got good taste. Don't you think she's got good taste, Sam? I think she does. I mean, she's a ho and all, but she knows how to find a hot man ... Trent was _all sorts _of hot!"

"Miles," a note of warning touched Sam's voice. The heat of embarassment was being replaced by a dark flush of anger. "We need to t-talk. Later."

"Please do not imply Mikaela is a whore." Bee's response was softer than Sam's, but Sam heard a rather dangerous note of sudden anger in those calm words. Unfortunately, he knew from experience Miles was likely to completely miss Bee's reaction.

As expected, Miles was oblivious. He giggled, "You know, I'd date Bee in a heartbeat. He's _adorable_."

Apparently, Miles had gone from probably-gay-but-coy-about-it to completely-out-of-the-closet in the months since they'd talked last. Well, Sam had really always known Miles orientation. Miles had joked about it since Junior High. He was just one of those guys who couldn't hide it.

"Think he'd date a human?" Miles wasn't going to drop it, either.

"I know he would," Sam growled, too angry to even stutter, "and I also know he's taken."

Miles looked at Sam, really _looked _at him. Sam mentally cursed the inevitable fact that it would be _now _that Miles actually decided to be perceptive. Right on cue, Miles cracked up. Miles tended to be oblivious right up until the worst possible moment, when he promptly became dang near psychic. It was Sam's turn to be laughed at, and now he _really _didn't feel bad about snickering at Miles' reaction of weak-kneed fear a moment earlier. "No frigging _way_. No _way, _Sam! You finally admitted you're gay? I mean, I always figured you were, because, dude, nobody chases the hottest girl in school like that unless they're trying to overcompensate, but geeze, you were stubborn!"

Miles was being loud enough that people were staring at him _and _overhearing him. Bee had gone very quiet and inhumanly still. Sam had said nothing about dating Bee, but Miles had clearly drawn that conclusion.

"Miles, _shut up_," Sam hissed at him.

Felicity had been quiet, watching the byplay. She finally spoke up, "Miles, go help Lance with the AV equipment."

"Buuuuut ..." Miles tried to whine.

"Go help Lance." Felicity was firm.

With a muttered grumble, he did. Lance was, apparently, a tall guy in a pirate costume on the other side of the room. He was currently adjusting a camcorder.

"Sorry," Felicity sighed at them. "Miles is obnoxious."

"Yeah." Sam crossed his arms over his chest and contemplated hiding in his hotel room for the duration of the con. _Five thousand dollars a week, _he recalled, of the Autobot's generosity with his salary. Damnit, he was being paid to do this. He wasn't really sure the money was worth it, though.

Bee put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam, it'll be okay."

_Money's not worth it. Bee is._ Sam relaxed a little but growled, "Miles is an ass. I remember why I quit talking to him. He's been an ass for as long as I've known him. He was an ass all the way back in preschool. Our parents are friends, and we grew up together. He's the annoying little brother I never wanted."

Mistress Felicity gave him a sympathetic smile, surprising him. He expected nosy questions, but instead she said, "Fandom's pretty tolerant of alternative lifestyles. I wouldn't worry too much about the reaction of most of the con. If anyone does give you trouble, let me know. We'll deal with us."

"You knew about us?" He was surprised, because she'd been so cheerfully friendly.

"There's this video on the internet ..." she explained, causing Sam to roll his eyes, "And I asked Bee about it, because I wanted to know if you two wanted one room or two. So I knew, and I am sorry about Miles. I'll have a word with him and the rest of the staff."

"Well, I am not exactly in the closet thanks to the media." So far, most of the politicians and media had been polite to him, but most of them wanted something from Bee or Jazz. He wasn't expecting the same courtesy from the general public. "Wasn't planning on sharing the personal details of my life with the entire world, though."

"Hell of a way to get outed," she agreed.

"Yeah, particularly since that was the first time I kissed Bee," Sam said, finding it weirdly easy to discuss this. Perhaps it was the fact that Felicity had come to his rescue. His tension abruptly evaporated. He explained, or perhaps vented a bit, "I'd just admitted I was bi that weekend, actually, and only to a good friend. Not even Bee. Then when the video hit the media, my dad was _not _happy. There was drama. And as far as Miles goes, he an _idiot. _He's always been completely comfortable with himself, probably because he doesn't always notice people's reactions to him, but he doesn't get that the rest of us might not be in the same headspace, and I spent half my life wanting to strangle him. He's a good friend when I can get him to slow down long enough to _listen _to what I'm saying ... he cares, he's just clueless and off in la-la land most of the time. And he doesn't like Mikaela much, because he's jealous of the time I spend with her."

Felicity laughed. "That sounds about right. I've known him for a few years. He's a good volunteer, if we can keep him aimed in the right direction. He always earns his registration at cons by helping out. Really, I think he's found his tribe with fandom -- anyway, he's still a puppy, he'll grow up and get some social skills _someday_. If someone doesn't kill him first." She glanced over at Miles, who was now making the pirate double over with laughter. Then she looked at her watch. "As late as it is, his Ritalin's probably starting to wear off, which isn't helping his behavior."

Sam snorted. She'd probably nailed it in one guess. Miles, ADD to the max, was always easier to deal with earlier in the day. "I'll get him some coffee, if you'd like. He's the only dork I ever knew you could calm down with caffeine."

"You _do _know him."

Sam grinned at her tone of voice, which was conspiratorial.

"Coffee would be good, since I asked him to run the curtains."

"Want me to get you anything?" It was second nature for him to volunteer to be helpful.

She paused, gave him a startled look that he wasn't sure he understood, then nodded, "... if you would, get me a cafe mocha? The concession stand by the pool should still be open. If not, try the bar off the lobby." She thrust a twenty at him, then added, "Maybe I'd better really drill Miles on what he needs to do a few times. Make sure he understands what to do, and when."

"Hah. Good luck with that." Sam realized they probably all knew about him and Bee, or would as soon as the gossip started. He summoned his courage, leaned in, and kissed Bee on the cheek. "I'll be right back, Bee."

Bee touched his cheek and _smiled.  
_  
As he walked away to find a resort concession stand, he heard Felicity say to Bee, "_You _are a lucky robot."

Bee's laughter was merry. "That I am. Hey, you know, Jazz and I could do a musical number, if you want -- I know it's last minute, but it's been forever since I've sung in front of an audience and I miss it ..."

* * *

Fang's touch was light and nimble. Ratchet was always fascinated by how skilled Fang could be with hands that were meant for war. The predacon sat crosslegged on top of his work bench, a vantage that put him at a convenient height to work on Ratchet's hands when Ratchet sat on Fang's low stool.

"I always did this for my troops, when I was a field commander. It helped with their loyalty to me, and it was a good time to talk. A good way to find out gossip," Fang said, conversationally, as he unscrewed a tiny series of cables from their mounts. He was being very thorough. Ratchet generally soaked his hands in solvent a few times a week, or before he did a major surgery on someone. Every few months, however, it was important to take the delicate, open mechanisms apart and clean out accumulated gunk from the tiny gears and pulleys and from beneath sensitive pressure plates and jointed bits of armor. The last time Ratchet's hands had been overhauled -- by Jolt -- had been before Egypt. Fang clearly intended to be a lot more thorough than Jolt had been.

Fang set the screws down on the tray, and inspected the cables as he removed them. They were a little worn. Ratchet would have reused them, but Fang clicked a couple of times in disapproval, set them aside, and pointedly put a new spool of wire on the tray next to them. Clearly, he intended to replace them.

"Those are good for at least another year's use." Ratchet hated to waste anything.

"And if we get so slagging _busy _we don't have time to replace them in that year? Do you really want to risk losing the use of a finger during an emergency?" Fang's response was chiding. "I'd reuse them if you were a worker, sure, but you're a medic. It's important your hands work right."

Fang had a point. Ratchet grunted assent.

Beneath the plating, and the cables, and a fine mesh of sensors, Ratchet's finger struts were scarred. Fang traced a line of a weld that couldn't be seen until you dismantled everything. "That must have hurt like the Pit."

"Damn near blew my hand off. Somebody booby trapped a patient on a battlefield."

"Tcha!" Fang shook his head. "You should have been more careful."

"Oh, I knew the bomb was there. It was on a time delay. I put my hand between the bomb and his memory core because I couldn't detach it in time."

Fang snorted. "I'd have used the patient's hand rather than my own!"

"Yeah, well, I was in a bit of a hurry. I improvised." Actually, it had not occurred to him, but he wasn't going to admit that. The blast had taken him out of commission for the rest of the day. He really should have gone, _Sunny, put your hand here for a second ..._

"Did he live?"

Ratchet's optics softened. "Yeah. Sunny lived."

"Sunstreaker?"

Ratchet shrugged.

"Hnh. How's he and Wildrider doing, anyway? I haven't checked on them, and I really should."

"Ironhide says they haven't killed each other yet." Actually, Ironhide had been mildly amazed to report the two were talking to each other as they worked. The insults were flying. Ironhide descibed that as 'bonding behavior' and found it amusing.

Ratchet was less surprised, however. Sunstreaker, while a clueless aft at times, had some hard-learned social skills and enough self control not to kill the other mech when he'd specifically been ordered not to. Wildrider was nearly feral, by Ratchet's observation, but not _stupid_, and he was more intuitive and naturally social.

"Wildrider worries me." Fangface unbolted a circuit board, then unclipped the electrical leads.

"He's from Shockwave's lab, isn't he?"

"I believe so. All our gestalts were." Fang shuddered. "There but by the grace of Primus go I ..."

"Hnh." Ratchet sighed. "Our gestalts were always volunteers, though sometimes I've wondered about the mentality of a mech who'd agree to be quantum-bonded to another. There's a certain tendency towards co-dependency in most gestalt members that I don't think is all that healthy."

"Co-dependency?"

"Human term, but it applies. Google it."

Fang did. Then barked a laugh. "Huh. Describes my relationship with Death pretty well, too."

"Possibly." Ratchet shifted on the stool. Fang poked at a weld, not liking the way it looked. "You did love him, Fang. And he loved you. There's no need to deny that."

"Who did this weld?" He didn't really want to discuss Death. He was trying not to think about it, actually.

"Hoist. He was in a hurry. It is a bit rough." Ratchet rubbed the weld with his free hand.

Fang turned Ratchet's hand over and inspected the repaired strut from the other side, then reached down into his desk drawer and retrieved an ultrasound scanner. He scowled at the results. "You know there's a number of stress cracks in it?"

"I'm not surprised. He wanted to get me operational again. Neat wasn't a high priority."

"Care if I replace the strut?" Fang was enjoying himself. Working on Ratchet's hands -- and he _loved _Ratchet's hands -- was a pleasant distraction from the numb pit of not-emotion in his spark.

"It's probably due," Ratchet conceded.

"This strut could splinter if you ever put it under a lot of stress. Say, punching someone. Something that would be completely out of character for you, of course."

Ratchet chuckled. "My theory is if people are scared of me, they have added incentive to stay out of my med bay."

"Really? Ever proved that theory?"

"Depends on the mech. Doesn't work on the masochistic ones." Ratchet's tone was teasing. "I swear, certain mechs seem to _like _being in my med bay."

"Wasn't masochism." Fang used a cleaning cloth to wipe grease away from a screw head, then picked a screwdriver up and tried to loosen it. It was crusted with crud, and a little corroded, and Fang found it quickly obvious that he couldn't turn it without stripping it. He rummaged through his supplies, found a can of the wonderful human product WD-40, and sprayed several visible screws in addition to the stuck one. He sniffed appreciatively at the smell. While he waited for the WD-40 to soak in to the screw threads he admitted, "I always felt safe in your med bay."

"My bedside manner needs work. I'm clearly not scary enough."

Fang chuckled. He got the screw loose and flicked it into a waste bin, then inspected the hole for the screw. It showed considerable evidence of oxidization. He made a disapproving, clicking noise. "That's two metacarpal struts that would be best replaced. You must have gotten into something corrosive."

Ratchet considered the observation, then said, "Human blood. Probably the time that Bee clocked Sam by accident. It's full of salt and electrolytes and if you don't clean it out good, it causes creeping crud to set in."

He shot Ratchet a disapproving glare. "And you didn't clean your hands afterward?"

"Soaked 'em. Been a bit too busy for anything more."

Fang sighed. "I hear you there. The rest of your struts look good, anyway." He stood up, hopped to the ground, and retrieved a pair of duryllium blanks from a cabinet.

"Good to hear it," Ratchet said, dryly. "It's really not necessary to replace those struts, Fang."

"It'd need to be done sooner or later, and you know it. Might as well do it right." He walked back to Ratchet, visually verified that the two blanks were big enough, and then scanned the dimensions of the struts into a datapad and transmitted the information to a precision milling machine. The machine chirped, acknowledging it had received the data, and Ratchet glanced over at it.

"Now there's an antique. It must date back to the golden age."

"I swiped it from the Nemesis's med bay," Fang said, "the ship has three others in the med bay, and one in the machine shop. It was the oldest."

"Hnnh." Ratchet glanced around the room, then observed, "Most of your equipment in here is ancient -- from before the war, some of it."

"Forge is new." He'd asked Swindle to find him one, and didn't particularly want to know how Swindle had paid for it, or the two tanks of propane that had come with it.

"Forge is human made."

He shrugged. "I had some decent equipment from Starscream's lab, but I sent that with the Nemesis. I can make do with what I've got here, since I'm mostly going to be doing _light _repairs and maintenance, and maybe a bit of playing with things that go boom."

Ratchet grunted acknowledgment of that truth. "Things that go boom? Weapons design?"

Fang glanced significantly upward. They had unknown ships in orbit. Peace with the Autobots might be a possibility, but combat was still likely. Cloaked ships should be assumed to be hostile, as far as Fang was concerned "I've got Shockwave's pulse cannon designs. I definitely want to build a pair for Boomer -- I gave Deathwheel's cannons to Aquaregia -- and some of my other troops. I'd rather build them myself than trust one of the engineers to do it, both because I don't want that design specs spread around, and because I know if I build it, it'll be done _right_."

Ratchet grunted. "Wouldn't mind a cannon like that myself, though I know you can't share the design with us."

Fangface considered the comment. "You've got enough mass, though you'd need to reinforce your shoulder and elbow on your gun arm, and upgrade your mounts. The recoil on those cannons is extreme. I fired Death's once for kicks and knocked myself flying. But a bigger issue is that it _is _classified Decepticon technology. I couldn't just give you the cannons, but if you and Optimus wanted to make it worth my while, I can see trading the schematics for something else. You know my priority is the sparklings, which means I have no real issues with having better-armed Autobots."

Ratchet quirked an optic ridge upwards. "What did you have in mind?"

He put the first of the blanks into the milling machine. "I don't have nearly enough medics. I'd like to identify mechs among my troops that have the aptitude, and have them apprentice with you and your staff." He flipped the hood shut, and started the machine. A deafening whine filled the air.

Ratchet responded over the radio, since the noise of the machine would drown out spoken speech, _:That's ... actually a pretty good idea.:_

:Optimus suggested I start encouraging my mechs to develop new skills. It's a win-win-win situation, I think. Win-times-four. I get new medics, you get upgraded weapons, the sparklings are better defended, and it helps moral.:

The milling machine beeped when it was done, though the cessation of noise was enough to tell him the metacarpal strut was finished. He took it out, wiped the cutting oil off with a rag, and put another blank in the machine. _:I might ask you to throw in some tools and equipment. I've requisitioned some but it's a year or more away. You've got the machine shops in Fortress Maximus to _build _more med bay stuff.:_

:Ask Prime, but I have no objections.: Ratchet glanced down at his hand. _:It takes years to make a good medic. This would be a long-term project.:_

:I figure it will be.: Fang carried the first small strut over to a drill press and bored a couple holes in it for various bolts and other attachments, then selected a tap from a drawer of hand tools to add threads. When the milling machine was done with the second tiny strut he added aloud, "I'm in this for the long haul. I believe that projects like this will help reunite our factions, however."

Ratchet observed, "You're always an ambitious fragger."

He smirked. "I try."

"It is a good idea, Fang."

He worked on the second strut for a moment, then said, "Ratch, I think I'm going to ... get back to work now. Starting tomorrow. Full workload." He didn't feel exactly ready, but the grief wasn't all-consuming anymore. Ratchet's solid presence was helping, as was the support he knew he had from his officers. And Prism ... Prism was someone to live for. Ratchet had been exactly right in that he _needed _her, and vice versa.

"Keeping busy will do you good, I'm sure. Just don't take on too much."

Ratchet's concern was real. Fang replied, "It feels good to be building a future. You know, I'm not sure Deathwheels would be supporting my ideas, honestly. He was very threatened by the Autobots. I think ... I think it was the right choice for me to end it with him. I loved him, and he loved me, but his insight into my behavior or the situation wasn't as good as he thought."

"Love and 'facing isn't always enough." Ratchet held his hand out when Fang returned with the new struts. Fang poked at his fingers for a minute, then started dismantling his wrist joint. "People bring their own baggage to relationships. Sometimes it skews their perceptions."

"He ... he said I was damaged." Fang pulled the first metacarpal strut free, and set it down on his desk with a click. The second came loose easily, as well. "Ratch, I have had a rough life, but we all have. You've interfaced with me, and I know you've 'faced with lots of other people. Am I really that screwed up?"

He didn't mean to sound quite so earnest, but a sudden stab of emotion made his words come out a bit quick and stressed with desperation.

Ratchet's answer took a long time. finally, he said, "Fang, I don't know how to answer that."

"I don't even know what normal would be like." Fang hissed static, suddenly irritated at himself. "I can't be _that _bad. I function better than most of my army."

"More than that, you are worthy of being a Prime." Ratchet's free hand clenched. Fang wished it was touching him, rather than balling into a fist on Ratchet's leg. He focused on reassembling Ratchet's other hand, distracting himself with the detailed work. The gears in Ratchet's wrist clicked smoothly back together, and he sprayed them with WD-40 after tightening the screws and bolts up. While Fang worked, Ratchet didn't say anything more. He just let his statement stand.

"Do you think I have issues, as the humans put it?"

"I don't know how you couldn't, given what you've lived through."

He winced. Sudden anger flared. "Death thought he had all the answers. He was so damn _pushy_. I remember this argument we had -- okay, Ratch, I was ticked off at him, and I was in the wrong, but I absolutely knew I was in the wrong. It was the day Rivet's partner died, and I was jealous of the attention he was giving Rivet, and I completely knew I was being irrational."

Ratchet frowned. "He didn't like that you were jealous?"

"No." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. "He was pissed off about it."

"You were brand new partners, right?"

"Yeah." He picked up the spool of wire, cut several lengths, then pulled a drawer open and found some assorted crimps in the right sizes.

"Primus. Lots of mechs would have been jealous." Ratchet sounded genuinely confused. "You didn't act on it at all?"

"Ratch, I didn't say a thing to him about it. He just knew me well enough to tell I was upset even when I was trying to hide it." Fang laced a cable through a couple different pulleys, and crimped off the ends. "He insisted I 'face with him, and told me how damn wrong I was to feel jealous, while we 'faced. I... Ratch, I'm honestly still confused by that. Yeah, I shouldn't have been jealous, but was he wrong to call me out on it?"

"He _insisted _you interface with him?"

"Yeah, he said he wanted me to see the truth."

"But you didn't want to."

"Not when I was mad at him, no." Fangface finished the last cable link. "-- How's that feel?"

Ratchet wiggled his fingers, wincing a little as his joints twinged. "Fine. You do good work."

Fang started clipping armor plating back onto Ratchet's hand. "I really _didn't _want to 'face with him, Ratch. He insisted, though, and then ... and then he told me how I was wrong, and how I was damaged, and I _believed _him. He honestly thought he was helping me. He had this vision of me as a glorious leader, and he was going to support me every step of the way, and _frag_. He loved me. That ... that was the most wonderful thing, but now that I think back on it, maybe it wasn't as wonderful as I thought."

Ratchet sighed.

"He was being condescending. And I didn't even realize it at the time."

Ratchet's optic ridge quirked upwards. "You know, it doesn't sound like you had an equal relationship."

"Not really. I don't think so." Fang hissed static. "I'm a Prime. I'm the _leader _of the Decepticons. I'm a kick-ass warrior. And my slagging servant had all the power in the relationship, and I don't even know how that happened."

"First time you fell in love, wasn't it?"

"Yes," he admitted. "First time I ever 'faced anyone."

"That I hadn't realized. I knew he was your first commitment, but figured you'd at least fooled around a little. Nearly everyone who's not Bumblebee does when they're younglings. You committed to the slagger the first time you 'faced him?"

"He wasn't a slagger!" The anger came swiftly, and Ratchet held both hands up defensively. Fang reached up, grabbed his right hand, the one he hadn't cleaned yet, and pulled it down. "Give me that, or we'll be here all night." He started taking the plates off it.

Ratchet smiled at him.

"What?" Fang said, irritated.

"You really are a good mech, Fang. I wish that your relationship with Death had worked out."

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't have a chance if it had."

"I dunno, there's always the option of a threesome ..." Ratchet teased.

"Slag. I have enough trouble dealing with my feelings for _one _partner. I don't need the complications of having two. That'd be twice as many mechs to be jealous of, including of their behavior with each other. I'd spontaneously combust." Fang rolled his optics. "Besides, Death would have been insanely jealous if I'd even suggested the idea to him."

"And yet he got mad at you because you were jealous of him -- and you even admitted you were wrong." Ratchet shook his head in apparent disbelief.

"It was you, specifically, he was jealous of. He accused me of having feelings for you, a few times. I did, but I wasn't going to act on them. Primus. He was the center of my world."

The fingers of Ratchet's free hand clenched tight again. "Fang, everyone has feelings for other mechs besides their partners. It's normal. We're a social species. As long as you maintain healthy boundaries and don't _act _on that attraction, there's nothing wrong with looking. And it's good to have friends beyond your partners."

"I ... know." Fang unbolted a delicate mechanism, then continued, "You know, Thundercracker propositioned me. Skywarp's in on it."

"Do you love them?"

"I like them." Fang inspected the threads of a bolt, and decided it was in good enough shape to reuse. Ratchet's right hand was in much better shape than his left. "I wouldn't say I _love _them." He glanced up. Ratchet's blue eyes were sharp on his. "I don't know if I can ever have the mech I really want, you know, _you_, and I'm alone, Ratch. My seekers know the score. They know they're not my first choice. Maybe I could grow to love them, though."

Ratchet shuttered his optics. Neither of them said anything after that. Fang kept working on his hand. It didn't take him long to finish cleaning it, and clipping the armor back on.

Ratchet said quietly, "Turn around."

Ratchet had said he wanted to check the integrity of the welds he'd made. Fang obediently turned his back to Ratchet. Ratchet's nimble fingers, the fingers Fang had just worked on, gently removed the heavy, jointed plates of armor that protected Fang's back and torso. With his armor gone, he felt vulnerable, delicate, and tiny rather than simply short. A cool draft wafted over his sensors. He didn't miss the heavy duryllium that had replaced a couple plates on his chest after the battle on Mars.

The medic picked up an ultrasound scanner and efficiently ran it over his repaired struts. Ratchet finally said, sounding smug, "I do good work. No problems."

He heard the scanner clink down onto his desk. He expected Ratchet to replace his armor, but, instead, Ratchet trailed two fingers down his spinal struts. "Your form is so beautiful, Fang. It's like a work of art. I hate seeing you damaged."

He leaned into the touch. He couldn't help it. It felt intimate, in a way he'd never experienced before. However, he didn't want Ratchet to stop. It was _wonderful _to have Ratchet in his space, caring for each other.

Ratchet's hand moved, now sliding over his arms. "I didn't realize you had so little experience. I didn't probe that deep. I knew that Death was your first serious partner, but not that he was your very first interface. Primus, Fang."

Fang hunched defensively. "I never ... wanted to. Before Deathwheels. Death pushed me into it with him."

"Never wanted, or never trusted?" Ratchet's hands tugged at his shoulders, encouraging him to stand up straight. "Don't flinch like that. I'm not going to hit you, Primus. C'mon, stand up. Shoulders back. And relax. There you go."

He forced himself to assume a slightly less defensive pose. "Didn't trust anyone enough to want them."

"Figured." Ratchet's fingers went back to tracing Fang's struts. It was a trust thing, Fang realized. Not only was Ratchet in his space, touching him, but Fang was completely vulnerable while Ratchet was doing it.

He leaned back against Ratchet's sturdy bulk. Ratchet transferred his fingers to spread wide across Fang's chassis. Ratchet murmured, "Yet you trust me."

"I'm an evil Decepticon. I don't trust anyone."

Ratchet, damn him, turned that half-joking statement around on him. "Pity about that, because I trust you."

"Why? Because I'm a Prime? So was The Fallen." He wasn't sure why he was questioning Ratchet's faith in him.

"You're no Fallen."

"Did you ever know him?" Fang asked, relaxing into Ratchet's arms.

"No, not really." Ratchet's finger traced the smooth line of Fang's jaw. "Optimus knew him, and so did Ironhide. So did Skywarp and Thundercracker, come to think of it, because Megatron assigned their partner Skyfire -- and his brother Jetfire -- to serve him. They could tell you about him if you wanted to know."

"Why would I want to know the details?"

"Confirmation that you're not him." Ratchet vented air in a long, slow sigh. "Fang, what are we doing?"

"Well, I was hoping you'd make a pass at me."

That got him a low chuckle. "It's tempting, Fang."

Fang groaned, and pulled free of Ratchet's grasp. He turned to face him and said very seriously, "Ratch, I _need _someone. I'm never sure if my judgment is right, if what I'm doing is _right_. I've got a lot of issues. I know I do. I also want what's right for this army, for my people, but I really don't know if I can do this alone. I thought I would have Deathwheels at my side, as an advisor and then my partner, but he's dead. Now that I know what it's like to have someone who really _knows _me ... I know I need that. And I honestly think I could do better than Death. He lacked vision, and he lacked a moral code."

"A moral code?"

"Rivet ... if I'd told him to, he would have killed him. He should have counseled me to _stop_. That it was wrong to kill Rivet simply because I wasn't sure if I could trust him. That was wrong, Ratch. I need someone to be my ... my sounding board, my moral compass, and yes, my cheerleader."

Ratchet stroked his jaw with two fingers. He shuttered his optics, enjoying the touch. "Primes need partners, Fang, for precisely the reasons you are describing. We are mortal. We are not Gods, we are not prophets, we are not anything but mortal beings. However, I can't be the partner you need at this time."

"What? Ratch ... I _need _you."

"I can be your friend. Primus knows, I'll be happy to put my two cents in on ethical dilemmas. Just ask. But I can't be ... I can't be the partner you want, Fang."

"But I _need _you."

"You need someone who knows the 'cons, inside and out." Ratchet folded his arms, and looked down at Fang. "You need someone who isn't afraid to tell you off if you're being a fool. You need someone who has no conflicts of interest and I have a Pitload of them. You need someone who won't turn into a huge monster of a scandal that'll rock two armies. You need someone who isn't so madly in love with you as to overlook your flaws."

"Ratch ..." Fang knew he was going to say no.

"Thundercracker's offer is a good one. I'm certain he knows you don't love him. I'm also certain he knows you need him. He's a good mech. You may well come to love him and 'Warp."

"But Ratch, I want you." He couldn't quite keep a whine out of his voice.

"That moral code you mentioned? It's why I'm saying no." Ratchet bent over, reached out, and pulled Fang to him in a tight hug, causing their armor to click and rattle together. "You'll be okay, Fang. Maybe someday, you and I could be lovers ... but not now."

"Do you love me?" he murmured into Ratchet's grill. Ratchet stepped back. He wanted to cling, but let him move away to preserve his own dignity. "Do you _want _me?"

"I do. But I have a greater responsibility to our people." Ratchet met Fang's gaze with steady optics. "Fang, I'm sorry. I'm sorry to tell you no now, coming after Deathwheel's passing, and after the little scene with Percy, but I do need to say it. You're strong, Fang. You, too, will do the right thing."

"Yeah." He hunched, feeling defeated and small.

"Stand up straight." Ratchet's tone turned just a little scolding. "We're still friends. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just telling you that you need to think of your troops, and choose a partner who has the skills and knowledge you need to support you as the Decepticon Prime. Primes need partners who compliment and add to their skills. That's not me. At least, not today."

He forced himself to pull his shoulders back and stiffen his spine. He consoled himself with the fact that he'd certainly _see _Ratchet plenty. They were friends. He couldn't imagine _not _counting Ratchet among his friends."Ratchet ... thank you."

"Mmmhmm. Listen, tomorrow, I'm going into town with 'Jack and Grapple to evaluate how we can help Tranquility rebuild. Do you want to come? Or do you want to send Aquaregia?"

"'Regia's not street legal yet -- he transcanned a Humvee but he doesn't have a driver's license -- and I don't think he'd agree to getting a lift from a 'bot. I _think _I'd fit in your cab."

"Sounds like a plan." Ratchet reached out, grabbed a polishing cloth off Fang's desk, and rubbed a smudge off Fang's cheek. "There. That was bugging me. I'll see you tomorrow, Snowflake."

"Oh, don't call me that!"

Ratchet folded the cloth up, slowly and neatly, and set it down on the bench. For a moment, then stood in silence. He wasn't sure what to say. Then Ratchet made a _hmph _noise and said, "See you tomorrow, Fang," and perhaps a bit too quickly he hurried out the door.

Fang stared at the closed door after he'd left, wishing it would cycle back open. Wishing Ratchet would reconsider. Wishing Ratchet wasn't so damn _right _all the time.

Then, slowly, he started picking up the tools and discarded parts left over from working on Ratchet's hands. He wasn't naturally a neat mech, but Ratchet would probably bitch at him if he let his lab fall into disarray. Thundercracker, on the other hand, would just order one of the rank and file soldiers to clean it up, if he saw a mess in Fang's quarters. Fang himself wasn't particularly neat. He'd always found himself a servant to pick up after him so he didn't even need to _worry _about the mess.

He wondered what that said about their personalities.

* * *

Sunstreaker huddled in the shadows, trying to keep from being noticed. Wildrider, beside him, was already in recharge. They weren't technically supposed to be off duty yet, but he was exhausted, and he and Wildrider had mutually agreed to try to sneak some rest. It was only eight PM, but they'd been working hard for days.

The SOA was still jammed fairly full of sparklings, though the human work crews (and now, a few hundred motivated Autobot soldiers) had at least fueled everyone living. Occasionally, he could hear the click and hum of a sparkling's power plant kicking on to charge power cells. They were on a top berth, just under the ceiling, and Sunstreaker had discovered that the EM fields and faint noises that the stasis-locked sparklings emitted were enough to conceal their presence from casual observation. It was a good place to hide.

Unfortunately, it wasn't particularly quiet.

When someone clanked through a hole in the wall big enough that everyone used it as a door, Wildrider jerked his head up and peered cautiously over the edge of the berth. They were a good forty feet in the air. Nearly twenty feet below, Ratchet moved. His neon paint was as unmistakable as his bulk.

"What's he doing here?" Wildrider murmured, very very low.

"Shh!" Sunstreaker hissed, even lower. He was pretty sure that not only did Ratchet have invisible primary optics in the back of his head, he was also telepathic and psychic. They'd be in a pit-load of trouble if Ratchet -- who had sentenced them to a week of hard labor while chained together in the _first _place -- caught them shirking the punishment.

Ratchet stomped past their position and proceeded down the row of berths. Towards the end, the metal beams that supported the berths had been twisted by a fire. The cement floor was pitted and powdered by the same intense heat, with dark streaks of melted metal still adhering to it.

The medic crouched, and ran a hand over the rough floor. Loud enough for both warriors to hear, he said, "_Damn _you!"

Wildrider mouthed, "Who?"

Sunstreaker, very carefully to avoid rattling his armor, shrugged.

Ratchet slammed a fist into the floor, hard enough to make the concrete chip. "Damn you!"

Sunstreaker jumped. He'd been a target of Ratchet's legendary temper a few times. However, he'd never seen Ratchet take his rage out on the _floor _before. It was slagging scary.

"Is he glitched?" Wildrider murmured.

"Shut _up_." Sunstreaker turned irritated optics on Wildrider. "Shhhh!"

Fortunately, Ratchet was far too absorbed in beating a hole in the floor to notice them. Over and over, with both fists, he pounded on the ground. "Slag you! Slag you! Slag you, Fang!"

Ratchet was mad at _Fang_? Uh-oh. That could mean an end to the peace.

The medic finally slowed his abuse of the concrete. He lifted his hands up, suddenly staring at them. The plating over them was dented and bent, something Sunstreaker could tell even at this distance. He covered his face with his damaged hands and let out a long, slow, ragged keen. "Slaggit, Fang ...." Then he rose heavily to his feet, for once moving like the massive mech that he really was.

"What was that about?" Sunstreaker wondered, when Ratchet had moved a safe distance away.

"Dude." Wildrider chuckled. "He's got it _bad_."

"Got it bad?" Sunstreaker was truly confused. "He sounded like was pissed off."

Wildrider smirked. "Mech cusses somebody out like that? They're in looooooove."

"Oh, shut up." Sunstreaker threated Wildrider with his fist. "Ratchet'd never betray us with a Decepticreep."

"He'd kick your aft if you hit me," Wildrider snapped.

"And you'd tattle." Sunstreaker folded his arms.

"Yeah? Better than getting _my _aft slagged by 'Regia for hitting you back." Wildrider smirked.

"'Regia's got nothing on Ratchet when Ratchet's pissed off, believe me. And he _hates _me." Sunstreaker hunched his shoulders. "He won't even approve me to have a sparkling. He's got everyone convinced I'm loony or something."

"You even _want _a sparkling?"

"Don't you?" Sunstreaker challenged.

"Well, yeah." Wildrider scowled.

"Heh. You got told no too, didn't you?"

"Don't really want one. Lots of work. Get in my way."

"Liar." Sunstreaker didn't buy Wildrider's denials. _Everyone _had sparkling fever. "Mechs like us, they ain't gonna let us near the kids. Crazy fraggers like Skywarp get to play with the kids, and I can't even babysit my own brother's brat. I ain't even seen him yet."

"It's not really fair," Wildrider agreed. "I would kinda like a kid. A fast model. I could teach him to race."

"You don't know slag about racing. Anyway, I want a fighter model." Sunstreaker grinned. "Fast, but real tough. Big guns. I could teach the kid to fight."

"You don't know slag about fighting."

"I was fighting _your _aft," Sunstreaker boasted. "I'd have won, too ..."

"Slag that!"

"There's some pretty cool models that are fast _and _tough looking. Wanna go look at 'em?" Wildrider suggested. "After seeing your softsparked CMO go gooshy over Fang, I _need _to look at something tough to degauss my processor. Aaaaughh, that was traumatic." He shuddered with exaggerated disgust.

"Ratchet's _so _not soft-sparked, you aftwit." But Sunstreaker moved to climb down the tower of berths with Wildrider. _I want a tough one, _he thought. _Big. Mean. I could teach him to really kick aft ..._

* * *

"Dude, look at the weapons mounts this one has!" Wildrider pointed out a heavily armored protoform that probably converted into a tank. It had a system built to support a very large pulse cannon.

"Ah, that one's too slow," Sunstreaker shook his head. "If I were gonna adopt one, I'd take that one ..." he pointed out a sparkling with a huge engine, upgraded suspension, and titanium alloy struts. "He could flat _smoke_."

"I'd so love to teach a sparkling to race."

"Frag, yeah."

"Yeah."

"You know," Sunstreaker said speculatively, "it really can't be that hard to bring one online. You just need operational code, right?"

"You're nuts."

"It's been claimed."

"Frag. I don't want anything to do with that."

Sunstreaker sighed. "Sideswipe would kill me if Ratchet didn't. Just ... thinking, y'know? They won't even give me a chance. It's so not fair."

"Yeah, they're all fraggers." Wildrider poked at the sparkling that Sunstreaker had spotted. "Wow, though, you're right. With the size of that engine, he could damn near break the sound barrier."

"C'mon." Sunstreaker pulled at the chain between them. "Let's get out of here. I don't think I want to look at the sparklings anymore."

"Awwwwwww!"

"I mean it, Wildrider. They give me the creeps, anyway. All of 'em so still, like they're dead."

"Hey," Wildrider said, as they walked out. He'd spotted a huge jet. "Look at this one."

Sunstreaker snorted. "That, I don't want. Kid could fly away on me and I couldn't follow."

"He's _huge, _though. I think that's the biggest flier I've seen in here." Wildrider ran a hand over one wing, brushing aside thousands of years of dust, and some recent soot. "Hey, look at this ... he's got galactic survey glyphs on his wings."

"That's weird." Sunstreaker poked at the markings. "Wildrider, lookit his armor. It's got a big dent in it. How'd one of the kids get dented?"

Wildrider frowned. "Actually, he's got quite a bit of wear. The paint nanytes are worn off his armor in spots, and -- look -- he's got a weld on his strut, here, like he cracked it somehow. Must be a recycled shell or something ..."

"What are you two up to?" Doc's voice, suspicious and a little angry, made both of them jump.

"Doc, we were just ..." Sunstreaker sighed, and decided telling the truth wasn't actually a problem. It was Doc, not Ratchet. And he was finally off duty, so they couldn't even accuse him of slacking off. "... I was just wishing I could have a kid, you know? We were looking at the sparkling protoforms. That's all. Just looking. There's nothing wrong with looking and wishing, right?"

Doc's expression softened. Doc was always more sympathetic to him than Ratchet was. "Sorry, Sunny. It's not possible, you know that."

"I wish I could at least _help _with them," Sunstreaker complained.

"Maybe when the kids are a bit older." Doc smiled encouragingly at him. "You could always see if Wheelie wants to hang out with you. I'm sure he could use some target and combat training and you're good at both of those things."

"Wheelie doesn't like me much."

"Well, you were mean to him when he first got here. I can't say as I blame him."

"Doc," Sunstreaker said, in a bid to change the subject, "What's the story on this protoform? It's not new like the others."

The medic turned around to look at the seeker that Sunstreaker was indicating. "Huh. I'm not sure anyone's actually looked at him, beyond verifying he was alive and adding fuel. We were in such a hurry to get everyone fueled .... You're right, though ..." Doc pulled a scanner out. "Huh, that's odd." He replaced the scanner with a datapad, and took a reading of the sparkling's autonomics. "Well, _that _is interesting."

"What's interesting?"

"That's not a sparkling." Doc tapped the datapad's display. "Primus, that's not a sparkling at all."


	90. Chapter 90

Chapter 90

* * *

Author's notes: I didn't actually mean to imply that Miles was an aspy. It's possible, but I've been writing him more as just _clueless_ and immature and very much an ADHD kid whose problem is, primarily, just plain not paying attention. This is the kid who hung upside down from a tree in canon, when Sam was chasing Mikaela. (Sam was pretty mean to him, too, as I recall. He made him walk home when he spotted Mikaela.)

Also, hopefully, I've found a con name that doesn't actually exist. Shinycon is not supposed to be a real 'con.

* * *

Two coffees later, Miles was calmer and more human.

Sam nursed his own mocha, and watched with hormone-fueled appreciation as Bee bounced around on the stage. He hoped he wasn't being too obvious about it, but Bee was so much fun to watch when he was really into a project. He was animated and upbeat, laughing and gesturing with his hands and in non-stop constant motion.

Bee and Jazz were working out the logistics of the last-minute song they'd decided to do. Surprisingly to Sam, who was used to choreographed political events, the con staff seemed perfectly fine with a very last minute alteration to their program. More than fine, actually. There was a lot of laughter and banter going on between the staff.

"So," Miles said, "you've really been hanging out with giant alien robots?"

"Uh-huh."

"Is Mikaela one? It would explain a _lot_."

"No, Mikaela is _not _an alien robot." He didn't dare ask what it explained. He just added, "Mikaela's a hero, Miles. I'll tell you the details later."

Felicity shouted Miles's name and he went trotting off, as eager to please as a half-grown puppy. Sam was not sorry to be left alone.

On the stage, Bee sang several lines of a song in Cybertronian. He wasn't actually using his lungs to do so, instead, he was transmitting the lyrics over the auditorium's sound system. Jazz stomped his foot in time to the music, then came in with notes that were several octaves deeper and then soared up the scale to a bell-like tone well above the range that Bee was using.

"You really got to translate that to English, Bee," Jazz said, when they paused.

Bee made a face at Jazz. "Some of the concepts just don't _translate_ in small words. And I haven't figured out what to substitute."

"Hnh. True."

Bee walked back to Jazz, and the two started conferring. Sam sat down, still watching. It was amazing to observe Bee, six feet of slim, blond, pony-tailed man, fearlessly get right up next to Jazz. The top of his head was even with the middle of Jazz's thigh but there was far more trust between them than Sam saw from most humans who worked around Cybertronians.

"Your friends seem to have a very good grasp of human culture."

Sam glanced up at the speaker. He had been so absorbed in Bee-watching that he hadn't noticed someone approaching him. He was a small man, bald, with a neatly groomed white beard down to his chest. His badge had a "guest of honor" ribbon and said his name was Albert Smith.

"Oh, hey, you're the famous w-writer!"

The man wrote science fiction novels about an alien space academy that were wildly popular with both children and adults. Sam had several of the books on his shelf at home. Bee had read them, in actual book form, very carefully turning pages with his large fingers. He'd then taken Sam to a book store for the midnight release of the last novel, which had been about six months ago. It was weird to think that six months he'd still been a high school student, the 'bots had been a classified secret, and Bee could barely speak, much less sing like an angel.

The man smiled tolerantly. "Last I checked I was famous, which, I suppose, is better than the alternative if you make a living selling your words. You know, I've been reading some of the articles on the web that Bee's written about Cybertronians. He's funny, and it's obvious he gets human culture -- unless, is he having help?"

"Bee understands us fairly well," Sam said. He'd had this discussion with lots of politicians and the occasional government employee. The words came smoothly. That Albert Smith had just struck up a conversation with him felt surreal. It was crazier than speaking to the president. He'd known the man would be here, but had somehow envisioned him as untouchable.

Sam continued by habit, explaining, "He gets me to double check his assumptions, sometimes, and has a few other humans read his work before posting it on the Autobot blog, but he rarely needs to change anything. He's been here six years. Autobots have better memories and more ability to cross-reference data than we humans do. That's plenty of time for him to get a good grasp on human culture, given he was actively trying to do so and he's naturally intuitive."

The man nodded. "Bee seems very human."

"He is, in many ways, just like us."

The man watched as Bee groaned at something Jazz had said, then gave Jazz a playful rap on the knee with his knuckles. Jazz teasingly made a swatting gesture, which Bee ducked with exaggerated panic.

"When I heard that we'd had a first contact with aliens and they were robots, I figured they'd be ..." the man hesitated, "like Data, on Star Trek. Advanced programming, self aware, but not _people_."

Sam snorted. His inner geek surfaced, and he protested, "Data was totally a person."

The man laughed. "True. Do you understand what I mean, though? I never expected them to have music and art, and to want to fit in with us, or to have human-like personalities and emotions."

"They're more like us than you could possibly believe. I've known Bee for two years. He's one of my best friends. I've seen him terrified, hurt, I've seen him cry. Most of the time, though, he's pretty upbeat." Sam considered how to make a point to this man about Autobot emotions being very real. He finally said, "If they were faking the emotions, they wouldn't have any reason to have emotional interactions with each other, or display emotions when they don't know that they're being observed."

He took a deep breath, and glanced over at Bee. "You've seen the video of me and Bee, err, you know, right?"

The writer quirked an eyebrow upwards. "Kissing? That got a _lot _of discussion online."

"Ah ... it got a lot of discussion, period." He knew he was turning bright pink. He wasn't sure why he was telling this to a complete stranger, except that maybe if everyone knew he wanted the _real _story to be known."The whole deal was, Bee'd just gotten kicked to the curb by another mech. I don't want to go into details -- let's just say Bee was pretty upset. I, uh, found out he'd gone off to mope. He was trying to hide from the world. He _definitely _didn't expect me to kiss him, but, uh, I sorta knew it was really me he wanted, anyway. So I got brave. It's Bee. I couldn't stand to see him so upset. And he was. They _feel_, just like we do. I knew he loved me and I couldn't stand seeing him so upset."

_There_, he thought, with some satisfaction. He'd gotten a mostly coherent explanation out. He hadn't told him about Mikaela's part, he wasn't that brave or that stupid, but the rest was the truth. He expected the writer to laugh, or make a teasing comment, or just looked shocked. His relationship with Bee was either not discussed by most people he knew (N.E.S.T., the various politicians) or frowned upon (his parents).

Smith smiled. "You love him a lot, don't you?"

"Pretty much, yeah." He blushed harder. "It's hard. Hard enough to be _bi_. But Bee's totally worth it."

"Good for you." Smith grinned. Then, teasingly, he said, "You know he's looking at you?"

Sam knew his face had to be fiery red. He glanced over, and caught Bee's gaze. Bee winked. Sam rolled his eyes. "Cybertronian hearing is _way _better than ours. He heard us."

"Oh," the writer laughed. "That could be a problem."

"You get used to that, after awhile. It's come in handy a few times."

Jazz started stomping again, and Bee sang, and Sam turned back to watch. He couldn't resist. Bee just looked so very happy.

* * *

"Hi, Fang!" Wheelie hurried into the lab, Prism clinging to his neck.

"How'd it go?" Fang bent over to pick Prism up.

"Annabelle is adorable. I held her while Prism worked. Prism was _pissed_." Wheelie grinned at his sister. "Weren't you?"

"Nooooooo!"

"Yes, she was." Wheelie's optics held deep mischief. Fang couldn't remember ever seeing his older youngling look quite so confident or happy. "She's all sorts of jealous. I reminded her that she wouldn't have to do the work if she hadn't bit Mrs. Lennox. Told her next time, don't bite. Right, bratling?"

Prism replied, a little sullenly, "I scrubbed the floor. And the tub. And the toilet."

"Good for you," Fang told her.

"And she only threw one tantrum. I told her the clock stopped when she stopped working. So she kept working and bitched me out while she worked ..."

"Good job," Fang said. "Don't swear in front of her."

"Sorry, but I think she already knows the words. Pit, she knows 'em better than I do!"

He did _not _like Wheelie cursing like that, much less in front of the kid, and his expression undoubtedly showed it.

Wheelie laughed at him, unrepentant. "Anyway, the thing with the stopping the clock if she's not complying with a punishment is in the training modules that Ratchet gave me. It works better than yelling."

"Yelling worked on you," Fang blinked at him. He wasn't sure if Wheelie was being critical of his parenting skills or not. He didn't think he'd done horribly his first time around. He also hadn't had to yell all that much. He'd sort've had to learn to be a parent by trial and error with Wheelie. There had definitely been some error involved. He'd also learned a lot. Aside from, oh, entirely abandoning her, he didn't think he was making nearly as many mistakes with Prism.

"Yelling worked on me, yeah, though I'm pretty sure I remember yelling right back at you a few times. Prism freaks out if you yell at her." Wheelie reached up, caught the edge of a work table, chinned himself, and then scrambled up onto it. He turned to face Fang, now on optics level with him. "Listen, Ratch says I need to babysit as much as I can. I'll take her on my off hours any time you want."

"You're really serious about sparklings of your own, aren't you?" He sat down on the table next to Wheelie. "Don't you want to have some free time and stuff? You're so young."

Wheelie sighed. "Fang, we _all _need to pull together. Every sparkling we can bring online will help."

"You're studying medicine, too," Fang said, putting a hand on Wheelie's back. "That's a plenty big contribution to our cause."

"But I _want _sparklings."

"Why?" Fang decided on a blunt question.

He expected an answer along the lines of, 'I want somebody to love me' or 'I want to start a family.' Wheelie, however, tilted his head sideways and considered the question before providing what Fang thought was a rather good answer. "I like children, and I think I could be a good mentor. I want to help with the kids. I know what it's like not to fit in anywhere, and I can help 'em with feeling that way among the humans, which they _will _have to deal with. I've got ties with both factions, I've got some good mechs who will help me out, and I'm part of the medical staff. The only thing against me becoming a mentor is that I'm really young. I'm not thinking about _now_, of course. I'm thinking in a decade or so."

Fang still thought that was way too young.

"But the more experience I get now with the kids, the more it'll help me when I have my own."

"Huh." Fang gave Wheelie a one-armed sideways hug, pulling him against his own chassis. "I'm proud of you."

Wheelie said, a trifle shyly, "I think I'm proud of you, too. You made an awesomely brave decision to work with the Autobots."

"So we're friends, again?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

Fangface tightened the hug briefly. "Wheelie, serious question: Do you want an upgrade into a bigger protoform? I put together the little one you've got now because I was worried about your temper. Maybe I was a bit quick to judge. You were having a pretty rough time of it there, for a bit."

Wheelie smirked. "I've still got a temper."

"I don't doubt it."

"I don't think so." Wheelie leaned comfortably against Fang's side for a minute. "This is really a good size. I'm human sized, and I'm living in a human world. Being this size gives me a lot of opportunities I wouldn't have if I was bigger."

"You could get hurt." It was always a worry with the smaller mechs.

"Says the runty mech who could have his pick of any empty shell in the SOA. You could be Optimus Prime's size if you want."

"I am not _runty_." He smirked. "And I can hold my own in a fight."

Prism spoke up suddenly, "I want to be big!"

Fang sighed, and patted her head. "I know you do. I want you to be big, too. Prove to me you won't hurt the humans and we'll make it happen, okay?"

"Oh." She thought about that for a moment. "If I'm good, I get to be big?"

"You get to be big," he confirmed.

"How long do I have to be good?"

"I'll put you in a protoform Wheelie's size in a year if I think I can trust you."

"That's a long way away."

"It's really important." As much as he loved Prism he just couldn't risk bad relations with the humans. It was too critical to _all _the sparklings, and all Cybertronians. If she hurt the wrong person she could ruin everything, and she'd already demonstrated a willingness to cause injury.

"Too long," she pouted.

"Tough."

"Hey, I was thirteen before I got an upgrade," Wheelie told her. He reached up and rubbed her head. "But I bet we could make you that alt mode you were talking about."

"Alt mode?" Fang said.

"I want to be a kitty!"

"Really?" Fang was flattered.

Wheelie laughed, quite possibly at Fang's reaction. "Really, Fang. And she's even drawn what she wants to look like. Honestly, I think it'll work. She's designed armor that'll bolt onto her struts so she can transform into a miniature predacon. It should be a pretty simple design." Wheelie reached into his subspace and produced a handful of Prism's drawings.

Fang looked at them with real interest. He'd known that Prism had artistic talent, but this went beyond that. It showed a very intuitive grasp of spacial relationships, and general engineering and mechanics. The drawings were rough, but he thought it would be very easy to make work.

"Huh. Kid, these are good."

"I know." She sounded smug. "Everyone says so."

"You're modest, too." He patted her on the head. "Tell you what. I've got meetings all day tomorrow, but why don't we do this after Prism's done at Mrs. Lennox's in the evening? Wheelie, you want to help, right?"

"Sure!"

"Yay!" Prism bounced on his shoulder, making his armor plates rattle. "I want bigger optics, too!"

"Work on optics _hurts_," Wheelie growled in reaction to remembered pain.

"They do, but it's not a bad idea to replace them anyway. She'll get a better reaction from humans if she's got larger optics, and in a human-friendlier color." He hopped off the table and carried her over to one of the supply cabinets. After a moment's rummaging he produced a box with optical sets two sizes bigger than her current ones, and a second box of colored glass filters. "So, kiddo, do you want green or amber?"

He showed her the glass. She picked them up and turned them over in her hands, considering the question. He halfway expected (or perhaps hoped) she would select amber, like his, but she held the green glass up to the light. "Pretty."

Green it was. He wondered if he could talk her into a copper color for her armor, to contrast beautifully with glowing green optics. It would be a striking look, and suit her personality well.

"I'm going to be a kitty!" She flung herself back into her arms. "Thank you, Fang! Thank you!"

He snuggled her close, switching his optics off as he did so. He was startled, therefore, when Wheelie leaned against him too. Wheelie murmured, "I'm too old for this cuddling crap, but I really am glad you've decided to be a good guy."

He crouched down and hugged his other sparkling too, wrapping his arms around both of them. "Wheelie, it's for you and Prism and all our children that I _am _trying to change things."

"I'm proud of you," Wheelie repeated his words from earlier.

Fang felt something relax, deep inside him. Wheelie's approval _mattered_.

_I can do this, _he thought, hugging Wheelie again. _I really can._

Then Wheelie pushed himself a little away and said, "But I'm _not _a child."

Fang laughed and refused to let Wheelie get loose, which made his elder youngling squirm and squawk. The hug turned into horseplay, with Prism screaming encouragement from his shoulder as he manhandled Wheelie into his lap and tickled him. Just for a bit, he forgot everything but the two of them, as both his children made him giddy with laughter.

* * *

Sam found a seat towards the back of the auditorium, where he could see the crowd and have a good view of Bee. Miles had just pulled the curtains shut, concealing the surprise alien guests from the audience, and now the staff opened the auditorium doors. People began to filter in.

The crowd wasn't exactly what he'd expected.

Oh, there were the freaks and geeks that he'd assumed would be there: people wearing costumes, zit-faced nerds, and some dude with a set of bag pipes and a kilt and _very _knobby knees. However, there were a surprising number of women. He had assumed the con would consist of mostly packs of male basement dwellers and had been dreading it at least partly on that account, however, he saw more girls than guys.

A few of the women seemed to be the female equivalent of the 'guy who lives in his mother's basement and doesn't shower' but most were rather normal. Some wouldn't have looked out of place at his high school, mixed among the average kids. Others were older, his mother's generation. He was _very _surprised when a white-haired old lady with a cane hobbled by. He wondered if she was in the right place until he saw the con badge, and noted she was wearing a t-shirt with the Starship Enterprise on the front, and Kirk and Spock in a compromising display of affection on the back.

Errm. He tried not to let his attention wander to that t-shirt. He had to admit, at least to himself, that Spock _was _all sorts of hot.

He decided, with some surprise, that this was a very interesting crowd.

"Hi, mind if we sit here?"

He jumped a little, looked over, and realized that the woman speaking to him belonged to a group of three girls and a guy. They looked, if not normal, at least not scary. He wasn't sure what he'd do if a Klingon or the woman he'd just seen wearing poodle skirts and carrying a live boa constrictor had asked to sit next to him. "Be my guest." He pulled his legs in and they filed past and sat down next to him.

This put the man next to him. The guy looked relatively normal. Sam could see himself wearing a t-shirt like the man had on. It said, "3/4ths of the world has trouble with fractions. The other 50% doesn't."

"I'm Sam," he offered.

The guy didn't react. One of his friends, however, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at Sam. The guy looked over and said with slurred, thick, speech, "I'm deaf. I didn't hear what you said."

Sam facepalmed. "Sorry, didn't realize."

"I can't read your lips when you do that," the man pointed out, with a grin that said he was amused. Sam wasn't sure what to think of that.

His friend leaned past him and explained, even as she signed rapidly, "He reads lips pretty good. He's my brother, Joe. I'm Tracy. That's Candace and Fuzzy."

"Fuzzy?" Sam repeated. Fuzzy was the normal looking girl who'd asked to sit next to him. He wasn't sure if he'd heard that right.

"My parents were really cruel. It's actually, really, Fuzzy, my given name," Fuzzy added, signing as she spoke, "Joe, he said his name was Sam."

"Fuzzy? F-u-z-z-y?" He had to be hearing that wrong.

"Got a problem with that?" She challenged, but with a laugh as she did.

He held his hands up in surrender. "Nope. You should hear some of the names my friends have."

Fuzzy laughed. "That's fandom for you."

"Err, I wouldn't know. First time here."

"Oh, you're a con virgin!" she exclaimed, loud enough that a couple people looked in their direction. "Are you here with friends?"

"Yeah, I am."

Joe pointed at Sam's badge, and its guest ribbon.

"Oh, you're a guest! What are you?" Fuzzy demanded, tone friendly but very curious.

"What am I?"

"Yeah, why are you a guest?"

"Uh ... I know the Autobots." That seemed safe enough. "They asked me to be on some of the panels."

"You're not on the program."

"No, they were worried about security. You know, Nobots finding out I'm here."

Joe signed something that included a jerky motion with both hands like the arms of an old-fashioned Hollywood robot that was walking, then tapped his lips.

"I saw that, and I think I can guess what you just said," Sam covered his face with both hands again -- _after _protesting the comment at Joe. That was pretty easy to interpret as 'robot' and 'kiss' and whatever else he had said could be assumed to be about the infamous kiss. All three girls cracked up. He removed his hands. "I'm _never _going to live that down."

"That's so cool you're here, though. So you're going to tell us about them?" Fuzzy asked. "I think I'm going to those panels. That's _way _cool. How'd you meet them, anyway? I mean, there's stories and crap online, but I'm not sure how much is rumor and how much is true."

"I've known them for a couple of years. I helped them when they first arrived, and Bumblebee -- that would be the mech I kissed -- is my best friend." Softer, since they'd find out sooner or later, he added, "And my boyfriend."

Fuzzy giggled. "So that's what you meant by names! Why's he called Bumblebee?"

"Damned if I know. It might have something to do with his appearance in his mechanoid form. He's got doorwings and a face kinda like an insect, and he's yellow and black. He picked it, and I've honestly never asked why." It was a weird thing not to know, though he suspected his guess was right. Also, her reaction was encouraging. She wasn't flipping out and going, _Ewww! Weird! _

Joe said, "The girls all have a crush on Bumblebee's humanoid form. They think he's cute."

"I'd agree with that," Sam said, cheerfully. "But we were really close friends even before he got the second technorganic form. He's a lot of fun to hang out with."

"Shh, they're starting," Fuzzy said. She started signing as Felicity took the stage. Sam realized she was translating for him.

"Hey, everybody." Felicity said, "Welcome to the tenth annual Shinycon. If you're wondering who all the people in the costumes are, and are here for the wedding being held this weekend also, we apologize, but you're in the wrong place ..."

Laughter.

"Oh, God. There's a wedding? Again?" Candace murmured. "I swear, the hotel allows that to happen just for the lolz."

"Wedding?" Sam asked, blankly.

"Okay, imagine you've spent the last year or so planning a really fancy formal wedding at a really fancy resort, and you're some poor, clueless, Christian Fundie mundane, and then you show up, and this gang," she gestured at the packed auditorium, "is running around the same hotel. _Last _year, the bride pitched a screaming fit in the lobby, in her wedding dress, because there was a guy in drag wearing the same wedding dress. She demanded the whole con _leave _because it was _her _wedding and we were ruining it."*

"She was drunk," Fuzzy put in.

"Shh!" Tracy hissed at them.

Felicity continued with a variety of announcements, including some changes to the panels, introductions of staff, and an assortment of other news. Sam only paid half attention to her, as he was fighting a rather high level of fatigue. She finished with, "... introduce our esteemed Guest of Honor, Albert Smith. Let's have a round of applause for Albert!"

The room roared. The noise woke Sam up a little.

The little bald, bearded man trotted up onto the dais, "Thank you, thank you," he held his hands up, signaling for silence.

Smith talked for a minute, though Sam wasn't really paying much attention. The truth was that he was exhausted, and he was a lot more interested in crawling into a warm bed than listening to _anyone _stand behind a podium and tell a few jokes. Most seemed to be at Smith's own expense, including one crack about reality Jossing his science fiction novels that made half the audience crack up ... whatever Jossing something meant.

"Of course," Smith said, "we had a whole long program planned for tonight, but then I found out two things. One is that, while my books might have been rendered a bit obsolete by our new alien friends, a couple of our interstellar vistors just told me they've read my books and found them entertaining. I'm quite tickled. The second is that I might be the Guest of Honor -- and I tell you, that's all sorts of flattering, thank you, thank you -- I'm probably not going to be the most popular guest tonight, because the aliens I'm referring to are here."

The room went ... silent. There were whispers. Someone intoned, "They're heeeeeeeeere!" causing a ripple of giggles on that side of the room.

"In light of that, I'm going to cut my own speech short, and let them take over. I'm pretty sure they're a lot more interesting than I am, and, hell, _I _want to hear what they have to say. Because, man, we're living in a world with real, live, aliens in it!"

A murmur from the crowd.

He lifted his hands up and clapped. "Everybody welcome Bumblebee and Jazz!"

The room exploded in noise -- clapping, shouted questions, cheers, a few people standing up. Joe made the robot-arm-movements in excitement and his sister and friends cracked up at something he'd said. Fuzzy pointed a finger at Sam, "Man, you can keep a straight face! I never suspected they were _here._"

Then Jazz began to sing, hitting high, pure notes, soaring, above the sound of the excited people. The crowd went silent in a hurry.

Bee joined in at a much lower tone, a complicated warble of Cybertronian words. Jazz's voice faded out.

The curtains slid aside, right on cue, and a spotlight lit Bee's blond hair and fair features. He was seated on the hood of Jazz's Solstice alt mode, cross-legged. Bee sang a solo for several moments, with Jazz only providing background vocals. Sam closed his eyes, enjoying the clarity of Bee's voice.

Then Jazz transformed with Bee still on his hood. Somehow, he made the chock-chock-chock noise of his gears part of the beat of the song. He reached up and lifted Bee to his shoulder as he stood up, and Bee hit an impossibly high note even as Jazz went deep and strong with his voice.

Jazz let his voice drop so low Sam could feel the vibration in his ribs, and then slowly fade.

Bee held that clear tone for a moment longer. Sam, who knew that Bee was not _really _singing it rather but transmitting the song over his comm to the speakers, was still impressed by the showmanship. Then Jazz leaned forward, Bee dropped to the ground, and both of them stepped forward and took a bow. The audience exploded in approving applause.

He leaned back in his chair, watching as the two of them introduced themselves, spent a few minutes talking, advised of what panels they were going to be on, mentioned they'd be at the 'Meet the Guests' dinner in an hour (Sam wanted sleep more than food, but knew he was expected to be there) and then closed with another song.

After Felicity talked talked about the mechs for a bit herself, she held up a handful of paper tickets. "The Meet the Guests dinner is sold out, but we held back four tickets, two at each Autobot's table. Proceeds go to the con charity. Who wants to open bidding for two tickets at Jazz's table?"

Sam was stunned when the price went over a thousand dollars for each ticket. Felicity looked smug at her foresight when she announced, "... And that's a total of $4,428 for our con charity! Thanks, guys!"

Candace wondered, "I wonder who else gets to sit at their tables?"

Sam actually knew the answer to that. Bee had asked earlier. He leaned over and explained, "Felicity said they assigned everyone else randomly, to be fair."

"Oh." Candace seemed content with that answer. Then she grinned. "Glad we bought tickets to the dinner already. I can't believe they're here! And it's Bumblebee! His blog is _so _funny! He's been in DC all week meeting politicians -- hey, were you there with him?"

"Sure was."

"Did you meet anyone cool?"

"The president, at a state dinner," Sam said. And grinned. His job really was the best.

* * *

Jazz and Bee waited until most of the crowd had filtered out of the auditorium. Sam was wondering where the dinner was going to be held, but his concerns about Jazz's ability to access the room proved unfounded by Jazz's next actions.

The exits leading out of the auditorium were standard double metal doors. Jazz, fifteen feet of mech, approached one. The door was waist high to him; his head nearly touched the ceiling. With his trademark saucy grin, Jazz started playing a lively calypso tune from his speakers. He crossed his arms over his chest, rotated his shoulders in, clamped his armor flat, bent his knees, leaned back, and limbo'd right through the doorway with a few inches to spare on all sides.

A cheer rose from the outside. Jazz straightened up for a second, then crouched down and started talking to people.

Bee, walking with Sam at a more sedate pace, noted, "I couldn't do that. I'd land on my skidplates."

"Could you fit through the door?"

"Probably, if I had to," Bee said, "though I might have to take some of my armor off to do it."

"I didn't realize how much smaller he is than you are until he did that."

"It's easier to tell in our alt modes. I've got about twenty percent more mass. He fluffs his armor up to look bigger, though he'd totally deny it if you accused him of doing so." Bee's good humor was evident in his voice. "And I'm not going to. He can still kick either of my afts, _and _he can get places I can't in combat."

"That hotel room he requested has a sliding glass door out to the pool area," Sam realized.

"Yup. He got the dimensions from one of the con staff and verified he can fit. I'm not sure the hotel realizes that a giant alien robot is intending to sleep on the floor in that room, much less throw a room party in it, but he can definitely get through the door."

"He's going to party all weekend, isn't he?" It was a daunting realization, given how exhausted Sam was. He'd been pushing himself hard all week.

"Probably." Bee draped an arm around Sam's shoulders. "It's what I intend to do."

"God, I hope you two don't expect me to try to keep up." Sam considered where Bee's arm was, then decided _to hell with it, _and put his own arm around Bee's waist. He mentally dared anyone to say anything.

A few people gave them surprised looks as they exited the auditorium. Jazz, fortunately, was drawing nearly everyone's attention. He was now sitting on the floor, signing autographs, posing for photographs, and chattering away.

"C'mon, pretty boy," Felicity said, walking past him. "You've got a dinner to attend."

"Yes, ma'am!" Jazz carefully stood back up. To the crowd he said, "Catch you guys later!"

* * *

Much -- _much _-- later, Sam found himself seated cross-legged on a bed in Jazz's room. Jazz, who'd crawled through the door with surprising ease, was sprawled out on his stomach on the floor. It was well past three AM and he was quite impressed by the fact that there were at least twenty people hanging out in Jazz's room. They were sprawled on the floor, seated on the beds, leaning against each other, and wandering casually in and out. One young woman had boldly taken a seat on Jazz's back.

Jazz had also persuaded a few people to make a beverage run. Sam figured that it had taken very little convincing, given Jazz was cheerfully paying in the interest of being a good host to the party. The bathtub was now full of beer, wine coolers, and hard lemonade, and there was cranberry juice, seven-up and vodka and a bucket of ice on top of the dresser.

Sam sipped a cosmopolitan, feeling both grown up and a little worried that someone would remember he was under twenty-one. Bee emerged from the bathroom with several wine coolers in his hands. He passed them out to a few people, then sat down next to Sam.

"... so anyway," Jazz said to the crowd, "Bee was so mad he actually took Sunstreaker _down_, and Sunny's got half again Bee's mass."

Sam blinked, realizing he'd missed the first part of the story, and it sounded like it had been a good one. He also noticed that Jazz's optics were suspiciously bright. He'd heard of mechs getting overclocked, deliberately, with an effect close to being drunk. There were devices that they could attach to their autonomic systems that would temporarily affect their processor functions.

One of the fans said something Sam didn't catch. Jazz laughed, brightly, and clapped his hands together. "Exactly right!" he crowed, with enthusiasm. "I love you people!"

Oh, yeah. Jazz was wasted. Fortunately, he was a happy drunk.

Bee sipped his wine cooler. Sam glanced over at him. Bee looked normal, and the alcohol wouldn't effect him. It probably tasted good to him, given his sweet tooth. The Autobot met his gaze, then glanced down at Sam's drink.

"Want a sip?" Sam offered.

Bumblebee took took the drink from Sam, sniffed it, and promptly drained it dry. Then he advised Sam, "You're underage. You can make another without the alcohol."

_Damn_. He was too tired to even bitch at Bee. He also couldn't stifle a surprise yawn.

"Oh, don't do that." Bee protested. "I'm about to drop. Actually ..." he rose off the bed. "... I think I'm going to go crash. Sam, you coming?"

"Shit, yeah." Sam rose. "I'm ready to pass out." _Finally._

Bee rested a hand in the middle of Sam's back, guiding him out the door. Behind them, Jazz said something that resulted in a roar of laughter. Sam thought he was telling another funny story about practical jokes.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Sam worried.

"Who, Jazz?" Bee's fingers were warm on Sam's waist. Sam draped his own arm around Bee's shoulders. "Jazz'll be fine. He's having a blast."

"Good." Sam yawned helplessly, a second time. "I think I'm going to sleep until noon. Now I know why Miles laughed when I suggested breakfast."

The hall was empty, at this hour. Though he was tired, he couldn't resist. He grabbed Bee, and kissed him, deeply and thoroughly, holding him close and just letting him know how much he felt by holding him tight. "Love you, man."

Bee _melted _into his arms. His lips parted, and he groaned. His mouth tasted of the cranberry juice from the cosmopolitan. Sam suddenly wanted to throw him down and do ... intimate ... things with him.

"Let's go back to our room," Bee suggested. "C'mon."

At his room, however, Bee pulled away from Sam's grasp. "I didn't want to tell you this until we were alone, Sam." Bee's expression turned serious. "I wasn't sure how you would react."

"What?" Sudden alarm hit him. Was Bee leaving early?

"I'm staying. Optimus is sending another scout in my place."

"You're staying. You're not leaving?"

"Yeah. I know ... I know you committed to me when you thought I would be leaving. That _does _change things." Bee tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind his ears. "I don't know ... if you want to slow down a bit, that's okay with me ... I know you thought we had limited time, and now we don't ..."

He _pounced _him, pushing Bee back to the mattress. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to _feel _Bumblebee. Bee groaned again, "Not slowing down's okay, too!"

Sam pressed a kiss to Bee's lips, even as he traced a hand over Bee's side. Underneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt, Sam could feel Bee's ribs, his breathing, and the steady thump of his pulse. Bee arched into his touch, then spread his legs, knees rising on either side of Sam's hips. Sam slid his hands under Bee's t-shirt.

_God _it felt good to lay between his legs, kissing, touching, and Bee was clearly loving it. He was making small mewling noises, and mumbling Sam's name. When Bee rocked his hips up, however, Sam froze.

"Don't stop ..." Bee begged, "_Please, _don't stop."

There was a line here that Sam knew he was about to cross. Irrevocably, irretrievably, he would alter the relationship between them. Bee wanted it. Bee wanted _him_. Bee was lying under him, whimpering, _begging_, because he wanted him.

Bee was staying.

This could be _forever_.

_I want him. Forever._

There really was no other choice. It was simply completion of a relationship started years before, when Bee had told Optimus that he wanted to stay with Sam.

_I want this. I want this forever._

He couldn't comprehend of a world without Bee in it. He could see his whole future stretching before him, with Bee at his side. He didn't care what anyone else thought. He only cared what Bumblebee thought. Bee wanted him. He wanted Bee. It was as simple as that. Physical desire, compatibility on an emotional level, a shared purpose in life, it all blended together to form a love so strong it was overwhelming.

"I want to ..." Sam gasped, barely able to form coherent words, "I want to do this. I _really _want to do this."

Bee pushed, gently, urging Sam to roll off of him. Sam, confused, let him up. "What?"

His best friend -- his partner -- his lover -- hurried to his feet, rummaged through a suitcase, and returned with a small plastic bottle and a somewhat nervous grin. He pushed the bottle into Sam's hand. "You'll need this."

Sam nearly dropped it when he realized he'd been handed lube. "You packed ...?"

"Ratchet gave me this whole long lecture, okay? Sex ed for alien robots. It was instructional. He also said if I got damaged during recreational activities, he'd make me do my repairs myself with a mirror." Bee sounded not embarrassed, exactly, but rushed. He fumbled at the button of his jeans, then stripped them off.

He was _definitely _erect. Sam reflexively looked away. You just didn't look at another man's goods. A lifetime of locker room etiquette had taught him that. Then he heard Bee's soft chuckle. When he glanced back, Bee had his shirt off. "You're a bit overdressed, Sam."

Sam was hesitant, though, and Bee picked up on it. "I could, umm ..." Bee scratched his head. "We haven't actually discussed what we _want _to do. It's easier with a man and a woman. The plan there is generally obvious, unless you want to get creative. Two men have a few more options."

Sam knew he was turning pink. It had seemed so much easier just a second ago. Now he wanted to pull the covers over his head while fully clothed and pretend this wasn't happening. _Options _scared him.

"I don't want to be the bottom!" Sam blurted out. It might hurt. He was scared. He wasn't a _girl_. He wanted to be in control. Many reasons, some better than others, some of them probably irrational, raced through his head. He just didn't _want _that. It terrified him.

"Well, good," Bee said, tone matter-of-fact, "because I don't want to be the top. If we're agreed on that, will you stop panicking?"

"Uh?" At some point, he'd stood up. Now he wasn't sure what to do.

Bee reached out, hooked his fingers under Sam's belt, and pulled him closer. "Stop panicking. I want you to make love to me. I _really _want that tonight." Bee pressed his lips to Sam's. "Please?"

He kissed Bee back, as things suddenly clicked. His worries vanished, and a sense of desire and confidence replaced them. Bee wanted him, wanted, specifically, for Sam to make love to him. He could do this. Sam wanted it too.

Bee's fingers tugged at his belt buckle. He moved to help, stripping quickly out of his pants, shucking his shirt off, and then grabbing Bee's waist and pulling him towards the bed. Sam, emboldened, declared, "I am _so _going to make love to you. I am totally going to make you come so hard you scream."

"Yeah?" Bee sounded a little breathless. "How are you going to do that?"

Sam pushed him onto the bed, pinned him down with his hands on Bee's shoulders, and said a bit teasingly, "I dunno, maybe I'll start with ..." he nuzzled Bee's neck for a second, "This. And maybe this ..." he shifted, stroking a hand down Bee's long length. "Or maybe this ..." he closed his hand around Bee's dick, which he'd earlier avoided looking at, and which now seemed to fit perfectly into his hand. He couldn't stop looking now. It was bigger than his own by a little, uncircumcised, and _really _hard.

"What do you think?" He asked, stroking. "Think this'll work?" Bee groaned. Sam slid down that long, lean body. He glanced up at Bee, who had lifted his head and was watching Sam intently. "Or maybe I should use my mouth? You want that?"

When he suited action to words, Bee thrust upwards with a purely involuntary twitch, grabbed Sam's head, and moaned. Sam managed not to gag, then planted both hands on Bee's hips in self-defense. Bee apparently liked that, because his grip on Sam's head grew much firmer and he made a sharp, needy, whining noise.

_Yeah_. _This is going to be fun._ Bee might be an alien robot tens of thousands of years old, but he wanted Sam to take the lead. Judging by the noises he was making -- currently, breathy whimpers -- he was really enjoying giving up control to Sam.

Sam thought taking the lead was just plain hot.

It occurred to Sam that, _Mikaeala would probably go for this too. The two of us could take charge in the bedroom. I bet he'd like that._

Bee is staying. We can build a future with him. We can make love to him all the time. And we'll just be _with each other ... _

"Saaaaaaam," Bee groaned, as Sam slid his mouth up and down Bee's hard length.

_I am so lucky, _Sam thought. He couldn't imagine a better future than the three of them, together. _So, so, so lucky._

"You better show Mikaela a render of this," Sam growled, as he fumbled for the lube. "And tell her I said she gets to join in when we get back."

"Gnnnnh!" Bee responded. "I love you, Sam ..."

"Love you too," he groaned. "Love you too."

When he finally slid home, it was completion. He stroked Bee with his hand now, and Bee was beyond words. Bee had a fierce grip on his hips and made a mixture of mutters and moans with each thrust.

It was forever.

He stopped thinking. He just loved.

Bee came first, with the shout that Sam had threatened him earlier to wring from him. Sam shuddered to completion a thrust later, and then slumped across his thin body.

_Love you, _he thought, muzzily. He probably should have said it aloud. He rolled over so that he was laying next to Bee, with an arm thrown over his chest, and his leg possessively across Bee's thighs. _Love you._

Bee reached over and gently brushed his hand over Sam's temple and down his cheek. "I want to be at your side the rest of my life, Sam."

"Love you too. Same." He could have been more poetic, but a vast, yawning chasm of sleep was welling up. He squirmed a little bit, getting comfortable, and then let unconsciousness claim him. His last coherent thought was that if Mikaela was with them, she could snuggle up to Bee's other side, and Bee would love being sandwiched between them.


	91. Chapter 91

Chapter 91

* * *

Author's notes:

I'd planned on doing more scenes in Tranquility, but with what happened in Haiti last month, it just didn't feel right. I hope you guys will understand why I edited those out.

On a somewhat lighter note, yes, I've seen the issue with a wedding being held at the same hotel as a con more than once.

* * *

Early morning sunlight glowed through the cracks in the SOA's roof.

"Huh. I don't know who he is." Ratchet ran a hand over one of the long wings of the ancient jet. He'd confirmed Sunstreaker's assessment of _old _jet, in poor repair before being put into stasis lock. "Doc, he's the same model as Jetfire, just with real different kibble. He probably changes into a transport of some sort. Jetfire was originally a transport shuttle until he scanned the Blackbird. Hmm ... I might be able to find something in our records when I have a look at his internals and get his spark date."

Doc nodded. "That's what I thought. He's got galactic exploration glyphs, but no sigils. Neutral, maybe."

"Registration date predates the war by a long time." Ratchet swept dust off a number painted on the explorer's wing. He was face down on the berth, probably because his fuel port was on his back. "They used a different number format before the war began. I'd guess that means he's been offline at _least _that long, unless Megatron woke him and then off-lined him again. Help me turn him over onto his back."

Doc wasn't very tall, but he was stout. He shoved and Ratchet lifted, and together they flipped the ancient jet over, so he was chest up. Ratchet grunted, and pointed out a mass of wiring emerging from a seam in the mech's plating. Then he used a screwdriver to pop the latches on one of the armor plates. The wiring was jury-rigged to the mech's power cells. "I would speculate based on that arrangement that he was stranded somewhere. He most likely ran out of energon, and had to go into stasis lock, but he managed to rig himself up solar collectors to keep his spark containment system up."

After Ratchet removed another plate, they found some internal damage. The mech had a quantum engine, and the coil was clearly blown. "Huh. Auto-repair wouldn't be able to fix that. He was probably stranded somewhere. Takes quite a surge to damage one of those, too. I've seen it happen with a lightning strike, or a plasma weapon hit."

"He needs a complete overhaul before we bring him online." Doc rubbed a bit of dried grease between his fingers. "I wonder if he's still alive in there, or if they reformatted him?"

"Eh. That's the million dollar question." Ratchet started to remove a coolant pump that was in the way of his reading the spark date on the mech's processor core.

Doc continued an inspection of the mech's exterior plating and limbs. "Huh -- he's got weapons mounts, but one's got a laser drill attached, and the other has a long-range high power subspace communicator on it."

Ratchet said, "He probably didn't carry any. He doesn't have the capacitors for anything bigger than a laser rifle. He's got some huge subspace pockets, though." Ratchet fiddled with a subspace field generator, and then stuck his arm into one. He retrieved a medical kit, some geologic samples, something slimy and organic that he dropped with distaste on the floor, and a quattra set. There was nothing in that pocket, or any of the others, that gave the mech's identity away.

"Different universe, back then. He wouldn't have been worried about other Cybertronians attacking him." Doc peered into the mech's optics. They were gold.

Ratchet straightened up. "I've got his spark date and serial numbers. Let's see if we've got a match in our records. I wish we had the registration numbers for the survey. That would make this too easy."

He sent the information to both Optimus and Fang, along with a video of the mech's appearance and some other stats.

Fang responded immediately, _:Not a clue, Ratch. Nothing in my records.:_

:Ah well. Optimus wants a meeting of the Primes after we do a survey of the city, too. Do you have time?:

:I had a staff meeting planned, but I can move it back. I bet I'll have stuff to tell my officers after the Committee of Do-gooders meets anyway.:

:Just as long as you're including yourself under that title of 'Do Gooder':

:You know it.: Fang sounded cheerful. Ratchet wasn't sure if it was an act, or if Fang's tendency towards rapid mood swings was in full force. _:Hey, though, I'll come down and take a look. I'm curious about what you found.:_

:See you in a minute, Snowflake.:

:Frag you.:

Fang's reaction to his teasing nickname made Ratchet chuckle aloud after Fang cut the connection with an unnecessarily harsh blat of static. He then comm'd Wheeljack and First Aid to bring a stretcher, and come help him move the mech to Fort Max. A moment after that, Optimus replied, not by comm, but by hurrying into the SOA.

"Well," Optimus said, as he approached at a swift walk, "I am willing to speculate that he was a prisoner of the 'cons."

"You know him?"

"Hmm." Optimus surveyed the long body on the berth for a moment. "Personally, no. We never met face to face. I sent him and his partners to search for the Fallen and the lost Primes, however, and believed him lost. He lives?"

"His spark is strong. I won't know what state his cores are in until we get him into the med bay."

"By reputation, he's a brilliant biologist and chemical engineer." Optimus folded his arms and frowned down at him. "I pray his mind's intact. I shudder to think what may have befallen him in Megatron's clutches. Megatron almost certainly found him unwilling to work for the Decepticons. His psych profile is incredibly stable and he was noted for his integrity. He was well suited for deep space exploration."

"What's his designation?"

".... Skyfire ..." a low voice breathed behind them. "Fang just asked me if I knew who he was. _Skyfire._"

Skywarp took one step, then two, then a flurry of scrambling strides. He stopped a couple feet from the berth, hesitated, then touched the mech's wing with a shaking hand. With optics gleaming he asked urgently, "He's alive?"

"We're going to find out in a little bit, but his spark is strong." Ratchet smiled.

"_There _you are!" Fang trotted in through the door. "Skywarp, I need you to ask permission before leaving the DOA!"

"Fang, it's Skyfire!" Skywarp danced excitedly in place, which Ratchet thought was rather alarming given Skywarp's size. "It's _Skyfire!_"

"Really?" Fang rocked back on his heels. "Your Skyfire?"

"Our Skyfire!"

Optimus nodded, seeming unsurprised. To the others, who were looking confused, he said, "Skyfire was the fourth member of Galactic Exploration's best team. All four were sent to search for the Fallen and the lost Primes in this system. Skyfire went down in a storm on Earth when his engines blew, and Starscream was injured trying to catch him. The team went home after that, because Starscream needed repairs. With the war looming, I didn't have the resources to continue the search either for Skyfire or the Primes. He was declared dead a long time ago. My guess is that Megatron found him."

"Screamer was pissed you wouldn't send more troops to look for Skyfire. And he never said anything to me about finding him in this system," Skywarp said, suddenly looking sullen. "If Megatron knew, Starscream did. Megatron was always 'facing with him. Can't keep a secret like _that _during a 'face."

Fang reached up and patted Skywarp's arm. "We'll get him repaired. Promise."

"If he's still Skyfire." Skywarp scowled. "Though even Soundwave couldn't have hacked him. He was _good_ with code. Real good."

Ratchet glanced over at Fang. Fang quirked an optic ridge up and gave Skywarp a significant look. Ratchet shrugged. Maybe. Fixing Skywarp's processor was a high priority, but behind a lot of other critical projects. They _still _didn't have much intelligence from the Nebulan mechs, and Elita and Teletraan were both working on that. He was still uneasy about releasing Prowl from medical leave, for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. (Though the fact that Prowl wasn't agitating to be put back to work said something profound, Ratchet thought.) There were not many other mechs he'd trust on a project like fixing Skywarp's processor. Fang certainly didn't have anyone on his side.

"Well," Ratchet said, "we'll get him online by tomorrow night. I'd be interested in his story."

"No." Skywarp suddenly growled, possessively putting a hand down on Skyfire's shoulder.

"'Warp, it's okay. The Autobots can get him up and running." Fang sounded a bit surprised by his reaction.

"_No_." Skywarp bared teeth in a real threat. His capacitors started to hum. "No. He goes to the 'con med bay!"

"'Warp, it's okay." Fang patted his arm.

"I want Fang to work on him." Skywarp insisted, unrelenting. His cannon lifted up from under his armor. Fang's battle routines booted automatically when he saw that, though he honestly wasn't sure who he was supposed to attack or defend! Skywarp snarled, "No Autobots!"

Ratchet cleared his throat. "'Warp, if you want to watch, I wouldn't mind. Consider this, though: he was likely a prisoner of the 'cons. Do you really want him to wake up in a Decepticon med bay? He's a big mech. Do you really want to try to restrain him if he panics?"

Skywarp leveled the cannon at Ratchet. "No Autobots!"

"Skywarp, stand down!" Fang put every bit of command tone he could summon into that snarled order. Ratchet had gone very, very still. Fang was pretty sure Ratchet's personal force shield could take one hit from Skywarp's cannon at this range, but he wasn't willing to bet the farm on it. And Skywarp could easily get off several shots before they took him out.

_My force shield will survive one hit, maybe two. It won't survive three. If he doesn't back down we _will _have to take him out. _Fang's cooling fans clicked on as his processor started to overclock. He was rapidly calculating tactical options, trajectories, and the likely behavior of all bystanders. The world narrowed to the objective: Stop Skywarp. He'd picked his side. It was that of the other Primes. It really was the only option.

"No!" 'Warp screamed with defiance. Stubborn, sheer bloody-minded _defiance_. However, there was also panic in those red optics, building as Fang watched. His battle routines added a calculation for irrational behavior. Warp shouted again, "NO!"

Ratchet quietly asked Fang, _:You're running a bit hot, there, Fang. You gonna jump him or us if this goes ugly?: _Ratchet was totally motionless as Skywarp pointed the weapon at him at a deadly near point-blank range.  
_  
:Him.: _He was a little offended by the question.  
_  
:Figured. Wanted to make sure. Dial back the battle routines, Snowflake, soon as you establish some if/thens. I can _hear _your processor humming from here.:_

Ratchet's advice was friendly, though fueled by a lifetime of experience with highly charged situations. It was also, probably, necessary. Fang was letting his own emotional reaction do exactly the same thing Skywarp was, which was to let his fear make him anticipate a fight. That triggered combat routines, and that made it harder to use his logic algorithms because he just didn't have the RAM for both to run at the same time.

Despite Ratchet's tone, Fang was a little stung by the reminder. It felt like criticism. Maybe it was. However, it was also good advice. He forced himself to calm down and shut off some processor-intensive code so he could think more clearly. Unlike Skywarp, he _was _able to think, feel, and fight at the same time. He just wasn't used to trying to solve things diplomatically. Among the 'con army it was generally expected that he beat the armor off anyone who didn't immediately follow his orders.

Skywarp wasn't moving any more than Ratchet. They needed to defuse this _without _a fight, which would promptly become a diplomatic incident between the factions. Optimus's side would not take an assault on their leader lightly. Aside from that, didn't want any of them getting hurt, and thought a fight over this matter would be _really _stupid.

_:What do you want to do, Fang?: _Prime's own weapons were whining with power. _:We can take him out if you want.: _Prime transmitted him a rapidly rendered wireframe image of him firing at 'Warp, the seeker turning towards Prime and taking his weapon off Ratchet, Ratchet nailing him with Ratchet's own rather formidable weaponry, 'Warp going down, Fang pouncing him third. Prime and Ratchet would then back off and let 'Warp deal with it. As plans went, it was pretty basic and likely to succeed on most mechs. The problem with Skywarp was that he could teleport, and wasn't above doing so in combat, even if that took a sphere of his surroundings with him. They were surrounded by protoforms. He really didn't want to risk half a sparkling going for a ride with them.

Slowly, unsure of their reaction, he suggested to both mechs, _:No. I don't want a fight today. Do you mind if we take Skyfire back to my lab? It'll defuse the situation and I can deal with Skywarp when I get there. Trust me, I _will _deal with him.:_

_:Fine.:_

:I swear I'm going to throw Skywarp in the brig as soon as I can get my claws in his chassis.: He was pissed, and scared, and Skywarp still had the damned cannon pointed at Ratchet.

"Skywarp," Optimus said, "we're going to let you take Skyfire back to your base. Please lower your ..."

Skywarp's weapon wavered in Optimus's direction. Optimus reacted by falling completely silent, and going very still.

"Stand down, Skywarp. It's okay." Fang tried for soothing.

Skywarp snapped at him, "If the Autobots wake him, they'll keep him. He can't be my partner if he's an Autobot. We were partners. We were _close_."

"'Warp, it's okay. He's coming back with us."

"It's okay, Skywarp," Optimus agreed. "I won't stop you from taking him. It's okay."

His weapon lowered a little more. Fang felt a flicker of hope. They were getting through to him. And now that he knew _why _'Warp was so wound up, he knew how to reach him. "'Warp, you're his next of kin if you're his partner. You get a say in his medical care when he's not able to speak for himself. If you want our med bay to work on him, that's fine. We can do it."

Skywarp blinked at him. "Okay."

"I need you to stop pointing a cannon at Optimus," Fang relaxed a little more. This was going to be okay. He'd take Skyfire home and throw Skywarp in the brig. He had no problem with onlining the mech in his med bay, though odds were, Skyfire would probably have a low opinion of Decepticons. He supposed he could open the door, stand back, and tell the scientist that the Autobots were _thattaway! _once he was awake.

Uncertainly, Skywarp shifted from foot to foot.

"It'll be okay, I promise." _And I hope you like my brig, buddy. _He took one cautious step towards Skywarp. "C'mon, 'Warp, you know me. I'm not out to get you. I'm not Megatron. C'mon, do a systems check and calm down. It's okay. You're his kin. We'll let you decide where he goes. It's okay."

He heard the click and pop of valves and some fans whine as Skywarp took the suggestion to do a calming check of his systems. The terror and fury slowly faded from his eyes. He heard Optimus shift behind him, and Ratchet's armor rattled as Ratchet pointedly put his weapons away.

Fang was reaching for Skywarp's arm, intending to pat him comfortingly, when suddenly Ratchet lunged. He thought Ratchet was going for Skywarp, but in the same instant he heard the deafening hiss of a missile and Ratchet's solid, heavy bulk flattened Fang to the ground.

An explosion shook the room. He screamed an oath, and tried to push Ratchet off, but Ratchet was several times his weight and had him effectively pinned.

"Stay down!" Ratchet screamed at him, "Fang, stay down!"

He heard Skywarp's pulse cannon fire, and Skywarp's scream of rage. Ratchet's weight held Fang immobile and he had a terrible, terrifying flashback to Deathwheels falling atop him, Death's dead, twitching body crushing him into the ground. He screamed again, a wordless howl of fear for himself, fear for Ratchet, fear for Skywarp. Fear for their future. What if this battle spilled over beyond this moment? He prayed his Decepticons didn't try to come to his rescue, that this stayed contained to just these few mechs.

"STAY DOWN!" Ratchet shouted over the noise of a pitched battle. Skywarp was shouting obscenities and his cannon fired over and over. How many shots was 'Warp capable of? Fifty? Seventy? _Seventy-three, with full tanks of energon and no teleports, _his databanks provided the answer. _Plus six missiles tipped with high explosives, long range laser rifles, and a machine gun. _He didn't know how full Skywarp's tanks were, but Skywarp was under orders to keep himself topped off because his teleporting was critical during attacks and took enormous amounts of fuel. He'd probably use his pulse cannons at this close range until taken down.

"Lemme up!" Fang begged Ratchet.

"STAY!" Ratchet snarled at him. "They won't shoot me! They will shoot you!"

"But Skywarp ..." He coudn't tell what was going on. Mechs were shouting. He heard the rattle of a machine gun, another hiss of a missile, and the repeated _boom _of a pulse cannon that was smaller and therefore a little higher pitched than Skywarp's. And the thunderous rumble of Skywarp's weapon.

"STAY!" Ratchet growled, "Get him to surrender!"

_:Skywarp! Stand down!:_

:They lied! They attacked us!:

He heard Optimus bellowing at Red Alert, "Red! STAND DOWN!"

"Negative, sir!" Red Alert snarled right back. "He had a weapon on you!"

_:Fraggit, Red! Stand down!: _Ratchet shouted over an open comm.

"That's an order!" Optimus shouted.

"You forget I outrank you in this!" Red Alert shouted at Prime. "Damnit, Optimus, I can't believe you were this careless! I _knew _the 'cons were going to attack! I knew it!"

_:He really outranks Prime?:_

:Technically, during a security crisis in Fort Max's operational area, yes. He's the Security Director. Like I outrank Optimus on medical matters. It's because Optimus can't be aware of everything going on at the base. Optimus himself set it up that way. Max can pull rank on Red if he needs to.: 

Ratchet sounded much calmer than Fang felt. He had what Fang thought was a truly amazing ability to stay completely cool during a fight. Fang wondered what he was seeing, and that question was promptly answered when Ratchet piped him a video feed from his optics over an encrypted comm channel. Optimus was flattened under several mechs, the same way that Ratchet had tackled Fang. Grimlock, Red, Sunstreaker, Bluestreak (the source of the missiles, likely) and the tank third of Omega Surpreme were in a fierce fight with Skywarp.

A stray shot from Skywarp's pulse cannon thudded into the concrete close to Ratchet's shoulder. Ratchet ducked his head down, and for a moment, all Fang saw was the ground over Ratchet's feed. Fang shifted nervously, as much as he was able, feeling wildly claustrophobic. Ratchet had his arms down on either side of Fang's body. Fang's legs were trapped under Ratchet's, and his back was mashed to Ratchet's grill. His face was ground into the cement floor. He couldn't get air for cooling, and his battle systems were fully employed, albeit without a target to lock an attack onto.

He saw the first heat warning for his CPU pop up on his HUD as his internal temperature rose. Making it worse, blistering hot air from Ratchet's vents washed over him. Ratchet was running pretty hot himself, despite the calm tone of his voice.

_:Ratch, I'm going to glitch from the heat in a hurry. I can't get air.:_

:Shut off your battle routines and power everything down you can. I'm not moving.:

:Ratchet! Don't be stupid!:

:Don't you _be stupid. They won't shoot me, and Skywarp's too busy to target me.:_

:There is such a thing as friendly fire,: Fang pointed out.  
_  
:And I can take a direct hit or two. I'm built for it. You'd be an immediate target. You're more important than I am.:_

:Slag that, no I'm not.: He didn't want to believe that. Ratchet was important to _him_.  
_  
:Yes, you are.: _Ratchet's voice turned gentle. _:If anything does happen to me, make sure Jazz gets my Matrix. I haven't updated my personnel file yet.:  
_  
He was going to overheat and crash his CPU if he kept running in combat mode. Emergency shutdown notices were now scrolling across his HUD. _:Ratch, I'm serious here. I don't have any air.:_

:Put some trust in me.:

Reluctantly, he started shutting down secondary systems, his weapons capacitors, some extraneous power cells, and the tactical routines that were stressing his processor. The warnings backed off, for the moment.

_:Good.: _Ratchet finally looked up again. Skywarp was _still _fighting, hand to hand now. His pulse cannon was half torn off and his machine gun completely gone from his other wrist. Fang noted he wasn't firing his missiles, perhaps because of the proximity of the sparklings and Skyfire. 'Warp's _battle _tactics were not impaired by his glitch. It was the logic behind his fighting that didn't work right.

And he was a near-legendary Decepticon warrior.

It was easy to forget that, until one saw a reminder like this. As Fang and Ratchet watched, Skywarp sent Ironhide flying (where had Ironhide come from?) and slammed a pulse cannon blast into Sunstreaker's chassis. Sunstreaker bounced off a berth and then bounded back up and into the fray. Ironhide was right behind him.

_:I promised Thundercracker I'd keep him safe!: _Fang wailed.

_:I know you did. I'm sorry.: _Ratchet sounded a bit distracted. He ducked reflexively as white light washed his optics out and a sizzling _snap _deafened both of them. When he could see again, Skywarp was down and twitching. _:Jolt got him.:_

:Slag, is he ... let me up, let me up!: Fang was afraid those were death throes.

Jolt lunged on top of Skywarp's trembling form, a tiny blur of blue against the big seeker. Doc, even smaller, launched out from under berth and joined him. Jolt slammed a radial saw very similar to Ratchet's into Skywarp's armor'd chest and Doc thrust an arm into the hole. Skywarp stopped trembling, and collapsed slackly onto the floor.

"Geeze, Doc," Sunstreaker said, "first time I've ever seen you in a fight. Nice shot, earlier."

"Jolt, how's his vitals?" Ratchet said, as Jolt scanned the fallen Decepticon. Doc was inspecting his shoulder, which had char marks on it. He was moving like he hurt.

"Meh, he'll live, unless you want me to slag the sucker."

"No!" Fang shouted.

"Stand down!" Optimus snarled at his troops. The mechs who'd dogpiled Optimus finally allowed him to get up.

Red Alert gave Optimus a sharp look as he climbed to his feet. "I'll take any punishment you wish to mete out, sir. He had a _weapon _on you."

"I know, Red. We'll talk later." Optimus walked over to the seeker. "Skywarp, I'm sorry. They were following long-established protocols for a threat to my life. Our deal stands. You can take Skyfire home with you."

Ratchet shifted. Fang, finally, blessedly, could intake some cooler air, and see for himself through a gap between Ratchet's arms and Ratchet's chassis.

"Is Fang okay?" Optimus asked.

"Fang is squished," Fang advised him, "but Fang is not hurt."

"Anyone else hurt? Sunstreaker? Doc? 'Hide?"

Sunstreaker shook his head. Ironhide grunted. Doc said, "I'll need some repairs, but they're not urgent."

Optimus told his rescuers, "Ratchet is going to get up slowly. Anyone who threatens Lord Fangface will be charged with assault on a Prime, under the traditional laws of our people. Is that _clear_?"

"Crystal," Red Alert said.

"Good."

Ratchet stood up, moving a little stiffly. Fang scrambled up as soon as Ratchet was clear, though he kept the laser rifle on his tail aimed pointedly at the ground. Part of him was relieved to be able to move. The other part somewhat missed the security of Ratchet's bulk. He didn't even try to pretend to himself that he wasn't frightened. This could have gone ugly -- uglier than it was -- in a hurry. The relief that everyone was alive was overwhelming.

Much later, after both Skywarp and Skyfire had been packed off to the Decepticon med bay and the Autobot soldiers dismissed (over extreme protests from Red Alert, and minor ones from Ironhide) Fangface sagged against a berth, covered his face with both hands, and let out a hiss of static. Only Ratchet, Optimus, Doc and Ironhide remained.

"I am sorry," Fangface said, finally.

Optimus sighed, and joined him in leaning. "Red Alert's simply doing his job. He saw Skywarp on one of his new security cameras and intervened. However, I am not sure you have anything to apologize for, Fang. You handled that as well as you could."

He shook his head. "I should have anticipated the chance he could lose control. He _doesn't _think well when he's emotional, or when he's fighting. Put both of them together and the ability to be logical flies right out the window."

"Maybe. But you do need to fix that glitch," Ratchet growled, "before somebody gets hurt."

"I do. I will. He was a quantum physicist. I'd like to see him back at work. We could use him." Fang glanced over at Ratchet, then noticed the state of Ratchet's hands. The armor plating was dented and scratched, and it looked like he had a jammed finger. "What did you do, fall on your hands when you tackled me?"

The medic glanced down at them. "Hnnh."

Fang clicked a couple of times in consternation. "I just fixed them! Primus. Well, you were saving my aft, so I guess I owe you another repair, but Primus! I can't believe you did that in one fall."

Optimus surprised both of them by saying, "Fang, why don't you clean up Ratchet's hands, and then go do that tour of the city. I'm sending Grapple with you. Then come up to my quarters for the meeting of Primes."

Both he and Ratchet gave Optimus a wary look. Fang suspected that Ratchet's expression gave away more than Fang's impulsive offer to fix them _again _had. "Yeah, that'll work," Fang said. "I want a word with Skywarp, too."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't, kids," Ironhide called as they headed for the door.

Ratchet flipped him off over one shoulder. After a second, Fang echoed the gesture. Ironhide's answering snort of laughter followed them outside.

* * *

Fixing Ratchet's hands took less time than the night before. The damage was superficial. Fang, however, wondered how he'd managed to so badly scratch and dent his plating in _one _fall. He asked about that. Ratchet said _hnnnh _and didn't explain. Fang was suspicious that Ratchet had gotten into a fight with someone, but he clearly didn't want to talk about it.

Now, Fang detoured to the brig before heading over to Fort Max. He didn't want to leave Skywarp sitting alone all day without a few words with him. When he walked in to the brig he saw that Skywarp sat, looking rather morose, behind energized bars. He was leaning against the wall with his legs sprawled out before him, arms limp at his side, staring at nothing.

It hurt to have to punish him. He had come to like Skywarp, flaws and all. It was also entirely possible that he would take Thundercracker up on his offer, and Skywarp and TC were obviously a package deal. In the near future he could end up sharing a berth with Skywarp. What would Skywarp be like if they fixed his glitch?

"'Warp, 'Regia's watching the seeker sparklings today. They'll recharge with me tonight." That made him nervous because of Prism, because he seekers were huge, but he was going to have Boomer sleep in his lab, and the seekers with him. Prism would be happy to recharge under his armor where she'd be safe from anything but an all-out assault, too. The seeker sparklings knew him, and he hoped to avoid upsetting them too much.

No reaction.

"'Warp, I know Starcatcher already has your motor functions working again. Talk to me."

No reaction.

"Skywarp ..." Fang sighed. "'Warp, look, I'm sorry to put you in there, buddy, but you pulled a gun on _Optimus_."

"When are you going to execute me?"

"Huh?" He was stunned by that. "'Warp, no!"

"Thundercracker's going to be so upset. And the sparklings!" Skywarp shuttered his optics. "I know you have to, I know I ... I _know _you will. I know it. But it's going to destroy Thundercracker. And TC and you could never be partners after you make an order like that. I screwed up."

"Oh, 'Warp." Executing Skywarp hadn't even crossed his mind. He was sorry he hadn't made it more clear to 'Warp that he was not in anywhere near that much trouble. It had taken him a couple hours to fix Ratchet's hands. Had Skywarp been sitting in fear the entire time?

"Can I ... can I at least see Skyfire? Before ... before you ..." Skywarp finally looked up. "I want to tell him I'm sorry. I handled that so bad. He's going to wake up and I'm going to be executed. At least ... at least maybe Thundercracker will have someone. TC's gonna be happy to see him, but if I'm dead, it's gonna be awful." Skywarp sighed. "If you really ... really care about me, let me say goodbye to TC, too. He loves me so much. It's going to tear him apart."

Fang killed the current to the bars and pulled the door open. He walked over to Skywarp and crouched down on his heels, caught Skywarp's hand, and folded both his own around the massive fingers. "Skywarp, listen to me. I'm not going to execute you ..."

"The deal was that I _obey _you." Skywarp said, softly. "That time I attacked you. The deal was that I _obey._ And I didn't. You said you'd kill me if I didn't obey you. And I threatened Primes!"

"Why didn't you want the Autobots to wake him?"

"I don't want him to be an Autobot. I want ... they'll tell him awful things about us. About _me_. I wanted to talk to him first. I don't want to lose him. I don't want him to hear," Skywarp balled his fists, "I don't want him to hear about me. He won't understand the things I've done."

"Oh, 'Warp." Fang heard the desperation in Skywarp's voice. He held Skywarp's hand tightly. "I'm not going to execute you. You panicked. You weren't thinking rationally."

"I've dreamed so long of finding him."

"Skywarp, I don't know what the future will hold for you and Skyfire, but I promise you, I'm not going to kill you. Okay? Look at me, buddy."

"Buddy," he echoed the endearment, optics finally coming online.

"Buddy." Fang sat down next to him. "I put you in the brig because I was pissed off and I didn't want to yell at you. I also wanted to make sure you were calm before I let you out."

"I'm not in trouble?"

"Oh, a pit load of it." Fang still had hold of his hand. "Why did you think that you couldn't have a relationship with Skyfire if he was an Autobot?"

"It'd be treason." Skywarp's words were dull. "He'd have a head full of Autobot secrets. And I know Decepticon stuff. We couldn't 'face. Besides that, it'd look bad. You know that. It's why you and Ratchet keep making moon-eyes at each other and can't do anything about it."

"Ratchet does _not _make moon eyes." Fang snorted. "His idea of courtship is to smack me upside the head."

Skywarp didn't laugh.

"Seriously, 'Warp, the war's ending. I'm going to _make _it end. Then once it's over, I will slagging _encourage _cross-faction romances."

"Maybe."

"'Warp, we'll just have to see what happens with Skyfire. I can't predict the future. What I _can _predict is that I'm bumping up the priority to get your processor fixed." Fang held on to Skywarp's hand when he tried to pull it back.

"I ..." Skywarp hesitated. "I've been this way a long time, Fang."

"Yeah, I know." Fangface wasn't entirely sure why Skywarp sounded reluctant."But you _did _ignore my orders to stop and you pulled a weapon on two Primes. I know why you did it -- Primus knows I have some of the same issues with my combat code overriding my common sense in a crisis -- but it's not something I can let stand. There was very little provocation there, Skywarp. What will set you off next time?"

Skywarp sighed.

"And we could certainly use a few more scientists to help us rebuild." Fang patted the back of his hand. "You've spent the war killing people and blowing things up. Now you can help rebuild and heal. You can do it _with _me. I'll totally support you."

He was chattering at Skywarp, doing a good imitation of Bluestreak.

Skywarp pulled his hand free of Fang's grasp. "Fangface, I don't deserve this kindness from you."

Fang rose. "Then _make _yourself worthy. Make me proud of you."

"Yes ... sir."

"I do have to issue a punishment. What you did wasn't acceptable, and this is about appearances. I can't have soldiers thinking I play favorites with my friends." Fang reached a hand out, and cupped Skywarp's pointed jaw in his hand. "You're confined to the brig until tomorrow, mostly because you've proven I can't trust you when it comes to Skyfire and I want him online before I release you. When you're released, you're grounded from flight for the next month unless you're working. You'll spend that month doing manual labor for sixteen hours a day. I also want you to send an e-mail apologizing to every Autobot who was involved."

"Yes sir."

"And 'Warp, I'll give Skyfire the opportunity to talk to you as soon as he's online." He hated the punishment he was meting out. Fang was a huge believer in logical consequences. This was punishment for punishment's sake. It was necessary, because _not _punishing Skywarp would breed resentment in the troops. It wouldn't change Skywarp's behavior -- only fixing his processor would do that.

"I want to be there when you wake him!" Skywarp sounded panicky.

"No. You're too emotionally vested in this. I can't trust you." It hurt to say that, but it was true.

"Lord Fangface, _please!_"

Fang walked to the door and let himself out. He locked it, and re-energized the bars. "I'm sorry, 'Warp. I can't trust you to follow orders where he's concerned."

"... Yes sir." Skywarp slumped against the wall again, and shuttered his optics. He just sat there, very quiet, and clearly miserable.

"I'm sorry," Fang repeated.

"I'm going to be all alone down here," Skywarp whispered.

Normally, that was part of the punishment. Skywarp wouldn't be completely isolated, as he had his comm (taking their comm away _and _isolating a mech was a quick way to drive them insane), but being alone in a cell definitely added to the unpleasantness of the experience. Fang hesitated, then said, "I'll send someone to keep you company."

"Thanks, boss." Skywarp didn't online his optics. "I'm sorry I let you down."

"Mm. Just make me proud in the future."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Swindle rolled down the cargo jet's ramp -- it wasn't Silver, but rather just an anonymous army plane -- then transformed. Fortress Maximus's proximity made him nervous, and he gave the twin spires of the living base a wary look. As a member of a gestalt, Swindle knew what it was like to be _big_, but Fort Max had his team flat out beat on that account.

"Impressive, isn't he?" Wildrider said, joining him as he walked towards the DOA from the air strip. He could have driven, but he'd hoped to have time to think. Swindle had learned a _lot _in DC. He was still crunching the possibilities.

"What do you want, Wildrider?" Swindle said, impatiently. The warrior seldom spoke to him unless he was after something.

"I might have something for you."

"Yeah?" Swindle's curiosity was piqued.

"How about some dirt on our fearless leader?"

"Wouldn't exactly call him fearless," Swindle snorted. He knew damn well that Fang was an anxious little glitch.

"... right. Anyway. Want it?"

"Hm. Maybe. Let me see." The usual deal was that if he liked the gossip that a mech brought his way, he would "buy" it, generally for blackmail purposes. If he turned the offer down, the mech was then free to sell the dirt to someone else, or just blab to the entire team. This was the first time that anyone had offered him data on Fang, though.

By Decepticon standards, Fang was clean. Oh, he'd killed his share of mechs, he was a bit softsparked, and he had a nasty temper when truly provoked. However, he had no real scandalous behavior. The worst was his friendship with the Autobots, and honestly, Swindle didn't think that the Decepticon officers would object that much to the Decepticon Prime making nice with the Autobot Six. There wasn't anything left to fight over and anyone with a brain was tired of so many people dying.

Some of the rank and file might be dumb enough to think his stated desire to end the war was a weakness, but not anyone with a clue. Swindle thought it took some real bearings to try to accomplish what Fang seemed to want to do.

Still, dirt was dirt ... "Let me see what you've got."

Wildrider handed him a datacube. Swindle scanned it. And his optic ridges rose. "I'm not sure that's dirt on Fang, but it's definitely slag on Ratchet."

Swindle shook his head. "Watch Fang with Ratchet. Watch the body language. He loves him, Swindle. He _loves _an Autobot."

"Hnnh. Okay, I'll pay." Swindle named a price.

Wildrider snorted.

Swindle sighed, and upped the price a little. "It's really not much in the way off dirt, Wildrider."

The warrior made a disappointed noise. "C'mon, Swindle ..."

"Take it or leave it."

Wildrider huffed a sigh. "Ooookay. I'll take it. But I think you're ripping me off."

"That's my job," Swindle grinned at him.

"Slag you." But the exchange was made, and Swindle walked off with the datacube in the palm of his hand.

It felt rather heavy, for the size.

Swindle glanced skyward, for a moment, eyes tracing a point in the sky. _I could weaken his role with this, _he thought, _or make a tidy profit. Alternately, if Fang does love Ratchet, he'd pay to suppress the video. Or I could try to get money from Ratchet, though the Autobots historically haven't reacted well to business deals with me ..._ nah, _not Ratchet. He's scarier than Fang._

Really, he'd probably be able to collect the most money from Fang's opposition within the Decepticons. If he could obtain video confirming the two had feelings for each other (and he suspected they did, he'd seen Fang's body language a few times too) he could sell that information for a _lot _of funds to someone like Straxus.

_If I wanted Earth money I'd have to get the funds in something that could be sold here. Precious metals, maybe, or some large carbon crystals._

It was definitely a possibility.

But. But. But.

_My profit margins will be higher under Fang than they would be under any other leader over a long term. Do I _want _to weaken him? _

He was almost to the base when Fang stepped outside. Swindle studied him from a distance. He was trotting on all four legs with his ridiculously tiny sparkling clinging to his back. Her thin squeal of, "Go, horsey!" was just barely audible at this distance. Fang playfully bucked just like a horse, and she clung easily to a seam in his armor and screeched with excitement.

_:Good morning, sir.:_

Fang glanced over, then loped in his direction. _:Ah, morning Swindle. I heard your plane touched down.:_

"The kid's looking a lot better than the last time I saw her," Swindle said. Prism had not yet dove under Fang's armor, though she was eying him suspiciously. She peered cautiously around Fang's neck at him, optics wide.

"Can we do a debriefing tomorrow?" Fang asked politely. "My schedule's full up today."

"Yeah, sure. Who's handling your scheduling?"

"Still trying to get a secretary." Fang sighed. "It'd be nice if some of the ships I summoned get here, just so I could draft someone. Nobody here has the skill set I need _and _can be spared."

"Hire a human, boss." Swindle had been moderately impressed by the humans he'd met. They were cunning, clever, and usefully greedy. "I can help you find one, if you'd like. I've already got myself a couple helpers in D.C."

Fang actually took that as a joke, slag him. He laughed. "I think I'd rather hire my own human, Swindle, instead of letting you pick. I like my secrets to remain secrets."

Swindle put on a wounded face, even though he had been planning on finding Fang someone who would feed him intelligence on the leader. "You hurt my feelings."

"Yeah, right." Fang transformed, transferring Prism to his shoulder as he did. He gave his child an affectionate pat as he said to Fang, "You're amused."

"Well, yeah." He let his expression relax into a grin.

"I know what you are, and what you do, Swindle." Fang pulled Prism down into his arms and rubbed her armor between her shoulders. It almost seemed like a nervous gesture, though Swindle thought, as tics went, it beat Fang's habit of chewing on his fingers. "Don't do it against me, make your tendencies useful for me, don't get in trouble with the natives, and I'll stay out of your way. You ever turn that clever mind of yours against me and you'll find I'm not Lord Friendlyfangs anymore."

Swindle sputtered. "Lord Friendlyfangs?"

"Please. I'm sure you've heard that one before. I'm still trying to decide if it's better or worse than Special Snowflake, which is what Ratchet calls me."

"You seem to have a friendship with Ratchet," Swindle said, warily. He just wasn't used to leaders who laughed at themselves. It was weird.

"Heh." Fang snorted. "I don't even try to deny it. He's saved my life a few times. He's my point of contact with the Autobots, and he's a fellow Prime. He's also a damn good warrior in his own right who's taken me down a few times in practice, and he's teaching me more medicine. So, anyone who has a problem with my friendship with him can discuss it directly with me."

Swindle held his hands up defensively. "No problems."

"Good. Then we understand each other."

Swindle ... had an epiphany.

_He will lead us to peace. Given a chance. Given support. And I'm a lot more likely to survive and prosper in peacetime than I am if this war continues. Sooner or later, I will get fragged._

He closed his fist on the datacube, crunching it. Fang jumped, surprised by the noise. "What was that?" he said, suspiciously.

Swindle displayed the crushed cube. "Nothing, now."

Fang looked up, clearly puzzled.

"You know, it'd be a hell of a coup against the Autobots if you could woo their CMO away to our side." Swindle scattered the bits of ruined datacube across the ground with a flick of his fingers. "You'd look like one slagging good leader if he joined us, if it was handled right."

"That's not going to happen," Fang said.

"Eh. Everyone has their price. Everyone can be bought. You just need to figure out what they value most. In Ratchet's case, that currency is probably _you_." Swindle pointed a finger at him. "Get him over to our side, and let me help you with the publicity, and they'll totally eat it up. One thing Megatron never managed to do was to lure Autobots to our side. Plenty of 'cons defected, but convincing Autobots to change sides just didn't happen. Makes you look incredibly good if one of Optimus's inner circle has that much faith in you. Makes Optimus look weak, too."

"I don't want to _buy_ Ratchet." Fang sounded offended. "Besides that, he's a Prime, and he's Optimus's personal friend. He wouldn't do it. He just ... wouldn't."

"Mmm." Swindle wondered if that was true. "At any rate, you've got my support now. I mean, you've really got it."

Fang's optics widened. "You're not loyal to anyone, Swindle."

"Nah, I'm not." Swindle laughed. "But I like your cause." He glanced significantly skyward, finding that point he'd been looking at earlier. "You do remember I'm part of a gestalt, right?"

".... yes."

"Good. They're a bunch of lousy slaggers, but they have their uses."

"I thought Megatron separated you guys because they wanted to kill you," Fang said.

Swindle snorted. "That was the reason Megatron had, yes. You'll note that there aren't any complete Decepticon combiner teams left now except for Bruticus, assuming you could assemble all his pieces. Funny how being separated saved our afts."

"...oh."

"Not that I actually like the slaggers, but we are quantum bonded. I _know _them." He inspected his clawed hands for a moment. "Be a hell of an advantage if the Nebulans attack again, if there was a combiner team here."

"Yes, it would," Fang agreed. "It'd be nice if they knew I'm looking forward to meeting them. None of them are supposed to be within several light years of Earth, so somebody's not following orders."

Swindle nodded. "Somebody might be a threat to you."

"And you might be a threat to somebody?"

"Maaaaybe." He hesitated, wondering if Fang would try to bribe him for information, or threaten it out of him. Starscream always went for the bribe. Megatron went for his fusion cannon.

Fang actually tried a third option. He was smart. "Seems to me that you want to see an end to the war, too."

"More profitable. Less likely to get my aft slagged. Yes."

"So what are you going to do?"

"... Can I access the long-range communications set tonight? Undisturbed?"

"Be my guest." Fang's eyes were gleaming. "I look forward to you providing me some mutually beneficial intelligence."

And then the leader of the Decepticons extended his hand to shake, human style. Swindle blinked at that, then realized what Fang wanted. They shook hands, sealing a deal.

_Yes. I believe it's to my benefit to see him stay our leader._


	92. Chapter 92

Chapter 92

* * *

Author's note: I know that in the movieverse, Devastator may or may not have been Brawl. (Part of Swindle's gestalt.) Devastator died in the 2007 movie. He's the mech that Bumblebee, Mikaela (driving the tow truck) and the N.E.S.T. team take out in Mission City. There is some confusion about his name and his identity in canon.

Since they called him Devastator in the movie, I'm going to argue he was not "that" Brawl. Also, there's an ROTF Brawl toy that is part of Bruticus.

* * *

The Nebulan mech's motor functions were offline as a safety feature. After a few incidents in the med bay that had resulted in a dent to First Aid's helm, and two broken fingers for Rivet, they'd made it policy. No Nebulans were allowed near the medical staff without being incapacitated first. This was true even if they'd had their firmware neutered already. The mech that had injured Rivet had a Cybertronian processor core and Cybertronian code connected to his memory core and spark and he'd _still _tried to squish the little Decepticon medic.

Just because they weren't affected by the malignant Nebulan code didn't mean they were pleased by being prisoners.

Thought she knew he couldn't move, Mikaela still treated the big mech with significant caution as she reached into his internals. She was poised to retreat in a hurry if he so much as twitched. This particular mech had not yet been hacked, and he was staring at her with a downright hostile glare.

"You know," Mikaela said, as she inspected a patch on his spark chamber with an ultrasound scanner, "I'm trying to help you. Believe it or not, I'm not one of the bad guys."

"He doesn't believe you." r'Oya's voice made Mikaela jump.

"So you're actually going to talk to me?" Mikaela twisted around to look at the medic. The Nebulans were unanimously silent. They did as they were told, but they didn't _talk _to anyone, other than absolutely necessary discussions. r'Oya would talk about a patient's condition, but fell quiet whenever Mikaela tried to draw her out into a more general conversation.

Ratchet had told her this was a Nebulan species trait. It was why they weren't able to get any intelligence out of the Nebulans. They didn't talk to enemies. They didn't _socialize _with enemies. The 'silent treatment' was part of their hardcode, as Ratchet put it. The only way to get them to talk was to win their trust, to become their friends.

r'Oya pressed her lips together for a moment. "You're not Cybertronian," she finally said.

"Not the last time I checked, no." She turned back to her work, at least partly to hide a smile. "And I know he doesn't believe me, but it doesn't mean I won't tell him the truth."

r'Oya didn't say anything for a long moment. Finally, however, she observed, "Your people talk a lot. You're a social species."

"Yeah. We're a lot like the mechs." Mikaela tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ears. "Ratchet says that behaviorally we're the closest species he's ever seen to mechs, as far as emotional behavior goes."

"You're not like my mechs. My mechs are nothing like Cybertronians." She held a hand out to Mikaela for the scanner, and when Mikaela passed it over, she scrolled through the ultrasounds that Mikaela had taken of the welds. "You do good work."

"Thanks. You say my mechs aren't like your mechs?"

"No." r'Oya handed the scanner back. "They're very different. Your mechs are ... more like people. Mine are more limited. I'd never seen a mech sing until we came here."

Mikaela blinked and said, "Really? Most of the Cybertronians I know are interested in music. Bumblebee was a professional musician when he was much younger."

The Nebulan medic pressed her lips together, making a thin line. Her blue skin faded to white around her mouth for a moment. Then she said shortly, "None of our mechs are medics. None of them are scientists. None of them are engineers. None of them are political leaders. None of them are artists. They're all warriors, every single one. It's all they do. It's what they were created for."

"Really?"

"And none of them are _children_."

"... The mechs love sparklings." That shocked her. Even now, she could see Scanner trotting after First Aid. The Cybertronian children tended to tag along after their mentors everywhere, unless a specific situation was too dangerous for a child.

"Ours are brought online with all the code and information they need to function." r'Oya frowned. "Though young mechs are noted for being extremely unpredictable. Sometimes it takes several reformats and tweaks of their code before they're stable."

"You _reformat _them?" Mikaela said, in absolute horror. "That's erasing who they _are_."

"Yeah, well, if who they are is psychotic, it's necessary."

"... That's _terrible_." Mikaela actually took a step back, horrified. "r'Oya, they're people. If you delete their memories, you're deleting a person. The Cybertronians consider that _death_."

The Nebulan woman fell silent, lips pressing together again. Then, finally, she said, "The reason I decided to speak to you was because I want to know more about your mechs. About their ... about their culture. They're so different from ours."

Mikaela sighed. "What do you want to know? They're _people_."

"Clearly," r'Oya snapped. "I want to know why ours are different."

"At a guess, it's their operational code," Mikaela couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Our mechs are having a hard time making heads or tails out of it, it's so different from what they use. The firmware's the same, other than a specific line that names all Cybertronians a threat to life and limb, but when you start getting into higher levels of programming it's wildly different. From what I understand, our mechs do not have a lot of behavioral influence from their code unless there's a specific psychiatric reason, and then behavioral coding is considered very unpredictable. Your mechs have very large amounts of behavioral coding."

r'Oya made that displeased face. "What's to stop them Cybertronians ... being dangerous ..."

"Our mechs?" Mikaela said, in surprise. "Your mechs aren't even _rational_."

"Your mechs destroyed our world." r'Oya lifted both eyebrows and looked down her nose at Mikaela.

Mikaela sighed. "Like we claim Starscream and Megatron and Shockwave as _ours_."

"At least ours won't ever do anything like that." r'Oya managed to put a superior note into her voice. "We watch them closely when they online. We _deal _with any undesirable tendencies."

"Undesirable tendencies towards you, yes." Mikaela was starting to get angry. "Clearly, they're a threat to us, to our mechs, and to _our _world. The Cybertronians ... handle it differently. I'm sorry that three Cybertronians were crazy enough to destroy your world back when _my _people were still living in caves, but that doesn't give you a right to attack my world because those three individuals were genocidally crazy, and we've chosen to be friends with other side."

"You're also friendly with the Decepticons."

Mikaela threw her hands in the air. "Ever hear the expression the enemy of my enemy is my ally? Aside from the fact that Fang isn't Megatron, you guys _attacked _us. Without provocation. We were just floating along in space, oblivious that you even existed, and you came along and attacked us. Seems smart to me to make a deal with people who can help defend us, given they're being led by a mech who's earned our trust by his actions."

"We thought you were going to attack us."

"And who told you that?" Mikaela had never been very good at hiding her feelings. She didn't even try now. She stabbed a finger at r'Oya. "The mechs who told you that we were going to attack you are the very mechs you claim to have ... have programmed to deal with any undesirable tendencies. Instead, you made them so paranoid that they mistook the situation and gave you bad intel and convinced you all to attack us. Am I right or am I right?"

r'Oya was silent.

"I'm going to make a wild guess and say I'm right."

No answer.

"And you're not going to talk to me anymore. I know, I know, I'm the enemy. So, did I satisfy your curiosity?" Mikaeala turned a hot, challenging glare on r'Oya.

"Answer me this: Why are you helping us?" r'Oya gestured loosely at the med bay, which had been moved into Fort Max's main hall. Mechs were lined up on pallets on the ground, and injured Nebulans filled army cots.

"Because it's the right thing to do." Mikaela raked a hand through her hair. She'd been so busy that she hadn't had time to do anything other than take a quick shower, and her hair was limp and tangled. She didn't even really care, she was just too busy, except that the tangles were bothering her.

A smooth voice said behind both of them, "Because it's the humane thing to do. I would note that the root of 'humane' is 'human' which tells you something about our belief system." The speaker was Andrew Gallego, who was walking with long, lean, leggy strides across the ground towards them.

"What are you doing here?" Mikaela said, with some shock.

He smirked at her. "What, you thought I was an useless pretty boy?"

She blinked. She hadn't thought, exactly, but she had not really expected him to be willing to get his hands dirty. r'Oya, beside her, went completely quiet. Apparently, she wasn't going to speak to Andrew.

"I've been working with Wheeljack." Andrew grinned at her. "Mostly with Fort Max's infrastructure. I _do _have a degree in mechanical engineering."

Uneasily, she smiled at him. "'Jack's cool."

"That he is. And his kids. He's been sending the two of them into Max's innards with me, so we'll have video of the work. The idea's to make a documentary on Max's arrival."

"So what are you doing here?"

"Saw you." He gave her a positively impish grin. "Wanted to say hello."

"Well, I'm busy." Which was true enough, but the words came out even snippier than she'd intended. "And I've got a boyfriend." _Or two_. _Probably._

She'd managed to avoid Bee since their fight. Bee had sent her several e-mails asking her to talk to him, and she hadn't answered them. He'd sent a text to her phone an hour ago just asking if she was okay, and she'd responded, 'Fine, busy' and he'd come back with an offer to meet for lunch. She probably should see him, but she suspected he was mad, and she didn't want to hear it from him. Bee, mad, was a scary thought. He'd never really been angry at her before. _He's leaving in a few days. I should meet him, I really should, but ..._

Gallego's smile didn't fade. He had the whitest teeth. "And I'm not hitting on you. I know you're busy, but I also know Optimus enforces an hour lunch break on all the human staff. I wanted to know if you'd like to talk to me on lunch."

"About ...?"

He shrugged. "I like the mechs. I'd like to help them with PR. You'd be a good choice for helping them. I have some ideas ..."

"What, you want a girl with a nice ass and boobs to drape herself over Wheeljack's hood at car shows?"

His expression showed her guess was remarkably close to what he'd been thinking. She snorted, knowing the noise was unladylike and unsexy and not caring. He sighed and gave her a hang dog look in response. "Busted?" But he also added, "You do have good assets, and sex does sell, and I've never believed there was anything wrong with that. I'm a director. It's my _job _to create sex appeal."

"There's a million pretty chicks who want modeling jobs," Mikaela informed him, with nearly the level of irritation she'd directing at r'Oya. "It's not _that _hard to find one who can work with the 'bots. The Autobots need medics more than they need sex appeal. "

He cupped a hand behind his head and regarded her with some amusement. "Okay, then meet with me for lunch so we can just talk about the 'bots. You've worked with them enough to know who would be good for the, ah, car shows, and you've got a human perspective on it."

"You want a mech who'd be good with humans? Hound. Windy. Flora. Kup. Hot Rod. Magnus. Grimlock, amazingly. Ranger, if it's here locally. I doubt Optimus would let him go very far from the base. Wheelie. And Wheeljack, of course. I could keep going. That's just off the top of my head."

At that moment, her phone rang. It was Bee, she recognized the ring tone without looking. He probably wanted to eat lunch with her too -- or, since it was his mech half, at least keep her company. She couldn't bring herself to answer it, so she just thumbed her phone off. It'd roll over to voice mail. _If he really wants to talk he can damn well go to the effort of tracking me down._

She explained to Gallego, "Sorry, boyfriend. You were saying?"

"You okay?" He sounded genuinely concerned. "You sound frazzled."

"No. No, I'm not." She raked her hand through her hair. "Look, lunch? Fine. I'm off duty in half an hour. Meet me at the SOA. The roach coach they contracted last week has decent burritos."

"It's a date," he said, then held his hands up at her expression, "in a totally platonic way."

"Uh-huh." She turned back to r'Oya and growled, "Men."

r'Oya said nothing until Gallego had left. Then she asked softly, "Will your boyfriend object?"

"Probably," she shook her head. She wondered what r'Oya would think if she knew that Bee was the boyfriend in question. "I know you have no frame of reference, but Gallego's very attractive by our standards. He's also rich and powerful."

The Nebulan woman said, "If he were Nebulan, I would say he was interested in you."

"That's what I think." Mikaela sighed. "Men must be universally the same."

"That would not surprise me at all."

* * *

Mikaela was halfway to Fortress Maximus's exit for the promised lunch when Optimus pulled up alongside her. He stopped with a synthesized hiss of jake brakes, and opened his door.

It was Optimus, and she couldn't imagine refusing to climb in. However, she was afraid he was going to talk to her about Bee, but one did not avoid Optimus. She scrambled up into his cab and sat somewhat nervously in the driver's seat. Paladin was soundly in recharge in his bunk in the back. In a low voice, after seeing the sparkling, she said, "What's up, Big Boss?"

"Fortress Maximus advised me of your conversation with r'Oya."

"I'm not going to cheat on Bee." She winced.

"Your relationship with Bee was not what I was referring to," Optimus said, "though I trust you to make the best choices in regards to him. He truly needs both your and Sam's support."

"Oh." She wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment.

"What I was referring to was r'Oya's willingness to talk to you."

"Oh, yeah. I thought that was weird. She just struck up a conversation."

"Our guess is that she's been nominated by the others to find out more about humans, and you've been chosen as her point of contact." Optimus sounded pleased. "Once they decide you're not an enemy, the Nebulans are much more willing to communicate."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Continue as you are. Don't make a big deal about it, but be aware that they are trying to find out about humans. Be a good example of humanity, and answer her questions. Try not to be confrontational, and be more diplomatic." Optimus accelerated towards the exit, weaving through a crowd of mechs. "An informal approach has always worked better with the Nebulans than formal politics."

"I'll ... try."

"You have my permission to take her with you around the base. Just take a mech with you as a guard, both for your safety and for hers. I'll let Red Alert know to expect that. My suggestion would be Doc, if he's free, as I'd like her to get to know our science staff on a personal level. Perceptor would also be good or, if it is within Fort Max's walls, Wheelie."

"You heard that about the way they raise mechs?"

"Yes, and I found it very disturbing." Optimus slowed at the gate, honked at the guards (both human soldiers and Autobots) stationed there, then rolled through. At the noise, Paladin made a sleepy chirping sound and lifted her head up.

Optimus added, "Are you headed to lunch?"

"Yes, sir."

"You should ask Bee to join you and Gallego. He's going to be in meetings until late this evening. It may be the only chance you get to see him." Optimus's voice sounded amused. "With Bee staying now, he's going to find himself immensely busy with political matters ..."

"He's staying?" she squeaked.

"You were not aware of this?" Optimus sounded surprised.

"Ah ... no. He neglected to tell me. The slagger." Suddenly, she was angry at him. Everything she'd done -- including sleeping with him -- had been done with the assumption he was _leaving_. Now he was staying. It felt like a betrayal of her trust.

"Please do not swear in front of my sparkling."

"Sorry." She looked back into the cab. Paladin was sitting up, long legs drawn to her chest. "I'm sorry, Optimus."

"I only changed his orders yesterday, Mikaela. Have you seen him face to face?"

"No."

"He is probably waiting to speak to you in person. I must apologize. I very likely ruined his surprise." Optimus slowed for a minute as he rolled through a dip. "He's been extremely busy, orienting the new mechs to Earth."

"It's okay, big guy." She sighed. She couldn't be mad at Optimus. Bee, on the other hand ... could have actually sought her out, rather than texting and e-mailing her. Surely, he hadn't been _that _busy.

"Are you upset?" Paladin asked, touching Mikaela's shoulder with a gentle hand.

"It's okay, kiddo." She twisted around in the seat so she could see the sparkling. Eight feet of child fit somewhat awkwardly in Optimus's sleeper. Paladin was on her knees, looking intently at Mikaela. "You looked comfy in Optimus's bed, there."

"It's safe!" the child informed her.

"She's a little intimidated by all the new people. That's normal for sparklings." Optimus slowed over another bump. "Particularly a sparkling who had a few bad experiences before she came to me. I am most gratified that she trusts me to the degree that she does."

"Love you!" Paladin said, worming her way into Optimus's passenger seat. Then she bounced up and down and said, "Ranger! I see Ranger!"

Optimus opened the door without coming to a complete stop. Paladin was off like a shot in her brother's direction. Ranger was working with a crew of mechs who appeared to be installing some some water lines from the base's new well to the DOA.

"Ranger seems to be working like one of the adults," Mikaela said.

"Not quite. I limit him to six hours a day. He wants to be helpful, and he enjoys interacting with the adults, but he _is _a child, and I am insisting he use his remaining free time to develop his interests and play." Optimus chuckled. "Wheelie's got him interested in online roleplaying games, which I believe will be good for his social develpment and creativity. They seem to be striking up a true friendship."

"Oh, cool. I haven't had a chance to see Wheelie lately."

"Mikaela, if you ever need to talk about anything, know that I am always available." He pulled up to the front of the SOA. Another work crew, this one of Decepticons, was busily reinforcing a wall.

"Thanks, big guy."

"You are a friend, Mikaela. No thanks are needed, simply acceptance of my offer, if you require support."

* * *

Fang had probably been a little optimistic in his estimation that he'd fit in Ratchet's cab. Volume wise, it was doable, but he had to sit on the floor with his knees to his chest and his head ducked down.

"You okay there?" Ratchet asked, a few minutes after they'd left the base. Ratchet seemed unperturbed by having Fang in his cab, despite the fact that this put Fang _inside _his armor, with only a few internals between his spark chamber and Fang's claws. Fang wouldn't do anything to Ratchet, of course -- he'd pretty much die to defend him -- but this wasn't something any mech took lightly.

"This is undignified," he muttered. He was cramped, miserable, and cranky. He didn't want to think about what it meant that Ratchet trusted him so much. Sniping was easier.

"Well, you could always get a proper vehicle mode ..." Ratchet teased.

He hissed his irritation at that suggestion.

"... or a lackey with a trailer. Have Boomer transcan a big rig, get him a driver's license, and get yourself a trailer he can pull."

"Gnnnh." He wasn't entirely sure he liked the trailer idea.

"Interesting noise. Do I need to take a look at your vocalizer?"

"Funny, Ratchet."

"I try."

"Ratch, what do you make of the Order telling us there's an eighth Prime?" He changed the subject.

"Dunno. Somebody could be carrying a Matrix secretly, though I can't figure out why, if they're a 'bot. And it'd be an interesting question why a Prime would be undercover as a 'con or a neutral." Ratchet stopped at a light. "Or there could be a Prime in stasis somewhere. There are over a dozen Primes we've lost over our history where we never recovered the body. Four were explorers who didn't make it back. If one of them lives, even in stasis, that could account for the Order of the Primes' message."

"In either case, we'd be looking for a needle in a haystack." Fang sighed.

"There is a third option, Snowflake." Ratchet's tone turned teasing. "Optimus and I figured it out."

"Third option?" He frowned. "What happened to the Fallen's Matrix?"

"Destroyed. Optimus has the pieces. We're hopeful that someday we could retrieve the data on it."

"Slag." So much for that guess.

"What do we know about Nebulos?" Ratchet paused a beat. Fang let a puzzled look cross his faceplates, knowing Ratchet could see him perfectly well. "What information do all Matrixes carry to continue our species?"

"... slag. They have an Allspark cube."

"Now, they could have figured it out independently," Ratchet cautioned. "But it's suspicious. Really, we should have been suspicious of that even before the Order warned us."

"You think that was a warning?"

"Probably." Ratchet transmitted a conversation to Fang that Mikaela had with r'Oya earlier that day.

Fang shuddered, and put a hand over his shoulder. Prism was recharging beneath his armor. He had not had the heart to wake her and leave her with anyone, and this was just going to be a tour of the city, anyway. "How could they do that to children?"

"Fear." Ratchet sighed. "It's somewhat justified, but not. _Any _sufficiently advanced species could do what Megatron did, including their own. A crazy fragger of a Nebulan could just as easily decide to destroy their world, or one of their stellar neighbors. You ever hear about the K!tak?"

"... in my Matrix." Fang grimaced as he accessed the story. "There's an example of a species that doesn't think like us at _all_."

"To say the least."

"Hey, weren't you around for that war? Is that how you know about them?" he asked brightly.

"Don't be rude." Ratchet's voice held a chuckle. "Youngling Snowflake."

He grinned, knowing he'd scored. Ratchet _had _been alive during that rather brief war, though he'd been only a few decades old. The K!tak were xenocidally aggressive, attacking other worlds without warning and destroying civilizations to the last living person. They'd destroyed half a dozen neighboring worlds before they had attacked a civilian Cybertronian science outpost without warning or provocation.

That war had been brief and efficient, and not in the K!tak's favor.

"The Nebulans are scared a mech might repeat Megatron's crimes, but any sentient species could produce a crazy fragger with the same level of evil. Insanity is a universal constant." Ratchet accelerated as the light changed.

"Yeah." Fang could agree with that.

"And the problem with what they're doing is that they've created mechs who are xenocidally aggressive, and I'd bet some of them are genuinely insane. Sooner or later, they'll attack the wrong species, or push us to the point where retaliation is the only option. We _could _destroy their colonies, Fang."

"If it came down to a choice between them and us?" Fang said, softly. "I'll smack the Nemesis into their homeworld."

Ratchet grunted. "If that ship they sent is any indication, we can fly circles around them. They may have far more people, but we have technological superiority."

"What's Optimus think about fighting back?"

"Haven't mentioned it to him. We'd eventually get him to agree to it, though, if it was a choice between Earth and the Nebulan colonies. Nebulos picked the fight. And they're a technologically advanced world being aggressive to a primitive backwater that cant even send a warship back at them without our help." Ratchet sighed. "War sucks."

"That it does. -- What's with the checkpoint?"

"Dunno." Ratchet stopped by the police. Fang leaned forward into the driver's seat so he could see the cops manning it.

The cop's eyes widened as Fang stuck his head out the driver's side window.

"Hi!" Fang said, cheerfully. "Is there a problem, officer?"

The man blinked. "Err, who's driving?"

"_I _am," Ratchet growled. "Fang, _sit_. Good afternoon, Davis. What's up?"

"I am _not _a _dog_." He sniffed, with mock irritation. "I do not _sit _on command."

"Err ... We're just keeping tabs on who's coming and going from the base," Davis said, reassuringly. "And making sure everyone who heads into Tranquility has security clearance to leave."

"Security clearance?" Fang asked, not liking the tone of that.

"We've been working with Red Alert's team." Davis flashed a somewhat nervous grin. "Ah, Ratchet, you have blanket clearance. But Fangface, sir, you're supposed to get permission ahead of time to leave the base. They'll radio ahead to us. Grapple, you're not cleared, either."

Fang said, "Ratchet has permission and I do _not_? Raaaaaaaaatch, can I kill and eat Red Alert?"

Nervously, Davis shifted in place. "I'm sorry. I'm just going by what I've been told."

Ratchet sounded more annoyed than Fang felt. "I'll have a chat with Red Alert. Nobody warned us about this ..." he sighed. "Right hand, left hand, confusion between them. I hate scaling up an operation. Slag like this always happens. Davis, I'll pull over and see if I can't get this sorted out."

The medic, still grumbling, pulled ahead a few feet and bumped off onto the shoulder of the highway. Davis leaned against the fender of his squad car, arms folded, looking deceptively relaxed. If he'd been a mech, Fang would have assumed that Davis was warily watching the world behind the reflective lenses of his sunglasses and only projecting an air of unconcern.

Ratchet, to Fang's pleasure, piped the conversation with Red over his internal speakers. "Red. I've got Fang listening in. Will you explain the arrangement with the local authorities please?"

"I didn't believe it appropriate to allow unfettered access to human-controlled territories," Red replied, promptly. "Particularly for the Decepticons."

"Fine, but you didn't _warn _us."

"Prime's aware."

There was a brief pause and click as Ratchet contacted Optimus. "Optimus? What's going on?"

"My apologies, Ratchet, Fang," Optimus sounded genuinely contrite. "I was a bit distracted with dealing with other security issues. Red, please use some logic. Fangface is a Prime, and he will have regular reason to travel. Add him to your list of mechs who have have blanket permission to come and go."

"I did, sir." Red Alert sounded annoyed. "The human authorities disagreed with my assessment there. They want us to approve his requests to leave the base, and notify them in advance."

Fang ran a hand over his face. Skywarp was almost certainly among those security issues. "They do realize that I could slip into Tranquility utterly unseen and undetected if I wished to?"

"Probably not, actually," Ratchet laughed.

Fang heaved an aggravated sigh. "As much as it scuffs my bearings, I'm fine with the _formality _of notifying Autobot security that I will be coming and going. I will be far less fine with the idea if my notification is ever denied. Note that I will _notify _you, and I am not actually asking permission."

"I understand the fine distinction you are making," Red actually sounded polite now. "Thank you."

"Meh." Fang had worked around military rules too long to be overly annoyed by this sort of bureaucratic stupidity. "May I make an additional suggestion?"

"Which is ...?" Red was very, very wary.

Fang figured that Red regularly got hostility from his own side. He was likely expecting Fang to explode at him. This solidified Fangface's resolve to be reasonable, as long as he was treated reasonably in return."If any of my troops want to leave the base, it needs to be cleared either by me or 'Regia or Thundercracker. 'Regia and TC do not need my permission to leave, they just need to leave word for me about where they're going. I will also have them notify you. I'd like the same agreement to apply. They don't need your permission to leave, but you'll handle advising the humans."

"... Good idea." Red sounded surprised. "Thank you for being accommodating, Lord Fangface."

"Meh. It's not an accommodation. This actually makes sense. We both have mechs who could be trouble."

"Aquaregia still needs a driver's license," Ratchet pointed out.

Optimus said, "If he's willing, I can have Magnus take him into town for a driving test today. We've got a double decker car trailer, and Magnus is taking some of our officers in this afternoon."

"He'll be willing," Fang promised. "One other suggestion -- if the humans are going to be manning a checkpoint, they should have a mech or two to back them up."

"They already do," Red said, stiffly.

"Hnnh." He regarded the police cruiser suspiciously.

"Doesn't Tracks look good in black and white?" Ratchet chuckled.

"He bitched about the color, actually," Red Alert commented. "Prowl told him he looked fine, and to shut it."

Fangface wondered why that provoked a laugh from both Ratchet and Optimus. Apparently, it was an injoke. However, at that moment, Davis walked over and held a blackberry up. "Got your permission. You're cleared now."

"Thanks!" Fangface said, cheerfully, sticking his head out the window again.

When Ratchet started to move, he decided he liked the feel of the wind across his faceplates. He was just getting comfortable when he heard the whine of Ratchet's window rolling up. Fang hastily retreated. "Hey!"

"You look like a dog. You should hang your tongue out and pant, too."

"Oh, frag you."

From beneath his shoulder armor he heard a small voice declare with cheerful glee at catching him uttering one of the forbidden phrases, "Oooooooh! You said a dirty word!"

_:... and slag me.: _He switched to his comm, because he was absolutely unable to come up with a response to that which didn't involve more profanity.  
_  
:You said it, not me.:_

* * *

Bumblebee had hoped to get Mikaela alone to tell her he was staying. He was therefore doubly disappointed to find her sitting on a picnic table outside the SOA, chattering with Andrew Gallego. He had also expected her to avoid Gallego in social settings after their discussion. It wasn't that he was jealous, but that he was concerned she would do something she would later regret.

Okay, he was jealous. Gallego was wealthy and powerful, and Mikaela was attracted to him, and it made Bee question his own appeal. And Sam's. He'd be personally hurt if Mikaela cheated on them, however, he'd be pissed off for Sam's sake.

_She is free to socialize with whoever she wants, _Bee reminded himself. _Simply talking with someone, even becoming friends, is not wrong. _After a systems check to settle his irritation somewhat, he transformed and approached the cluster of picnic tablets and a catering truck that had been set up for the human employees. For once, he was glad for the fact that his face didn't reveal many emotions. He schooled his doorwings up to perky attention rather than letting them pin flat with annoyance, and walked over.

"Hi, Bee!" She chirped. Too happy. She was doing the same thing he was, which was hiding her real emotions.

"Hey." He sat down next to the table.

"Andrew, you know Bumblebee, right?"

Gallego nodded. "Hello, Bee."

Brightly, Bee said, "Optimus told me he spilled the beans. I was going to tell you as soon as I caught up with you."

She went very still, and very quiet, and gave Gallego an uncertain look. "We can talk about that later."

Gallego glanced at his watch, a Rolex, then smiled. "I've got to run anyway. It was good talking to you, Mikaela. Let me know what you think."

He rose, then flagged down Doc as the medic was leaving the SOA, and asked for a ride back to Fort Max. Bee watched him go, pleased that the man was, at least, fitting in well. It gave him hope for their future when he saw humans working so smoothly with his own people. Even if he _was _admittedly jealous, and trying very hard not to show it.

She bit her lip for a second, then said, "Everything I did ... said ... I wouldn't have, if I knew you were staying."

"I suspected that would be the case."

"Sam's probably really happy." She sounded wary, still.

"He is. And you?" It was a blunt question, but it needed to be asked.

"I don't know." That was _not _an honest question. She was lying. She wouldn't meet his eyes, and he could see the tension in her body.

He assured her, "My feelings for you have not changed, Mikaela. The only difference is that I will be here, with you, perhaps for a very long time." He glanced around, making sure there were no humans within range to hear. He didn't care about the mechs. They already knew. "I want you, Mikaela. Partners, the three of us. I love you. It will be okay, if you trust us."

She actually flinched, like he'd struck at her. Mikaela gave him a wounded look, and he pulled back a little in response to that expression. She wouldn't meet his eyes, but finally gave him an answer that was all the more painful for its honesty. "I'm alone, Bee. I'm all alone in the world except for you two. My dad's dead. My family ... if they knew about you and me and Sam, they'd disown me, and I'm not sure if I even want anything to do with them. And I thought you were leaving. Now you're not. And now ... now I'm wondering if I said yes just because I didn't want to be so alone. Because if I'd said no, Bee, Sam would have chosen you. And then I would have been by myself."

"Do you love us?" He asked, quietly.

"I don't know." And that, too, was honest, now. She looked in the direction that Gallego had gone. "Andrew wants me, you know. He'd be a good boyfriend. For awhile, I could convince myself I loved him. I've done it before -- date a guy, let the hormones go wild. It feels like love. But it fades."

"Is that feeling fading for us?" He let his voice go gentle, though he really wanted to throw something and rage. He knew Sam would already have lost his composure. Bee managed to be empathetic rather than angry only through stubborn force of will.

"I'm afraid it will." She raked a hand through her hair, which was ratty and unkempt. She looked like she'd been working hard. Her coveralls were greasy and she had something smudged on one cheek. He didn't care what she looked like, except to worry about how hard she must be pushing herself.

He crouched lower, knuckles resting on the ground, backstruts bent, so that he was at the same eye level she was. "Mikaela, would you consider a date with me tonight?"

She stared at him. "A ... date?" Then, quietly, "I'm so busy."

"There are others, now, who can fill in. We are not as strapped for help as we once were." He tentatively reached a hand towards her, resting it on her shoulder, fingers curling across most the width of her back. Shd didn't pull away. Instead, she closed her eyes and leaned into his hand with a small sigh and a nod.

"I've got a meeting that will probably run until late this evening." He smiled at her. "I'll pick you up afterwards. Okay?"

She nodded. Then, in another clear change of subject, she asked, "How's the convention going?"

"Ah, I wish you were there." He smiled. "There's about a dozen of us eating sushi for lunch. Miles just put chopsticks up his nose."

"Miles. _Miles_? Dorkwad Miles?"

"I'm afraid so. He's not that bad." Bee chuckled. "He's just young."

"You just said he put chopsticks up his nose," she pointed out.

"And Sam threatened to shove them the rest of the way into his brain."

She started giggling. "Oh, God. That's classic."

Bee smiled. He loved to hear that laugh. If her amusement didn't completely reach her eyes, he pretended not to notice.

* * *

Tranquility's mayor was a short, beefy man with thick glasses and a shiny, bald head. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his suit and regarded the ruins morosely. "Lot of people died here, you know."

His entourage of a dozen other officials echoed those sentiments.

"We are very sorry for the loss of life," Ratchet said, tone somber. "We ... tried. Sometimes that's all we can do."

"My neighbor's little boy was in that school," the mayor said, in a tone of voice that conveyed, _he died, _without actually saying it.

Fang held Prism close to his chest. She wanted down. He could feel her squirming. In a minute, she'd start yelling. He didn't feel secure letting her out of his grip, however. They were close to construction equipment, which busy clearing away the rubble.

"I'm so sorry," Ratchet said. Fang wondered how often Ratchet had needed to convey sympathy and shared sorrow to loved ones, as a medic, during the war. Fang had never been good at that sort of duty. He didn't say anything. He just watched as Ratchet crouched down so he wouldn't loom over the man. "We tried to prevent any loss of human life, Mayor Daniels. I am sorry that we didn't succeed."

He stared for a moment at the destruction. "Optimus said you were going to help us rebuild."

"Yes." Ratchet gestured at Grapple. "This is Grapple, our architect. He can tell you more about how we think we can help ..."

Fang listened, trailing after the two Autobots, and absently listening. He spoke up a few times, once to volunteer the use of his Constructicons to repair some damaged roads, and once to point out that the easiest way to get rid of the remaining sections of the Nebulan ship would be for his seekers to teleport it out chunk by chunk. The hull was so thick that taking it apart using cutting torches would be impractical.

Mostly, though, he just listened.

Ratchet was far more serious than Fang was used to seeing. He was downright diplomatic, and gravely professional. Grapple, too, was somber. He took his cue from them, and tried to keep Prism quiet.

After they'd walked the length of the ruined ship, the humans called a halt. There was a patch of bare dirt here, and no nearby hazards, so Fang let Prism down. This got the interest of the humans. Mayor Daniels said, "I didn't see him before. What's your name?"

"Prism. I'm a girl!"

Fang said, "She's my child."

The mayor nodded. "Optimus always seems to have his kids with him too. Is that a cultural thing?"

Fang nodded. "It is. We keep our children involved in our lives. Socialization is very important to us, and a good way for her to learn about people is to accompany me throughout my day. I'm also concerned for her safety."

"Mm," the mayor said.

Prism eyed her for a moment, then held her arms up to the man. "Pick me up?"

"Prism, do _not _bite," Fang said, in a tone that promised punishment if she even thought about it.

She hesitated, but the human was already lifting her up. Fang sat on his haunches, reminded himself that the human would need to try fairly hard to hurt her -- Mikaela had needed a cutting torch to harm Wheelie -- and simply watched.

"Like Fang!" Prism said, patting the man's bald head.

The man gave Fang's shiny silver helm (also devoid of hair) a dubious look. "Uh-huh."

"Prism, commenting on human features isn't very nice," Ratchet said, chidingly. "It upsets the humans."

"Oh." She frowned. "Why?"

"Because it does." Fang backed Ratchet up, though he didn't understand the reasoning either. If the human didn't like his bald head, he could just change his appearance, right?

"Oh."

"What do we say?" Fang prompted.

"Sorry." She hugged the human.

He smiled. A couple of his associates chuckled as well. The mayor said, "Some things are universal about children. One is that they are very good at speaking the truth, not always in ways adults want to hear."

"What's your excuse, Ratchet?" Grapple teased.

"My excuse?"

"Didn't you comment on Sam Witwicky's hormonal state the first time you meant?"

"Oh, Primus. I will never live that down." Ratchet covered his face with his hand. "Social skills are _not _my strong point, as anyone who knows me can attest."

"I'd agree to that," Fang grinned at him.

Ratchet shot him a _look_. Then he explained to the mayor, "I was fascinated by the fact that he was terrified of us yet still producing hormones indicative of mating interest. Mikaela was the subject of his interest."

The mayor grinned. "I've met Mikaela. That explains a lot."

Louder laughter came from his associates. Any trace of humor vanished from Ratchet's face. He said flatly, "And two years later, Mikaela's my assistant."

The laughter stopped.

_:Greasy little lech,: _Ratchet commented, in irritation, at Fang.

"C'mere, Prism." Fang held a hand out to her. If Ratchet didn't like the man, Fang had little desire to allow him to continue to hold his child.

"NO!" Prism clung to the mayor. "Like the human!"

The mayor attempted to extricate himself from her grasp. She clung tighter. He said, sounding suddenly worried,"Get it off me!"

His associates moved to help. Fang, however, was faster, concerned about what they might do. Trying to pry her off him by force was not the right action, because she had short claws on her fingertips. He loomed over the mayor, who closed his eyes and scrunched his face up like he was afraid Fang might strike him. "Prism, if you do not come here this second, you will spend tonight composing an apology letter by hand to the mayor. This will not leave enough time to work on your armor."

"Okay!" she squeaked, and held her arms up to him. He retrieved her with delicacy, careful to not even touch the human.

"My apologies," Fang rumbled, when she was safely perched back on his shoulder. "She is very young, and she is still learning manners."

The talk turned back to construction. It was agreed that Fang would loan several Constructicons to the city, and that Grapple's team would supervise their activities. Grapple offered to draw up plans and blueprints for rebuilding the streets. Somewhere along the line, the subject of the destroyed school came up. The attack had happened after school hours, and now they needed someplace to teach the surviving students. Ratchet suggested that they could provide the semis to deliver portable school buildings, and somehow, that evolved into Ratchet offering some Autobot volunteers.

"... I'm sure the kids would like to see science and math in some practical applications," Ratchet said, "and we could bring some experiments in. There's even a few things the more advanced high school students could help us with. Doc and Percy are very good with kids, and they've been discussing experiments that they will need help with."

"Really?" The mayor said. "Let me put you in contact with the school board, then."

Ratchet held a hand up. "One thing that makes me cautious is Autobot protesters."

"The Nobots," Mayor Daniels growled.

"Ratch, for security's sake, the classes could be held on the base," Fang spoke up. "I believe -- if I understand the concepts of human schooling right -- you could offer after school lessons. It might be courses college-bound students could take."

"That's not a bad suggestion," Ratchet nodded. "We will talk to the school board, as you suggested."

_:It could also be a way for our sparklings to interact with human children,: _Fang pointed out.

_:Mmm. I don't know if the humans will go for it, but I'll certainly make the suggestion.:_

* * *

They parted company with the human officials an hour later, after some more discussion about plans for rebuilding. After they were gone, Ratchet commented, "That went well."

Grapple shot Fang a veiled look. "Better than I expected."

Ratchet followed Grapple's gaze, then said with a huff, "I wasn't expecting trouble from Fang, Grapple. he has his moments where he's bloody scary, but he plays well with others."

Grapple grunted. "And his troops?"

"Do not play well with others," Fang admitted. "I can be an afthead to _them _when I need to be. So far, being reasonable gotten me a lot farther with your faction than being a jerk would."

"Hnnh. Wise mech." Ratchet cuffed him affectionately, Ratchet's version of a friendly touch.

He was grinning and dancing away from Ratchet when a motion caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. The crash of the starship had taken out a strip of businesses, homes, and the school that was miles long. This area had formerly been shops, and the destruction here seemed to be mostly from sonic vibration from the engines rather than actual impact. The buildings were crumpled, but not part of the crater.

The motion was an older woman, who was peering fearfully at the them from a behind a half-toppled wall. A vehicle was parked in the street, a truck, and the bed of it was full of merchandise from the store.

_:Looter?: _Fang asked.

_:Maybe.: _Ratchet regarded her, suspiciously. There weren't supposed to be any civilians in the area. It wasn't safe.

Fang padded over to her. She shrank back, staring up at him in fear. He assured her, "I won't hurt you, but what are you doing here?"

"It's my store." Her words were defiant. Dark brown eyes blazed at him from a deeply wrinkled face. She was scared -- he could smell the stress hormones -- but bravely standing her ground. Firmly, she said, "I need my stuff."

He glanced at the truck, read the license plate, confirmed the owner's name from a database that he probably wasn't supposed to have access to but which any Cybertronian could hack in seconds without a trace, and then compared that to tax records for the address. Everything matched. The vehicle was registered to the owner of the small building. He even got a driver's license photo that confirmed she was Sidney Michaels.

"Your name?" he asked, though he already knew it.

"S... Sidney."

He glanced over the bed of the truck. The store apparently sold used appliances, clothing, and knickknacks. She'd loaded some unbroken display cases, and boxes of merchandise, into the truck. "You needed your stuff?" He prompted. "That building's about to come down on your head. It's not safe."

She explained, "I ... there's a swap meet in Las Vegas. I need to make some money for the rent. Figured I'd try to sell some of my crap there." There was desperation in her eyes.

"You sell used articles?" Fang said.

"Yeah." Her tone dared him to challenge that. "I know alien robots probably don't know much about making a living off resale crap, but it's what I do."

He held a hand up. "We've been at war for a long time. Trust me, we're quite accustomed to salvage, and both buying and selling it. We've plenty of trading partners among other alien races. It's ... a business model I _do _understand."

She snorted. "I guess. You ever have to chose between the rent, the power bill, and the groceries? 'Cuz that's where I'm at. If I don't sell some stuff at that swap meet I'm gonna be skinnier'n I am, or sleeping in my truck."

He commiserated, "I understand cash flow problems." He liked her, he decided. She sounded tough, no-nonsense, and intelligent. "So you know how to run a business?"

She snorted. "Retired, oh, ten years ago. Pension and social security covers my meds. Had to start the thrift store to make ends meet. Was a general manager of a factory b'fore I retired. So, yeah, I can run a business."

"Some retirement," he said, after accessing the relevant cultural files.

"Eh. I like bein' busy."

He traded a look with Ratchet. _:What do you think, Ratchet?:_

:About what?:

:I need a helper of some kind, to deal with the paperwork and navigate human red tape.:

:Oh. That.:

:Think she'd work?:

:She can't do worse than one of us.: Ratchet tilted his head, considering her. _:She's old, Fang. Bet she's at least seventy-five. That's _old _for a human.:_

:She seems active enough. How much is Optimus paying your humans again?:

:Five grand a week, I think. That's much higher than the going wage for the work they do, but they're worth it.:  
  
Optimus had given him a six-figure sum to cover operations. Fang assumed there would be more coming in. If nothing else, he could turn Swindle loose on the eBay, now that he had some seed capital. And he wasn't about to let the Autobots one-up him on how he treated his employees. He could match that wage.

She was scowling at all three of them, now, looking from one to the other. "You're just standing there, staring at me. Am I really that fascinating? If not, I got to go. As fascinating as talking to aliens is, my granddaughter's daycare closes in an hour."

"How old's your granddaughter?" _Oh, Primus, she has responsibility for a child. _That clinched it.

"Six." She sounded suspicious. "Her mama's dead and her papa's in Iraq."

_The kid would be sleeping in the car with her, I bet, _Fang realized. He nodded shortly. "You want a job?"

She stared. "... What?"

"I need a sort've ... helper." He wiggled his fingers. "I can't fill out forms very easy."

"... he doesn't have the patience for it, either ..." Ratchet muttered, earning himself a dark look from Fang, and a snort from Grapple.

"And I'm new here. I don't know much about running things on Earth. We need to figure out ways to generate income, and deal with taxes, and all sorts of red tape. I've got permits and insurance and licenses to deal with. Everyone from DPS to IRS needs slag from me, and I don't have time nor the knowledge I need for it."

She snorted again, sounding amused. "Really."

"I am completely serious."

"You don't want a resume or references or any crap like that?"

Ratchet said smoothly, "He would need to do a background check."

"How much does this job pay, and what are the particulars?"

"Particulars?" Fang said, blankly.

"Hours. Benefits. When would I start? Where is it? Responsibilities?"

"Ah ... hours a day would vary, but if there's more work than you can handle in a forty hour week on average ..."

"... ain't worked a forty hour week in my life. More like sixty ..." she muttered.

"... well, you'll have some free time you're not used to, then. I'd hire you an assistant if you needed it." Or, more likely, tell the human to find herself an assistant. He didn't want to overwork the old human, after all. He had a vague understanding that very old humans might be more fragile than younger adults. He searched through Bee's cultural modules and found the scanty data on human work practices. "... ah, let's see, health insurance is standard, isn't it? Dental, vision ..." she had glasses, "Paid vacation ... education assistance ..."

"I aint' goin' for no new degree."

"Okay. And you can start tomorrow, if you'd like, nine AM."

"It's a Sunday tomorrow," she pointed out.

"... do you observe a religious day of rest?" he said, cautiously. Bee's notes indicated some humans didn't work on their Sabbath, which could be either Saturday or Sunday depending on the religion in question.

"Nah. Just making sure you really want me to start on a Sunday."

"Location's the base. Do you know how to get there?"

"I do."

"Good. And the wage is five thousand a week."

"A month?" she asked, clearly surprised.

"No ... A week." Damned if he was going to let Optimus pay his staff better.

"Shit." She glanced from the bed of her pickup, loaded full of trash bags of used clothing, two TVs, an amp, and a microwave oven, and then back at him. "When would I get paid?"

"If you'll show up tomorrow, I can advance you a payment for the first week right now. Continued employment would be contingent on you passing the background check."

_:She's clean.: _Ratchet e-mailed him a report. He had just done a basic background check, likely starting with the same vehicle registration information that Fang had earlier accessed.

"I'll pass." She stuck her hands in her pockets. "Well, shit. This is for real?"

"Lady," Fang assured her, "you'd be doing me a favor by accepting. I _need _a helper."

"For five grand a ... week? Really?"

He pulled his wallet out of subspace; he'd acquired one a few days before to keep his ID and cash in. Human money was tiny. He held the wallet up for Prism. "Count out fifty hundred dollar bills, will you, kid? -- Sidney, you see the problem I have with functioning in a human world."

"What's to stop me from running off with your money?" She stared as Prism emerged from under Fang's

Ratchet said dryly, "Five grand _next _week, too?"

"Point."

"Also, giant alien robots who _know who you are_," Ratchet growled at her.

"Hey." Fang rapped his knuckles into one of Ratchet's headlights. "Knock it off and be nice to my human. -- Sidney, don't mind Ratch. He's got a pretty sarcastic sense of humor."

"... what are your names?" Sidney asked, grinning. This bared very white teeth. He thought she was an interesting looking human, with her darker skin and curly grey hair, and deeply weathered face.

"Ratchet, Grapple, I'm Lord Fangface, leader of the Decepticons, and ..."

"Prism!" Prism said.

"Prism's my kid," he added.

"Decepticons," she said, picking the word of his introduction.

Worry struck his spark. Would she refuse to work for him because he was the leader of the bad guys? "I know we have a reputation problem ..."

"Hon," the woman told him sincerely, seeming to come to a decision, "I'd damn near work for Lucifer hisself for five grand a week. It ain't a problem as long as I don't have to break no laws, and you don't do anything really morally reprehensible."

Fang blinked at her.

"Tall order, Decepticreep Prime," Ratchet murmured.

"Shut the frag _up, _Ratch."

"Frag!" Prism echoed, and giggled.

Prism was done counting the money out. He offered the bundle of bills to the woman, who wasted no time in snatching it out of his hand and shoving it down her shirt and into her brassiere. Then she waved a hand at the back of her truck. "I think I'm gonna drop this crap off at the Salvation Army."

"See you tomorrow, Sidney." He grinned at her.

"Yep." She stuck her hands in her pockets. "Thanks. You won't be sorry."


	93. Chapter 93

Chapter 93

* * *

*

_:Sunstreaker,: _Sideswipe said, very seriously, over a cell phone connection. _:That video of Ratchet you just sent me. Have you shown anyone else?:_

_:No ...:_

_:I think Wildrider was right. I also think you need to keep it quiet about it.:_

_:But what if Wildrider's right and ...:_

_:And what? Ratchet isn't going to do anything that would hurt the Autobots. Letting that video out would hurt Ratchet.:_

_:Awww. But I thought it'd be fun to see him squirm.:_

_:Sunny, _no_. Trust me on this one.:_

_:.... okay.: _Sunstreaker said, very reluctantly. He didn't like it. He had good gossip he wanted to share. But ... Sideswipe's approval mattered. Sideswipe would be _pissed _if he let the video leak. He huffed a sigh. _:How's your kid?:_

_:She's a sweetheart. I'll send you video tonight.:_

_:When can I meet her?:_

_:Next month, when I come home.:_

_:I could drive out to see you ...:_

_:Nah, it's okay, Sunny. They need you at the base. What if the Nebulans attack again?:_

_:Sideswipe, do you think I'll ever have a kid of my own?:_

_:That's the medical staff's call, not mine.:_

_:Ratchet hates me.:_

_:All the more reason not to leak that video. Then he'd hate you even _more_.:_

_:Heh. True.: _He hadn't really thought about that. Sunstreaker brightened. _:Hey, do you think I could help teach your kid to fight?:_

_:Sure, Sunny. When she's older. I'd be happy to have you help me teach her some hand to hand and stuff.:_

That made him feel better. His brother, at least, trusted him to do something important, like help the kid with her combat lessons. He smiled. _:Thanks, Sideswipe.:_

_:Uh-huh. Hey, gotta go. I've got some work to do.:_

His smile faded after Sideswipe hung up. He was lonely withou tSideswipe. He was missing out on Sideswipe's time with the kid. He wished he was there. He was ... alone ... despite Wildrider's presence at the other end of the chain. Wildrider was recharging, back to a rock and optics off.

_If I had a kid of my own, I wouldn't be lonely. The kid would love me, and the kid would _have _to spend time with me. _He stared forlornly across the gunnery range at the SOA. It just felt so unfair.

* * *

Sam was surprised by how friendly the fans at the convention were. They were curious, asked far better questions than Sam was used to hearing, and they got his sense of humor. He was enjoying himself, and he had not expected to.

After a late lunch, they were scheduled to start attending their first panels. On the way back from the sushi bar, Bee hugged Sam, then told him in a low voice, "I talked to Mikaela. She's going to go out with me tonight, on a date. Hopefully some fun time will help her. I don't think she's doing all that good right now."

Sam sighed, letting go of Bee. "I'll be glad to be home. I don't know if I want to strangle her or hug her. I know she's having a hard time, but sometimes she just pisses me off."

"Strangling her would be counterproductive. I suggest we _both _hug her."

Sam smirked, liking that idea. "And do other things?" He leaned in a little closer and whispered, "Bet she'd like being on top too."

Bee's eyes widened at the implications. The smile on his face was somehow very different. He chuckled, low, and said, "I bet I'd like that too. But go on, you need to get to your panel."

Sam rolled his eyes, "'First Contact: How It Went Down'. With added bonus of Glen Whitmann, a last minute addition not even on the program."

"Glen's okay. He's got far better social skills than Miles. And did you get a chance to look through the renders and video I gave you?" Bee asked.

"Oh, yeah, while you and Jazz were signing autographis this morning. Assembled 'em all into a powerpoint and loaded 'em onto my laptop. I'm getting good at this." He poked Bee in the ribs. "I'm glad you're as big of a dork as I am. I get to make fun of you."

Bee hugged him again. "Go on. I believe the traditional thing to say is, 'Break a leg.'"

* * *

Sam had met Glen Whitmann exactly twice. The first time had been right at the very beginning of everything, shortly after Bee had come into his life, and just before the first battle with Megatron. Glen had been involved in saving Bee, and in the process had demonstrated a dorky knowledge of the difference between Wolverine and Freddy Krueger. (Sam, for the life of him, could not remember now which one had three claws. He did very clearly remember those moments in the depths of Hoover Dam, however.)

The second time had been almost a year later, when they'd run into each other in a grocery store. Glen had stopped short and gaped. Sam had grinned, because he wasn't actually as put off by Glen's dorkiness as he pretended to be. Glen had promptly asked him if he'd seen any giant alien robots recently, and Sam had informed him that Bee was in the parking lot. Glen had ... excused himself. In a hurry. With his tail apparently between his legs.

Therefore, Sam had been somewhat surprised to hear Glen was a last-minute addition on the panel. Sam wasn't sure what had settled Glen's nerves about giant alien robots, but apparently the kid had called the convention and volunteered at the eleventh hour, when he had read on the internet that the 'bots were attending.

The two other people were a self-described expert Sam had never heard of, and a blogger that Sam _did _recognize, and who was sometimes clueless, sometimes clueful, and always entertaining to read.

Glen was attaching a laptop to the conference room's projector when Sam walked in, ten minutes before the panel was set to begin. The "expert" was watching alertly as Glen did so.

Sam blinked, having assumed his own video, candids photos, and Bee's renders of various events twould be the multi-media shown. He was pretty sure he had some material nobody had seen before. His cell-phone video of Bee in the junkyard had never been shown to anyone other than his parents and the occasional deeply amused Autobot. He had mentioned the files he was bringing to Felicity last night, and she'd seemed thrilled.

Nobody had said _anything _to him about someone else having multimedia.

"Ah," he said, approaching them, "What are you planning to show?"

One of the things he'd learned about the con was that nearly everyone was winging it. Organization was not the con's committee's strong point. Still, nearly everything worked out somehow -- the volunteers were motivated, had a common goal, and (perhaps most importantly) most fans were not inclined towards perfectionism.

Glen pointed nervously a the "expert" whose name was Darla-something. "It's Darla's computer. She said she had some videos."

Darla looked up at him and said replied somewhat impatiently, "I have a presentation I'd like to show."

"Oh. Hm. How long is it?" Sam was entirely unsure of what to do.

"Forty-five minutes," she said, proudly. "It took me weeks to put together."

"The panel's only an hour." He shifted uncomfortably, "I've got about thirty minutes of video, though if we do this chronologically, I figure Glen could chime in with his bits. I'm not sure how much personal experience you have with the mechs ..." He was actually certain she had none, but he was trying to be diplomatic.

"I have videos that people have sent me from all over the world I need to show."

He held his hand up, and waved, "I was there personally for a lot of the clips I want to play."

"Did you shoot video the whole time?" she glared at him, as if daring him to claim he had.

"Not usually, though I've got one funny clip from the first time I saw Bee, and plenty of candid photos. However, what I _do _have is a bunch of renders that Bee did."

"Renders?" she asked, blankly.

Glen explained before Sam could, "The mechs have perfect video memory. It's really cool. And since it's three dimensional, both because they have stereoscopic vision and because they often have sonar overlaid with the memory, they can render an image or video from a different perspective than their original point of view. It's totally, totally cool."

"So it's video that the mechs provided and _altered_. Mine's from _people_. The mechs could put anything in that video, including complete falsehoods."

"... Lady," Sam said, finally, after a moment's dumbfounded contemplation of that accusation, "I was _there _for much of what Bee provided. Also, we humans are perfectly capable of falsifying video too. It's called CGI."

She sniffed. "I worked hard on this presentation. I didn't even know you'd be here."

Absurdly, he felt guilty. He had not put much effort into his. He'd just slapped together a powerpoint presentation in about an hour, too harried to do more than the basics. And she was right. She had not known he was coming. Likely, she had put a lot of effort into her presentation because she'd assumed she would be the star of the show.

Glen continued to fiddle with her computer. Suddenly, he scowled, and turned it around to show her a blue screen of death. "You've got issues here, Darla."

"What?" She grabbed the computer from him and shook it, as if that might make it operate.

"I've tried to reboot it twice. I think your OS is corrupted." He frowned at her. "You said you were soliciting videos on the internet? The Nobots have been known to infect video files with viruses just to be evil."

"No!" she wailed.

Glen calmly held his hand out for Sam's laptop. "Here, Sam, let's see if yours works."

"... if that thing's got a virus, could it have infected the projector somehow?" Sam said, nervously.

"Nope!" Glen assured him.

It was his firm tone that gave him away. _Oh_, Sam realized. _Right. He's an a-plus hacker._

He just didn't realize that the guy could be nearly that clever. He'd always seemed like a complete dork. Darla, apparently, had completely bought the 'dork' image and just walked away to poke at her laptop.

Glen confided, in a very low tone, "I'll fix it later for her. Don't worry. The presentation she wants to show has been on her Web site for a week. Everyone who cares has already seen it."

"Oh."

By now, people were filing in. Sam turned to the other two panelists. "If you don't mind, I'll begin things ..."

"I was going to start." Darla glared at him.

"_I _will start," he repeated, firmly, "with Megatron's discovery in the ice, which was, actually, modern Earth's first contact. My great-grandfather found him, remember?"

"Let him start," the blogger said, suddenly, speaking up for the first time. Her name, according to her badge and the program, was Ophelia.

Darla scowled, then grunted, and flopped in a seat. "Go ahead. I guess what _I _know doesn't count for crap."

Sam traded a glance with Glen. Glen, back to the woman, mouthed, "Drama queen." Then, aloud, he said, "There, Sam. All set up." He carried the laptop, trailing a cable, the few feet to the table.

The room was filling fast. Sam discovered he could tell the difference between fans and reporters. There were quite a few of the latter; word had gotten out that the 'bots were here. The 'con had agreed to limit the number of press -- they didn't want trouble from paparazzi any more than he did -- but there was nothing to stop the reporters from registering as fans.

Rumor had it that a local news station's well known reporter had shown up and registered. Felicity, recognizing her, had cheerfully co-opted her for a panel on "Cybertronians in the News: How the Aliens Relate to the News Media, and What Does This Say About Their Culture?"

After a moment longer, all the seats were filled, and a volunteer shut the door.

Sam took a deep breath, told himself that he _could _do this, that this was a friendly audience, and said, "Hi, everybody. Ah, I believe I'm going to start things off and then turn it over to Glen, because he can help explain how the government found out about the mechs ..."

After a moment's pause, during which the a room full of a couple hundred people stared at him and he wondered why he hadn't just let Darla lead the damn panel if she was so set on it (because this was _not _fun!) he continued, "The theme of this panel is Earth's first contact with Cybertron. I actually had a hard time pinning down when that was, precisely. The earliest contact that the 'bots have records of was a survey done several million years ago, but that doesn't count, 'cuz we weren't around then."

A murmur rose from the audience. Clearly, they hadn't been thinking in those terms. They'd probably been thinking of either Megatron or Bee's arrival. He grinned. "Probably the _first _contact with our ancestors would be the Ark's mission, around four million years ago ..."

He tapped his laptop, and a picture of Manywinds holding one of her hominids. The little mech was grinning, and the little female ape had her arms tightly around Manywinds' neck.

Someone held a hand up, and he gestured, "Yes. In the blue t-shirt?"

"Why were the apes on the Ark? And what's going to happen to them now?"

"The Ark was intended to be both a research and retrieval vessel. It has life support capacities for organic life like that of Earth, because the Prime who sponsored it had a preserve for alien species they wished to study. The australopiths caught their interest because they were what the mechs term protosentients -- they had the many of the features that the mechs believe lead to evolution to true sentience. I should mention that the apes they captured have an IQ of, well, apes, and were treated quite well, before anyone assumes they were imprisoning cave men."

Sam continued, "_Their _plan was to release the australopiths into a preserve of several thousand miles and watch them evolve. The lifespan of the mechs is such that Windy expected to be able to study hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of years of their evolution. At the same time, by studying them in a preserve, they could avoid inadvertently influencing the development of _our _species."

He changed to the next slide, a mech's-eye view of the pyramids at Giza as they were being built. "Throughout history, they've been sending scientists to study us. Even during the war, they could spare a few researchers here and there. One thing about Cybertronians is that they are very curious, and they live and breath science. I believe, from what they've told me, that they found a certain element of hope in the ability to send the occasional researcher to Earth or other inhabited worlds. Even as Autobot numbers dwindled to only a few thousand, they continued to study us."

He clicked on the video, causing it to play. It was an aerial view of people hard at work building the great pyramid. The solar harvester was half obscured under a growing pile of stone blocks. Someone gasped audibly in the audience.

Sam continued, "In most cases, we humans were never aware that we were being watched. The mechs are very good mimics, and perfectly capable of blending in to the environment. They do not _have _to appear as a metal object; they can simulate stone or wood or other materials, with the help of a holomatter illusion. In this case, however, the mech who was watching them build the pyramids was disguised as a hawk."

The woman who had gasped earlier shot a hand up.

"Yes?" Sam called on her.

"Ohmygod, can I get a copy of that video? Ohmygod, that's not the way we thought they were doing it ..." she looked like she was about to hyperventilate.

The man sitting next to her interrupted, "She's an archeologist and her thesis was on the pyramid construction at Egypt. I believe she just had an orgasm."

The people in the room, Sam included, _exploded _into laughter. The woman smacked him, but then turned appealing eyes to Sam. "Please?"

"See me after the panel's over. I'm pretty sure the mechs have a lot more research data they'd be willing to share."

She grinned hugely. Sam made a mental note to put the woman in contact with Windy. He continued, "They Autobots didn't come back for over four thousand years after that. A few centuries ago, however, the Decepticons showed up in search of a religious artifact that had been lost on Earth," the Autobots still had not shared the true nature of the Allspark, "Which Megatron intended to use to gain power. However, he crashed into cold water in the arctic circle and, as best as anyone can tell, his autonomic circuits had some kind of catastrophic failure. I have heard the Autobots speculate that Megatron might have been the victim of sabotage from his own side, because it was an unusual set of problems. This then caused his internal heaters to fail, his hydraulics to seize from the cold and his comm to fail, and so he remained, conscious but unable to move, frozen in the ice for centuries. This probably didn't help his disposition any -- Cybertronians do not deal with isolation well."

Megatron, Sam thought, would not have considered squishies any sort of company. Another mech might have reached out to his captors. Cybertronians had their own version of Stockholm Syndrome, and Ratchet had mentioned they were far more prone to it than humans were. However, Megatron had just been more resolved to kill all of Earth.

_I wonder how much of his plans to destroy Earth had to do with his rage over a century of captivity, preceded by centuries of isolation in the ice?_

"He was pretty pissed when he finally thawed. His systems had auto-repaired and the only way they'd kept him in one place was a constant feed of liquid nitrogen. I'm still astonished they didn't just periodically take a cutting torch to his hydraulics or simply amputate his limbs, engines, and weapons -- it's what _I _would have done if I was trying to contain thirty feet of pissed-off alien robot with reason to want to kill me ..." This got a laugh, "... but the government goons who had control of him weren't exactly smart." He clicked and displayed an image of Megatron frozen in ice, followed by a clip of Megatron screaming in alien jet form through the dam's passageways from human security cameras, then some video from various mechs during the battle.

He paused the video, "You guys know Jazz, right?" He pointed in the direction of the parking lot, "Everyone likes Jazz. Even half the 'cons like Jazz. He gets along with everyone, he's a heck of a lot of fun, and he's just generally good guy. And, if there's anyone here who is going to have issues with seeing him hurt in battle, you might not want to watch this."

Sam had been surprised to find out there was video from a security cam of Megatron killing Jazz. Of course, the cover story was that Jazz had only been critically injured and had been placed in stasis until they'd gotten the parts needed to repair him. He and Bee had debated showing this clip. Sam had been against it. Jazz himself had cast the deciding vote, saying, "Ah think they need ta know what a monster he was."

Teeth gritted, Sam clicked. The audience responded with gasps and one short scream as Megatron ripped Jazz in two. Sam didn't watch. He'd seen that video _once, _last week, and never wanted to see it again. He was pretty sure that video would end up in his nightmares eventually.

The crowd began to whisper among themselves. Then, proving that these people were somewhat obsessive about reading the Autobot blogs, a man towards the back solemnly observed, "Ratchet does some amazing body work."

The laughter that followed was explosive, a release of tension. Even Sam found himself grinning. "That he does. Jazz has some scars on his struts that he's happy to show anyone who asks, and sometimes people who don't, but you can't tell at a casual glance."

More laughter.

He didn't join in this time. Jazz had _died _and he couldn't tell the crowd that.

"Anyway. That _was _Megatron. Now I'm going to back up a bit and tell you about _my _first contact with the Autobots, which counts as the first encounter between Optimus's crew and a human, when the mech wasn't pretending to be a car. Bee actually arrived in the summer of 2003 ..."

When he got to the cell phone video of his first encounter with Bee, they laughed uproariously. When the audience was calm, he added, "... as you can probably guess, it took me awhile to figure out that the giant alien robot was going to be the best friend I'll ever have ..."

"You know, that's perverted," Darla said, suddenly.

_What_? The attack was utterly unexpected. His heart started thudding in his chest, and he wanted to scream at her. He'd been expecting flack, but not from someone on a panel with him, and not with the barest of openings. However, he forced himself to respond calmly, "What, being friends with Autobots? Surely, you're not that prejudiced ..."

He could barely hear the eruption of noise from the crowd over the roaring of his own pulse in his ears. He could barely _see _he was so furious. Before she could answer, he added, in the same cold tone of voice, "Of c-course, that's not what you're referring to. But y-you know what? We're all consenting adults, so it's _none _of your business what we do behind closed doors."

Then, before she could say anything else vile, he clicked to the next frame. This one was about Bee's capture by Sector 7. He was glad when Glen spoke up with a few funny observations and memories, and distracted the crowd. It gave him a chance to regroup.

_I ... survived. _He straightened up a little bit with that realization. He'd survived the first public challenge by a stranger who disapproved of his sexuality. And he'd barely even stuttered.

Low mutters continued from the crowd, but he ignored them. Slowly, they faded as he continued to tell the story of Earth's first contact with an alien race. He could do this. He _could_.

* * *

"He's going to need a lot of work," Starcatcher said. He stood with his hands on his hips,  
on the berth besides Skyfire.

"How long before you can bring him online?" Fang asked.

"You want him in perfect condition, or just safely functional?"

"Safely functional." Fang figured that Skyfire was highly likely to scram to the Autobots as soon as he came online. He didn't see any point in expending their limited resources on perfection. The Autobots could finish tuning him up and doing millenia worth of badly neglected maintenance.

"Mm." Starcatcher considered the question. "He's got some seals that are leaking, and he needs some fluids flushed and replaced. His power cells are about worn out, and could use replacing. He's been tortured ..."

"... tortured?"

"... yeah, I recognize Starscream's work. His comm and all his sensors are cut, and ..."

"Starscream was his _partner_."

Starcatcher huffed a sigh. "He's been tortured. I'd like to rewire all the damage. Once that's done, he should be safe to wake. Long term, he's going to need a complete overhaul of all systems."

"Thanks, Starcatcher."

"Mmm. Thank me by not dumping any more surprises on me before I finish with this one." Starcatcher patted the offlined Skyfire's arm. Then he grew serious, and said, "Lord Fangface ... have you decided what you're going to do with Astrotrain yet?"

They were alone in the med bay. Fang leaned against a berth and heaved a tired sigh. "No, I haven't."

"Something like what you did with Pounce might be appropriate," Starcatcher suggested. "We've ... known each other most our lives. Dial him back to childhood, let him start over. I'll be a familiar face. Maybe ... maybe what happened between us, the love we once had, will happen again."

Fang shook his head. "That's something I would do only when there was no option. It's not a punishment, Starcatcher. It's therapeutic. Pounce was insane. Astrotrain wasn't. And Pounce will get his memories back someday."

Starcatcher shuttered his optics. "I'll have Skyfire fixed by tonight."

He reached out and touched Starcatcher's arm, causing him to online his vision in surprise. Fang said softly, "'Catcher, I'm sorry. I just haven't had time to think about it. He killed my ... he killed Deathwheels."

_:You cannot be impartial in this matter,: _The Order pointed out to him, making his eyes widen in shock. _:There is a difference between justice and revenge.:_

Fang snorted. _:Thank you. Sometimes I'm a dense aft, aren't I?:_

_:Inexperienced, not dense.: _And then they were gone.

Starcatcher was staring at him, but was also hugging himself. "What ... was that?"

"You sensed them?" He was a bit surprised.

"Them?"

"The Order. They ... watch us. All of us Primes. Sometimes they give us advice." He rubbed his forehead, "'Catcher, I'm not going to handle Astrotrain's case myself. I am far too close to it. I am going to wait until we can assemble a tribunal of his peers and I will let them determine his fate."

Starcatcher said softly, "The traditional punishment for assault on a Prime is death."

"And the assaulted Prime can also commute that punishment." He sighed. "I promise you, Starcatcher, that I will not have him killed. I'll also get the tribunal together as soon as I can have enough officers I trust here."

"He'll need to be conscious for a trial."

"Mm. You may start on his repairs, as time permits."

"Me, sir?" Starcatcher stared at him.

Fang reached a hand out and squeezed 'Catcher's shoulder. "You're the best medic we have."

"But ... but I could bring him online and let him escape."

"Will you?"

Starcatcher's chin jerked upwards. "No. You're our Prime. Ours. The Decepticon Prime. I love him still, and if you were going to _kill _him, I'd try to help him escape, but what he did was wrong, and I will not protest a just punishment. I'll simply be there for him when it's over."

The little medic's gaze was steady, unflinching. Fang nodded in reaction to his words. Thoughtfully, he regarded Starcatcher for a moment, then he finally said, "Starcatcher, tomorrow evening, after your shift, will you come by my lab? Ping me when you get off."

"Yes sir." The medic seemed confused by the request. "May I ask why?"

"I'd like to talk to you about a few things." He couldn't quite believe he was considering Starcatcher as an adviser, but he was impressed by the medic's strength of character. There weren't many Decepticons who could be so ... detached ... about issues that affected them personally. Primus knew that Fang couldn't.

"Yes sir." Starcatcher still looked baffled.

Fang sighed. "And now I'm off to a meeting that promises to be _tons _of fun. I will see you tomorrow, Starcatcher."

"Yes sir," the medic said. "Good luck with the Autobots."

* * *

The conference room was high up the south tower, spanning an entire floor. A heavily armored column several feet across in the center of the room concealed Fort Max's struts, as well as a plethora of communication and power lines. Someone -- possibly Judy Witwicky -- had hung a painting on it.

Optimus regarded the painting with interest for a minute. Red Alert, at his side, said, "You know the pigments in that paint contain toxins?"

"Red," Optimus said patiently, "it's only a problem if our human guests eat the painting. I do not expect them to do that."

Red Alert flashed Optimus a nervous smile. "Prime, are we okay? I am sorry about earlier."

"You reacted appropriately, Red Alert." Optimus dismissed Red's concern about the incident with Skywarp with a negating shake of his head. "I put you in charge for a reason, with the rules that you follow, for a reason. You followed the rules exactly as we specified. You are fine. I believe we will need to refine some of your responses, and that is why I asked you to be here for the first part of the meeting."

"Prime, there's also an issue with a surveillance video we have of Ratchet I want to make you aware of ..."

"Show me that later." It was probably nothing. Bee and Ironhide had just walked in together, and Optimus also didn't want Red discussing anything sensitive about the medic in front of them. The two were discussing something of tactical significance; Optimus listed absently, as Bee explained some psychological deterrents to human infiltration of the base.

"... humans don't like heights. Yes, they can climb quite well, particularly if they bring ropes, but that doesn't mean they're happy doing it. A dry moat with straight concrete sides should be sufficient to keep the merely curious away from our operational areas."

Ironhide grunted. "Could double as a trench to shoot from, too."

"Yep, that's what I figured ..."

The door slid open again, admitting Rodimus and Grimlock.

"Optimus," Roddy said, "Mikaela's got the Nebulan medic talking again. Max said he'd comm you if she said anything really significant. Right now, they're just complaining about men."

"Thank you, Rodimus."

Ironhide grunted. "She probably knows a lot about the restrictive coding. If Mikaela shows some professional interest, r'Oya might be able to help us understand what they're doing."

Optimus nodded thoughtfully. They'd gotten nowhere fast in attempts to hack the cores of the deceased Nebulan mechs. While they had accessed some non-critical memories, and learned some general information from them, including the fact that there were ominously large numbers of mechs, there was both a language barrier and a completely different programming language to deal with. It was slow going. Bee and Blaster had begun to assemble a lexicon of the modern Nebulan language, but this was complicated and tricky work and would not happen swiftly until they had more samples of the tongue.

The Nebulans and the mechs in the camp spoke ancient Nebulan even among themselves. Optimus assumed that was being done deliberately, with the intention of slowing Cybertronian attempts to learn their modern language.

The door swished open a final time, admitting Ratchet and Fang. Fang's normally warm, deep voice was an octave higher as he said indignantly, "... I cannot believe you let her name a Barbie and a stuffed animal _Fang _and _Ratchet_!"

"I think it's adorable." Ratchet's tone was too sweet, and guaranteed to provoke Fang into heights of outrage.

"I am _not _a stuffed animal!" Fang huffed. "What are the 'cons going to think when she starts calling that thing _Fang _in front of them?"

"They'll think it's adorable." Ratchet poked Fang, making him jump away.

"That's what I'm _afraid _of." Fang huffed a completely aggrieved sigh. "I am _not _adorable."

Optimus started to suggest everyone take a seat at the conference room table, but Fang had stopped short, expression swiftly changing from one of outrage to very closed and unreadable.

Grimlock, who was currently in his dinosaur mode, gazed down at him from twenty feet away. Fang hunched defensively, one quick motion from a transformation to his alt mode, and stared back up. Optimus tried to remember if Fang and Grimlock had been in the same room together since Grimlock had been brought back online. Other than a few incidents where they'd seen each other in passing, during one crisis or another, he didn't think so.

Grimlock _had _been Fang's teammate once. Grimlock was also very capable of carrying a grudge, he had an explosive temper to rival any Decepticon's, and he wasn't exactly the deepest thinker in the universe. Optimus waited, suddenly tense, as the two studied each other.

Fang broke the silence, finally. "You probably hate me, huh?"

"Grimlock not hate." Grimlock folded his small arms across his chest.

"Ah ... that's good to know." Fangface still regarded Grimlock very warily. "Because, I'll tell you, I was somewhat scared to send you home to the 'bots. I was afraid you might come after me for revenge."

Grimlock snorted. "Grimlock not hate. Grimlock not trust. Grimlock know Fang a coward."

"I'm not a coward! I'm a hero!" Stung, Fang straightened himself up to his full height, which put his head just below Grimlock's elbow.

Grimlock bent over, and looked Fang in the eyes. "Fang saved the sparklings. Me, Grimlock, thank you. But Fang had to fight or die. Me, Grimlock, wonders what Fang will do if situation is fight or surrender. Fang likes Fang's aft intact. Me, Grimlock, think Fang would chose surrender, rather than die. Even if that is the wrong choice. Me, Grimlock, think Fang place higher value on own aft than other afts."

"That's not true!" Fangface hissed.

"Grimlock has a point," Ironhide rumbled.

Ratchet said, "Grim, Ironhide, I've _been in Fang's mind_. My professional opinion is that he's far more psychologically stable and _far _more likely to make the right decision in a tough situation than he ever was before."

Optimus wondered how his meeting had derailed before it began. Ratchet looked pissed. Grimlock and Ironhide both had assumed aggressive postures. Bee had taken a seat at the table and had his head in his hands. Roddy was trying to blend in with the wall. Red was twitching, and he'd comm'd security with an alert to stand by.

Fang looked more hurt than angry, and he shot Ratchet a grateful look for the defense.

"May I say something?" Red Alert said. "It's not paranoid, I promise."

If Red was intimidated by being in a room full of Primes, he didn't show it. He'd known most of them for the duration of the war. Optimus nodded at him, giving permission for him to proceed. Red _did _know the difference between "legitimate issue" and "paranoid delusions" -- it was his job to identify _all _threats, however, no matter how slight. Fortress Maximus was too strategically important. They had to consider all possibilities.

"I believe Ratchet may be biased when it comes to Lord Fangface."

"_What_?" Ratchet growled.

"That's a serious accusation, Red," Optimus said.

"Naaaah," Ironhide wasted no time in defending Ratchet. "Not Ratch."

"There's security video. From last night." Red Alert flicked a glance at Ratchet. He looked uneasy, to Optimus's eyes, which was unusual. Red normally didn't care what people thought of him, or his ideas. He clarified to Ratchet, "In the SOA."

"Oh," Ratchet said, in a small voice. Abruptly, he sat down.

"Play your video," Optimus said, his own voice rather flat. He was halfway expecting to see the two of them interfacing. Optimus himself wouldn't be shocked by it. He was already well aware of Ratchet's feelings for Fang. Ratchet's reaction, and Red Alert's caution, were both rather telling. However, Fang simply looked confused, and that made Optimus less sure of what Red might have seen.

Optimus _wasn't _expecting to see Ratchet throw a full-on temper tantrum, crouched over and beating his fists on the floor. The symbolism didn't escape Optimus; Ratchet was beating up the bit of the building where Fang had made his stand against the Nebulans. Still, it was bizarrely out of character for Ratchet. Usually, if Ratchet was upset, it was a person that got the brunt of Ratchet's temper or grief, not the ground.

_I don't believe Ratchet's ever taken his temper out on Fang, come to think of it. _

The other Primes were silent.

"Ratchet?" Optimus said, finally, "Care to explain?"

"You jerk." Fang padded over to Ratchet and poked him in the chest. "I thought you damaged your hands defending me. I'd _just _fixed them. Idiot. Afthead. Glitchwit. _Primus_. Might I suggest using your _cannons _next time, if you want to blow off some steam? Go blow up some rocks or something."

Ratchet, very gently, put both hands on Fang's shoulder and pushed him back, out of his space. Fang fell silent. Then Ratchet turned away, stalked to a window, and stared out it. His faceplates were set in a scowl.

"Have you two 'faced?" Red asked, bluntly, but security needed to know. Knowing who the lovers were was part of a good security director's job.

"Once. There was a medical need." Ratchet's spinal struts couldn't possibly have been stiffer. Otimus knew he was embarrassed. He'd been caught throwing a childish temper tantrum. Worse, it was very obvious that Ratchet had feelings for the 'con leader when you put that scene together with Ratchet's body language towards Fang during unguarded moments. Ratchet was probably wondering if the others thought he was a traitor. Optimus had complete trust in Ratchet, but the others weren't always so perceptive.

"Ratchet?" Bee said, quietly, "You love him." That was not a question from Bee, whose intuition and empathy were truly remarkable. It was a simple statement of fact. Bee wouldn't doubt Ratchet's loyalty to their cause.

Ratchet's chin jerked upwards. "Slag all I can do about it. He's a 'con. I've got a head full of classified information. It'd screw up his political situation if it got found out. And as far as me being impartial, I _am_, Red. I _am _capable of separating the personal and professional. My assessment of Fang is that we can trust him completely."

Optimus asked, "Fang, do you want to tell us what provoked that?"

He thought Fang knew. He also thought he'd be a lot more likely to give him a complete answer. Ratchet was going to snarl and snark if Optimus pushed him, simply because Fang was less comfortable with Optimus.

Fang folded his arms and hunched down again, posture defensive. "I thought this was going to be a meeting to discuss plans for the future. Not an ambush."

"It was." Optimus sighed. He might have misjudged Fang's willingness to speak. "It is. This conceivably _does _affect our plans."

"There's nothing going on." Fang sounded bitter and resentful, all at once. "His choice."

Ratchet half turned to give Fang an incredulous look. "There can't be anything." He growled, now at Optimus, "I can't. Fang needs someone who knows the situation with the cons inside and out, who the cons will follow, and who _doesn't_ have a head full of sensitive data." Then, with a jerk of his whole body, he turned away from them again. He didn't seem want to meet anyone's gaze, and all the Primes and Red Alert were staring at him.

Optimus turned to Fang. "Fang? Ratchet defined what he believes you need. However, what do you _want_?"

In a small, miserable, _angry_, voice, "Someone who drives the darkness back, who treats me as an equal and _listens_, and who pushes me to greater things. Someone who tells me they're proud of me and that I _can _do this." He was staring at Ratchet's back while he said it. "Someone who has faith in me."

"Someone who loves you?" Optimus prompted.

"Someone who I can _believe _loves me, and who understands what love _should _be." Fang nibbled on a claw."He's right, though. You couldn't accept a relationship between us. Makes me wish things had turned out differently all those years ago." Now he glanced at Grimlock. Grimlock's eyes were keen, and he was studying Fang with sharp awareness. "Maybe if I had been a little tougher ... but if I'd resisted, Megatron would have just killed me."

Optimus felt like he hadn't recharged in days. He walked over to the conference table and took a seat next to Bee, where he rubbed his nasal bridge. "Ratchet, professional assessment: who's better at coding, you or Fang?"

"Me." Ratchet said this, with a swift shake of his head. "Fang's got neither the instincts nor the processor to be good at code."

"So there's no chance he'd be able to hack you." Optimus's fingers moved to rub the jointed metal around one optic. "Most of the sensitive information in your memory is patient files, anyway, which you'd need to firewall from _any _partner."

Ironhide grunted, "Not like we have a lot of secrets. Fang probably knows our troop placements better than we do."

Fang smirked at this. "Want a report?"

"... you better not have known about the army's flight from Cybertron," Ironhide glowered at him.

"No." Fang held his hands up. "They outpaced subspace communications, and Straxus didn't send pursuit. That's one I would have warned you on, anyway, you know that."

"I believe that," Optimus agreed.

Ironhide grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like an obscenity, then added, "... most of the rest of the classified information Ratchet has involves the placement of individual personnel. Optimus's location was always the most critical. Fang obviously knows that. Then there's various trading deals that the Autobots have with assorted neutral worlds ..."

"... what, the manufactured parts you're getting from Callos?" Fang asked. "Or the pact you made with the t'!nakqui to for spun carbon fiber to build a space elevator in exchange for energon and metals?"

"How ...?" Optimus stared at him.

"We have a mole somewhere," Ironhide growled.

"Nah, not you. We have pretenders on both worlds." Fang explained, then chewed on his claw for a moment before volunteering, "Megatron had a trade deal with Callos too ..."

Optimus started to say something annoyed, then muted his vocalizer before uttering it. He'd never trusted the Callosian government. This was just confirmation that they'd lied. When he could respond with civility he said, "Thank you for _that _bit of intelligence, Fang. I believe I will be sending an envoy to Callos to renegotiate some exclusive trade agreements we made."

Fang smirked. "Don't be too hard on them. The presence of the Nemesis in orbit can be most persuasive when we want to, ah, trade. You're lucky Starscream was doing the negotiating. He didn't think to ask if Callos also had a deal with the Autobots, and they certainly didn't volunteer, or they'd have been told to stop selling parts to you."

"Hnnh. You knew, though." Optimus realized that the discussion had gotten derailed. That might not have been a bad thing, because Ratchet was looking slightly less hunted. He'd had time to regain his equilibrium.

"I knew. The pretenders fell under _my _command. My job was to manage the smaller mechs and they fell under that umbrella." Fang's smirk broadened into a predatory gleam. "Starscream didn't ask, and I didn't volunteer. You know I hated him."

Ratchet made a throat-clearing noise. "Fang, your pretenders are still there?"

"Yes."

"Callos is fourteen light years from the closest Nebulan colony."

"... Hm." Fang tilted his head, considering that point. "I've got several operatives on the ground. I could send a subspace if you want them to find out if the Callosians have any intelligence on Nebulos. It's definitely not common knowledge among the population, but I bet they've made contact."

"Does that risk exposure for them?" Optimus asked.

"The subspace or the act of gathering intelligence?"

"Both."

"I've got a fairly secure communications channel. Gathering intelligence is always risky." Fang shrugged. "It'd be worth it to find out."

Ironhide grunted. "All this is fascinating, but I think we just lost the thread of the conversation."

Ratchet fixed Ironhide with a deadly glare, "I believe the purpose of this meeting was to discuss joint operations and tactical issues, not my love life, or lack thereof."

'Hide held up both hands defensively. "Just saying."

Ratchet hissed static at him. Fang hunched and nibbled on a claw. Ratchet, who was now facing the room, gave Fang a sharp look and then spit a quick encrypted comment at him. Fang abruptly straightened up, squared his shoulders, took his finger out of his mouth, and schooled his expression to neutral interest. Optimus didn't have to hear that comment to know that Ratchet had just made a pithy observation on Fang's posture and nervous tic.

Fang folded his arms and said, "Ratchet hasn't done anything dishonorable. And I won't let him. He's my friend, and I wouldn't ask, or allow, him to do anything _wrong _for me. Betraying his own faction? Would be wrong."

"Until all are one," Optimus murmured.

The other six Primes, and Red, all stared at him.

He sighed, that human gesture that was so expressive. "Fang, answer me honestly -- do you _need _support?"

"Yes." Fang answered without hesitation. "I ... need someone I can truly rely upon."

"His partner just died, Optimus." Ratchet shook his head. "He's lonely."

Fang whirled on him. "I _learned _something with Deathwheels, and that is what if feels like to truly rely upon someone. I put my faith in the wrong mech with Death, but I know, now, I was missing something in my life. I am _not _wrong in trusting you. Am I?"

The medic snapped, "No, you're not."

"And I want you to be more than a friend. _Primus_, I've wanted that since before I ever met Death. I just didn't have the bearings to approach you. And now I know you want me back. I'm _wanted_. Pit yes! I'm lonely. But my feelings for you are _real_."

"You're hurting so much." Ratchet shook his head, slowly.

Fang threw his hands in the air, then stalked over to Ratchet, and jabbed a finger at Ratchet's grill, claw clinking against the metal. "Yes. I am hurting. I will hurt. You can't change that. 'Facing with you won't change that. I'll probably be confused about, and grieve, Deathwheels until the day I die. Doesn't mean I don't want you. Doesn't mean I don't _need _you. I don't have to understand everything to be able to get on with my life."

"And what are your 'cons going to do when they find out?" Ratchet growled.

"Honestly, they probably think we're 'facing each other stupid already." Fangface hissed. "It's not like you haven't been in my quarters alone, it's not like we don't give off partner vibes already. _You _may be able to control your body language, but that's never exactly been one of my talents."

"_Slaggit_, Fang, this is unwise."

Optimus thought that Fang was making quite a bit of sense. He was also very aware of just how alone Fang was, at the moment. He shot Ratchet an encrypted comment, _:Ratchet, you have my blessings in this, but it is your choice. Do not let him use guilt or other pressure to coerce you into a relationship, but be aware you have my support.:_

_:Sir?:_

_:I'm not worried about classified information. If it came down to it, you'd win a battle of processors. Yours is ten times the size of his, easily. I trust you to block access to any confidential or classified information. The rest ... he may be a Decepticon, but he is also a Prime, and I will personally take anyone to task on our side who objects to your interest in him."_

_:Prime, I'm more worried about his faction than ours. Truly."_

_:It occurs to me that you're a better fighter than most of the Decepticon army. They, demonstrably, respect a good fighter.: _Optimus gave Ratchet a completely innocent look.

_:Ah ... slag. Optimus, the leader of the Decepticons has fallen in love with me. That is not supposed to happen.:_

_:Or maybe it _was_.: _Optimus retorted. _:Until all are one. It's been our mantra since the beginning of the war. Fangface is a most improbable leader. I'm astonished he's survived all the fighting. It's almost safe to say that the hand of Primus has guided his path.:_

Red Alert voiced a concern aloud before Ratchet could respond to that. "What happens," Red said slowly, "if they are in a relationship and we resume hostilities?"

Fang responded so promptly that Optimus figured he'd thought about this already, "I won't allow hostilities. If the war resumes, it's because I've lost control of the army. At that point, I'd be running to you guys with my tail between my legs, begging for sanctuary."

"We would grant you asylum, in that situation," Optimus noted, just in case Fang was wondering about that.

"Figured." Fang grinned. "You're my fallback plan."

Ratchet huffed an aggravated sigh. "Fang. Do you really want to do this? Me and you?"

"Yeah. I do." Fang's response was firm, if a bit understated.

"Fine." Ratchet's expression softened, slowly, into a genuine smile. "Primus help us both."

Ironhide rolled his optics. "Not that's this is settled, we get to watch Ratch moon around like a youngling. Should be entertaining."

"I do _not _moon around." Ratchet made a rather disrespectful human gesture at Ironhide with one finger.

Ironhide grinned broadly, clearly pleased by the reaction he'd gotten. "Love you too, Ratch. -- Thankfully, not _that _way, because I don't think I could handle the drama without killing you. Weren't we supposed to start with actual security issues?"

Optimus sighed. He expected Ironhide would harass Ratchet for the rest of eternity over his love life. Ratchet was too easy to provoke, and Ironhide knew all his buttons. "Yes, we have some base security issues that we need to start with. Red, you said you'd prepared a report of the most significant ones?"

He gestured at the table. The Primes claimed seats. Fang sat down next to Ratchet. Ratchet grumped something under his breath. Fang gave him an affronted look.

"Yes sir," Red said, "... my first concern was establishing a consistent policy for human access to restricted areas of the base. Humans use badge readers in their buildings when security is required ..."

Optimus settled comfortably into his chair and picked up a datapad, which was hardwired to a server under the table. Though this didn't sound very significant, they would be dealing with information too sensitive to transmit over their comms. "... I assume you have some documents about your ideas?"

"Yes sir." Red picked up his own datapad, and poked it. Schematics, floor plans, and suggested policies popped up on their 'pads.

As expected, Red's suggestions were far stricter than Optimus felt feasibe. Among other things, Red wanted all humans who ever accessed Fort Max to submit to a psychological exam, full body scan, and wear tracking devices, as well as have a complete background check.

Optimus rubbed his forehead. "I'll agree to the _occasional_ scan for humans we don't know. They're sensitive to radiation, and we want to limit their use. Occasional scans are unlikely to cause harm, but there may be cumulative effects over the long term. The tracking devices can be embedded in their badges. We won't mention that to the humans unless specifically asked. A detailed background check should only be needed for employees, contractors, and anyone living here."

The discussion quickly devolved into what, specifically, they would look for on a background check, and if exceptions would be made. Optimus let them debate for a bit, then made a decision, and told Red alert to implement it as soon as feasible. Fang said he'd use the same guidelines for the Decepticon base, adding that humans on the 'con base would also be escorted by a 'con for their own safety.

The next thing on the agenda was the ships in orbit. Red was excused for this, and Blaster and Omega Surpreme summoned. They'd been called to the meeting because they would be assigned to monitoring orbital security.

Fang held a hand up as soon as the two mechs had entered the room and the privacy field activated. "I'm willing to bet at least one, and possibly two, of the ships in orbit are Decepticons. Swindle's gestalt is somewhere in the system. Swindle's trying to get me details."

"Can you trust him?" Bee asked.

Fang snorted. "To paraphrase Swindle, I'll be more profitable for Swindle than the alternative. I can trust his greed, if not his spark."

Omega Surpreme nodded. "I was just going to say we picked up some trace molecular signatures consistent with a standard Cybertronian ship's atmosphere. No oxygen. We believe at least two of the ships do not have life support for oxygen breathers."

Blaster added, "And, anyway, we intercepted communications between the ships in Cybertronian."

"Got that decrypted?" Fang said, with interest.

Blaster snorted. "Within five minutes of receiving it."

"Yeah," Fang scowled at him, "You're the reason why I always told my troops to keep communications to audio or line-of-sight laser if it was sensitive."

Blaster laughed. "And I never did get very good intel on your troop movements. You were slag to track."

There was a click, and then Blaster started playing the transmissions he'd caught aloud.

**"... dunno, Onslaught. Fang's smart, but he's selling us out." **Vortex's voice crackled from the speaker.

**"You ever work with him?" **Onslaught replied. **"I haven't, but I know mechs who have. He's a manipulative little glitch. Wouldn't surprise me if he's playing the Autobots like a harp. He's the mech who pulled off a coup in the middle of a battle, after tricking the Autobots into attacking."  
**  
Eight sets of optics swiveled to stare at Fang.

Fang held his hands up, defensively. "I didn't plan the attack on the transport ship last month. It was a stupid idea, and the fallout was predictable. We were lucky the Russians didn't just nuke us and be done with it."

Vortex said, **"I don't like it, Onslaught. If he thinks the Autobots trust him, he's fragging deluding himself. Prime's no fool. There ain't going to be no peace between our sides. They're using him to rebuild their forces."**

**"Eh, Fang's just waiting for a good opportunity to slag them good like a proper Decepticon." **

Optimus watched Fang's expression, as Fang listened to his troops discuss this. After several more exchanges, Fang held up a hand. "Blaster, do they say anything of any tactical significance?"

"Not really." Blaster grinned. "They don't like you much, do they?"

"They don't know what to think of me." Fang sighed. Then, after asking Fort Max to lower the privacy shield, he addressed the Ferengi of the gestalt. _:Swindle, do you read me?:_

_:Yeah, boss. You're on an open comm line.:_

_:I'm well aware of that. Please tell your gestalt members that if the Autobots can hear their chatter, so can I, and so can the Nebulans. You have my pemission to do a line of sight laser linkup as soon as they're above the horizon.:_

_:Ah ... yes, boss. That'll be around seven PM tonight for Vortex.:_

Fang met Optimus's gaze, then just shook his head. "I just need to kick their afts a few times. The only one who might be a real problem is Vortex, based on what I've picked up from mechs who've worked with them. The team leader's Onslaught. He's smart and he's like me, he's inclined to solve problems with his wits before he resorts to violence, but he can kick aft if he has to. I'm going to try to appeal to that mind, by pointing out the big picture. Strika says he's reasonable."

Optimus hoped Fang was right. However, he simply said, "So that's resolved. That's two of the ships, Blaster?"

"Likely. They're both fairly small. We've deployed nanosensors into orbit and they're not picking up much of a gravitational field off them." Blaster shook his head.

"Blast Off himself would be one ship. The other ship might be Movor. He's not part of the gestalt, but he hangs with them."

"And the other ship?" Optimus prompted.

"You'll find a chemical analysis of the atmospheric traces from it. It's definitely got an oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere, with traces of both CO and Co2, and large amounts of chlorophyll and certain sugars and carbon compounds associated with plant growth. The geeks' theory is that it's the mothership for the Nebulans. Their mechs have that weird fuel system and the Annihilator -- that's the crashed Nebulan ship --- didn't carry anything near to the amount of, ah, forage they'd require. We believe they may have algal tanks in orbit."

Ratchet added, "One of the Nebulan mechs said something curious to me. I'd retrofitted him for energon because we don't have the parts to repair his damage. He said only the Elder Ones were allowed energon and he'd have to give it up when he went home."

Optimus considered that. "What do we know about the Elder Ones?"

"I'm beginning to wonder just _how _old they are." Ratchet stabbed at his datapad with a stylus.

"Older than the Nebulan colony, perhaps?" Rodimus suggested.

"But why the deal with the methane reactors?" Fang asked. "They're so slagging inefficient. And they have energon, the ship's engines ran on it."

Bee leaned back into his chair. He volunteered slowly, "The only thing I can think of is that they're deliberately making their mechs dependent on having a functional ecosystem. They essentially ingest plant life, and need to do so daily. They're clearly hobbling the Nebulan mechs with programming. Maybe limiting their fuel systems also fits that pattern. I doubt the algal tanks they use to create, ah, fuel, could be maintained indefinitely without nutrients and mechanical parts from a planet."

"... possibly," Optimus agreed. They'd been buying hay and wood chips and other forms of plant matter by the truckload for the Nebulan mechs. As methods of energy generation went, it was phenomenally wasteful and inefficient. He thought Bee might be on to something. It was insidious, but fit the pattern.

"Does make sense," Fang agreed. "Also, by separating the _Annihilator _and the ... food ship ... they have even more control over the mechs."

"Perhaps." Optimus considered what they knew so far. "I am beginning to wonder if the Nebulan mechs are culpable in this attack. Between their programming and their fuel situation, can we blame them for their actions?"

"No," Fang said, decisively, and the others chorused agreement.

"Which leaves us with the question of what to do."

Fang sighed. "Just because a glitchhead isn't responsible for his own actions doesn't mean you are wrong to terminate him if he's after your aft."

"... I can't agree with that." Optimus frowned at Fang. "It's _always _wrong to take a life."

"Yeah, well, you've taken plenty. I watched you _step _on my insecticons a couple of months ago!" Fang shot back, needled by Optimus's disapproval. He straightened up, eyes suddenly glittering with anger. "Don't patronize me, Optimus. If it comes right down to it, both of will defend ourselves and our own people. If that means killing some poor fool with a messed up processor, so be it. I'll do it. I value my friends, my family, my troops, and my own aft just a little more than the idiot coming after me with a pulse cannon aimed at my spark!"

"Fang ..." Optimus said, soothingly. He wasn't sure what had set Fang off to this degree. The Decepticon wasn't normally that touchy. "Please calm down."

Fang slapped his hand down on the table, making everyone jump. Then he pointed at Optimus. "Don't tell me I'm wrong for doing so. I'm _not_."

"It's always wrong to take a life, but sometimes it is the lesser of multiple evils," Optimus said, mildly. He didn't want a fight with Fangface over something stupid. Fang's response was alarming to Optimus. How often had he sat across a table from Megatron, before the war began and a few times after, watching in abject dismay as Megatron took exception at some minor, perceived slight, blew up, raged a bit, threatened all and sundry, and then stomped off after putting all the blame for provoking him on the Autobots?

"And if I make that less-evil choice, I'm not going to feel bad about it." Fang inspected his claws. This wasn't a nervous gesture, Optimus realized. He was drawing attention to those deadly talons, which he normally kept retracted when not in use. After a second's study of their tips, he rested his hand on the table and tapped his claws rhythmically.

"I will always regret it." Optimus said, softly. Fang was not as calm as he was trying to appear, but Optimus recognized he was trying to regain his equilibrium. Once Fang was a little more settled, he thought he'd call a recess and have Ratchet go talk him down. Ratchet was remarkably good at Fang-wrangling.

"You know how many mechs I've killed in my life?" Fang drummed his claws harder. Optimus mentally winced, though he schooled his features to show no expression. "I've killed over a thousand Decepticons, and more Autobots than there are human years to this war. I've shot them, I've blown them up, I've ripped them apart with my bare hands and had their energon on my own armor. I once slipped aboard a transport ship with 12,000 Autobots on it and left a timed charge on the quantum engine's core, set to blow in mid transit ... saving tens of thousands of Decepticon lives, because that ship was going to annihilate a mining and manufacturing facility."

They stared at him, all but Bee, who shuttered his optics. Optimus suspected the ship that Fang referred to was the _Freedom's Sacrifice_, and they'd never known what had happened to her and her crew -- had it been sabotage or simple engine failure? Fang was right, too. He probably had saved that many lives on his side.

"All those 'cons are dead, now." Fang held a hand out, palm up, as if letting grains of sand slip through his fingers. "You attacked them a score of vorns later, and wiped out the entire facility and the entire population there. Those few who survived were killed in later battles."

Ironhide growled, "If that was the Metrohexyll manufacturing hub, slagging straight we wiped it out. It was making weapons and ships ... must've been responsible for half our losses until we took it out!"

"Which is my point, Ironhide." Fang pointed at him. "I can't regret my kills. It wasn't _wrong _to try to defend my side, or to take actions to defend a base that made the weapons we needed to win. Decepticon lives have as much value as Autobot lives."

"My _best friend _was on that transport," Rodimus said, normally friendly tones completely gone from his voice. "You _slagger_. And anyway, you didn't do it for altruistic reasons then. You did it 'cuz you were under orders. I remember you, Fang, when you came to our side. You were no hero. You were a scared, nasty little fragger."

"I still don't regret it," Fang said. Rodimus had scored, however. Fang's posture subtly changed, showing more angst and less anger. He snarled, "They died. So what? I'm supposed to mourn my actions for the rest of my life? It was war and I was following orders and keeping my own plating intact."

Ironhide growled, even as Rodimus went _rigid_, "I'd forgotten the 'Decepticon' in Decepticon Prime."

"I'd forgotten how much I hate 'cons," Rodimus snapped.

"You hate me. Really." Fang steepled his fingers together. "Gee, I thought I was the great hope for the future, sent by Primus, all that slag ..."

Optimus wondered just how the meeting had so swiftly derailed. Again. Ratchet, however, suddenly stood up. "Optimus, permission to have a private chat with Fang?"

"Granted. We can take a recess for a few minutes ..."

"Oh, I don't need to leave the room for this." Ratchet, optics blazing, focused on Fang. Optimus detected tightly encrypted comment aimed at the smaller mech.

Fang came out of his chair so fast that he knocked it over. He snapped, "What? How dare you say that!"_  
_  
The medic spit something else at him. By Fang's increased flare of anger, demonstrated with balled fists and dilated pupils, Ratchet had scored. Fang's battle routines were beginning to activate.

Bee covered his face with both hands. Ironhide murmured to Bee, "Be glad he's not Megatron. I had to pull him off Optimus a few times, during counsel meetings. He was just about the only person who I've ever seen who could piss Optimus off in a meeting. They knew each other too well."

"_Don't _remind me they were lovers," Bee hissed back. "I don't need those images in my head."

Optimus cast both of them warning look. He didn't mind the reference to Megatron, but Fang was seriously ticked off, and they were treating this like a joke. He wasn't sure what had set the Decepticon off, but Ratchet had clearly figured it out.

After a long moment of staring at the medic, Fang finally grunted. "You know me, huh?"

"I do," Ratchet's voice was gentle. "And I think you owe us an apology."

"I'm _not _sorry ..."

Ratchet interrupted. "We get it. It was war. We all did things we regret. Including you. You want to pretend it doesn't bother you, fine, but the Matrix you bear is testiment to your empathy and strength of character. You _do _regret. More to the point, though, Rodimus's _best friend _was on that transport ship, and _you just bragged about killing him._"

Fangface abruptly sat down, buried his face in his hands, and shuddered. After a long, long moment, he regained control of himself and looked up at them. He whispered, "You ... you know, he might not be dead, Roddy. The charges I placed were't big enough to destroy the ship, just the engines. They probably popped out into normal space ... if you've got a flight plan for the ship, I can tell you what time the charge was set to blow. That should allow one of your nerds to ..." he stopped himself, suddenly. "It's been almost ninety thousand years. Even at fractional light speed they could have gone a very long ways."

Ratchet slowly rested a hand on Fang's back and began stroking his armor. "That would be very welcome. If they are traveling at high sublight velocity, it will not have been ninety thousand years to _them_."

The leader of the Decepticons let out a low, shuddering sigh. "Ratchet's right. I was being an aft. I do feel a great deal of guilt for my role in this war. It's hard." He leaned into Ratchet's touch for a moment. "I'm sorry for ... being an aft, just now. Roddy, I'm sorry about your friend."

Rodimus didn't say anything, but he nodded curtly.

Optimus reviewed his agenda. There were some issues left to cover -- but the only big one that he felt needed to be addressed was assigning mechs to team which would be charged with identifying sites of tactical significance on Earth. He had a meeting with Keller tomorrow and he wanted to introduce the idea of contingents of mechs being placed at locations around the globe. Sometime this week he also needed to get all the Primes together and discuss finances, but that could wait. He was more than willing to simply keep floating Fang money if Fang needed it, until they could reach a formal agreement.

He checked his chronometer, then rose, and added, "And Fang, thank you for the information about the _Freedom_."

"... if you can recover the mechs from the _Freedom _alive," Fang said softly, "it would shift the balance of power in your favor."

He was probably right. The mechs on that ship had been amongst the best of his soldiers. That had been an important mission, and the loss of the _Freedom _might well have changed the course of the war. It had taken them thousands of years to destroy that manufacturing base, and during that time, they'd lost so _many _people. If the _Freedom _had succeeded ... perhaps the Autobots might have had swift and decisive victory.

Optimus was absolutely certain Fang realized this. Fang knew that his own actions had prolonged the war, rather than ending it quickly.

He sent a quick, encrypted comment to Ratchet, pointing this out to the medic.

_:Slag, you're right. I'll talk to him.:_

Fang was already slinking out the door. Ratchet hurried after him. Optimus watched them go. Ratchet was followed by all but Ironhide.

The old warrior remained behind and after the door slid shut he growled, "I hate Deceptions, Prime. I really do."

"I believe the Order chose well in Fang," Optimus responded, countering his cynicism with a reminder of just why Fang was working with them now.

"Hnnh." Ironhide idly clicked the barrel of his missile launcher around in a slow circle. "I hope Ratch knows what he's doing."

"Ironhide, please review the crew compliment of the _Freedom_," Optimus said, tone very soft. "I believe you have the files; you were involved in the logistics for that mission. We cannot bear grudges. Even _I _cannot bear a grudge."

Ironhide was silent for a moment. To pull that crew list up out of his compressed and archived memory banks took a few seconds even for a Cybertronian. It had been a long time ago, and the information was long irrelevant.

Optimus had never archived that list. The loss of the _Freedom _had been personal.

After a moment, his weapons master and also one of his oldest friends looked up in comprehension and said simply, "Cosmos would be the best choice to lead a rescue mission. We'd also need an engineer, and parts to repair the engines, assuming they're alive ..."

"I'm going to ask Fang to help. He has far more mechs with interstellar flight abilities than we do."

"Prime!" Ironhide protested. "You can't seriously ... can you imagine how the crew will _react _if the 'cons show up?"

Optimus sighed. "We will send Elita. She can manage the necessary diplomacy."

"She's needed on the Ark!"

"There are half a dozen mechs among the crew stationed here who can take her place. I strongly suspect keeping Elita from this mission would take an act of Primus." Optimus walked to the window, and touched his fingers to the thick Cybertronian glass. "Commander Photon is our child, Ironhide. I thought I'd lost them all. Maybe one still lives. Paladin and Ranger would have an older brother."

"So you'd send Elita with a _con_? You'd trust a _con _with her?" Ironhide growled. "Optimus, sometimes your idealism ... _slag_, that's a dumb idea. Maybe we can trust Fang -- _maybe _-- but I trust his troops about as far as he could throw them."

"I am going to ask Fang to send troops to help us with this rescue mission," Optimus said, very firmly, "because Fang needs opportunities to make amends. Sending some of his trusted mechs on a mission such as this will help him begin to heal."

"Hnnh. Again, I protest your idealism."

Optimus turned to face him. "We have to end this war, Ironhide. Whatever it takes. If it requires taking risks on alliances that might not work, and on mechs who may betray us, then so be it. The only way we can build trust between both sides is to to work together, and I am going to deliberately set up situations where we do so. We've hated each other for too long. It's time to end it."

"There might be twelve thousand Autobots. That gives us a numerical advantage. You think Fang doesn't realize that? He's cooperating now, but what if he chickens out? Grimlock's right. At his core he's a coward ... he could give the 'cons orders to slag that ship when they find it!"

"... he's not a coward." Optimus shook his head. "Not anymore. And he will have a choice -- a choice between Ratchet, or surrendering to his own fears. I suspect that keeping Ratchet's approval will be all the incentive Fang will need to rise above his past."

Ironhide humphed. "Maybe. I hope you're right."

"So do I." Optimus returned to gazing out the window. The sun was getting low on the horizon. He watched as two human jets landed. Then Manywinds zoomed past the window, inches from the glass, spun on a wingtip, and dove straight down the face of the tower. A small mech with a helicopter alt mode followed, clearly attempting to tag him with a low-power laser rifle intended for target practice.

Combat practice, Optimus realized. Windy was getting the training he so desperately needed.

After a moment, Optimus repeated, "I hope I'm right."


	94. Chapter 94

Chapter 94

* * *

The rest of the Primes went down the elevator, but Ratchet put a hand on Fang's shoulder and held him back. After the doors slid shut and they were alone in the small foyer between the conference room doors and the lift. Fang asked, "Where are we going?"

Ratchet said quietly, "My quarters. They're three floors above us."

"Oh. I haven't seen your quarters." Fang's look was questioning and uncertain. His lighting-quick changes of outlook were sometimes hard to follow for Ratchet, who tended to pick a mood and stick with it.

"Mm. Not much to see." He hadn't had time to do more than dump a few things out of his personal subspace. It wasn't like he had many possessions. _:Prime, how much time until you want us back?: _he asked Optimus.  
_  
:Take an hour. Take longer if you need it. Get Fang calmed down and in a better frame of mind.:_

:I'll try.:

The elevator had a long way to go to reach the ground and then return. Ratchet hesitantly put his hand on Fang's shoulder. The smaller mech sighed and leaned against him, eyes closing. "Ratch, I'm sorry."

"Meh. It's over." Ratchet stroked Fang's arm. "What you said was harsh, but if we can recover the _Freedom _and her crew ..."

"That's a lot of mechs."

"You've known there was a chance they lived all along." He was a little annoyed that Fang hadn't said anything. Was it too much to ask for him to disclose that he knew where they might find thousands of stranded Autobots? They needed people to raise the sparklings, if nothing else. He had thought that Fang's priorities were in the right place, but now he wondered. Fang had demonstrated he knew where the Autobot forces were better than their own command did. Ratchet was under no illusions that Fang had simply _forgotten _about troops that might still be alive somewhere.

"Yeah, though honestly, Ratch, I wasn't really thinking about it. It's a long shot." Fang flatted his ears and ducked his head, looking apologetic. "It would have occurred to me to mention it to you guys eventually. I can only keep so many facts in my processor cache at one time, give me a break."

Ratchet decided that Fang was probably telling the truth. He looked chagrined enough for it. Still, he felt Fang needed to know just how big of a deal this was. "One of Optimus and Elita's children was the commander in charge of that mission. Photon was their eldest, Fang, raised before Optimus ever became Prime. He was Optimus's designated heir for his Matrix, and one of Optimus's most accomplished commanders."

"He gave no sign!" Fang recoiled from Ratchet. "He didn't say anything."

"Prime wouldn't. As innately sacrificing as he is, he probably did not even factor that in emotionally during the argument, but he will allow himself to feel it later." Ratchet let Fang go. The predacon stepped away and stood several feet away, arms folded tight across his chest, head down. "It's not his way. Don't ever think he doesn't hurt, because he does. But he, more than any of us, understands the price of war. And he, more than any of us, has already forgiven you."

Fang didn't say anything, but his armor was clamped flat to his body and his ears drooped miserably. Ratchet took two steps to him, crouched down, and looked him in the optics. "I know you aren't sure if you can live up to our expectations, Fang, or be the hero we all need you to be. I'll help you. Just tell me how."

His friend ... who would, perhaps very shortly, be his lover ... nodded, without really meeting his gaze.

At that moment, the lift arrived. Fang hurried into it, and Ratchet followed. Fang didn't say anything for the short trip up three levels.

"Don't mind the mess," Ratchet said, stepping through the door into his apartment.

"I'm shocked, Ratch. You'd yell at me if my place looked like this," Fang teased, a ghost of his usual spirit returning.

Ratchet snorted. The apartment was a disaster, true. He didn't have much in the way of furniture yet, just a berth and a desk in his bedroom, and a few chairs and a table in the main sitting area. The table had one of the Martian sparklings laying on top of it, half disassembled. He just hadn't had _time _to put it in anything resembling a proper order.

Fang walked over and peered curiously at the sparkling. "Yours?"

"Someday." Ratchet said. "He needs a lot of repairs. He's one of the ones who was burnt badly." He had brought the sparkling up to his quarters so he could work on him undisturbed. If he tried to work in the med bay or one of the labs after his shift, he was bound to be interrupted repeatedly.

"We have plenty of protoforms with nobody living in them," Fang observed. "Easier just to transplant the spark."

"He's somewhat of a triplechanger." Ratchet held his hand out and cast a hologram of what he believed the mech's transformation sequence would look like, showing a sleek jet just large enough to carry a human in a cockpit he was adding, and then to an equally streamlined submarine. Right now, the sparkling was missing most of his armor, plus his feet and faceplate, and his chassis was wide open with the cockpit mods only half completed, but Fang could see that he would be a slender mech, lithe and graceful, with upswept wings and long limbs.

"Whoo, that's a complex design." Fang sounded truly impressed.

"Yes," Ratchet agreed. "It's a beautiful example of engineering. It seemed a shame to just scrap it. I've spent an hour or two every night working on him. Before I wake him, he'll be as good as new. I'm not planning on it soon, but ... someday. This one's mine." He stroked the child's still limbs. It had been the elegant, complicated engineering that had attracted him, the challenge of the complicated repairs and even more trcomplicated modifications, plus the sheer bloody determination of the child's spark to survive injuries to his body that should have been fatal.

Fang nodded, and padded off to look through the doors into the other three rooms. The first one was empty. The second had a stack of plate steel and angle iron, plus a proper mech-sized welding rig and human-designed bottles of acetylene and oxygen. Ratchet intended to make two berths in the bedroom, one for this sparkling and one for a sibling. Optimus had said he would help him do it. Once upon a time, he and Optimus had been simply friends. It had been a very, very long time since they'd done something so ordinary as put together furniture and help one another move into new quarters. Maybe he could talk Fang into finding time to join them; it would do Fang good to simply, as the humans put it, _hang out._ Ratchet thought Fang truly _needed _that sort of very ordinary activity. He needed to learn to be something other than a soldier.

_I could order one of the enlisted to do this, but there's a certain pleasure to making new quarters a home ..._

_The war could be ending, _Ratchet thought. _This could be my home for a long time. _It was too soon to say so, but the leader of the Decepticons had just stepped into his bedroom and was eyeing his berth with real interest. "It's big," Fang said, with a chuckle, clearly noting it was large enough for two, and then some.

"I'm a big mech," Ratchet smirked, following Fang.

Fang trailed a finger over the metal surface of the berth. He still looked lost. His anger was completely gone, but his grief and guilt were obviously back in full force. Ratchet sat down on the edge of the berth and patted it. "Fang, come here."

Fang hesitated, armor tightening up with a clinking of metal on metal. He wrapped one arm across his chest, cupped his opposite elbow, and just stood there looking at Ratchet as if Ratchet had spoken complete gibberish.

"Fang," Ratchet patted the berth again. "Come here and sit down."

Slowly, almost mechanically, Fang did. In a tiny voice, he whispered, "I don't know if I'm actually ready for us to do anything."

"We have an hour." Ratchet carefully didn't touch the other mech. He'd let Fangface make the first move. "It's enough time. I'm willing, if you are. I've got my reservations, Fang. I'm _not _sure if you're ready.

"I want you." Fang stared down at his hands, nervously extending and retracting his claws. "Ratch, I _want _you."

"But you're scared."

"Yes."

"I don't need to ask why." Ratchet kept his hands to himself, though he was aching to touch Fang. "Pros and cons, Fang. What are they?"

"You are _far _too logical." That was a complaint, neither a pro nor a con.

"You run on emotion too much," he countered. Fang's lack of logical, analytical planning was probably _how _he'd managed to pull off the coup, which had to have been at least partly spur of the moment. It was one of his strengths. It was also slagging annoying, and one of his weaknesses, depending on the situation.

Fang huffed a sigh. "We've gone over this before. You've pointed most of the problems with our relationship to me, in exhaustive detail."

Ratchet snorted. "And you're chickening out of answering that."

Fang said softly, "I'm scared this isn't real. And I'm scared you're right and this is foolish."

"And the pros?" Ratchet prompted.

Fang muttered something under his breath and unsubspaced a data cable. More clearly, he said, "Pros win. If it is real, I get you as my lover. Wanted that for a _long _time."

Ratchet closed his hand around the cable end that Fang was offering. He slid backward on the berth, and Fang crawled after him. Ratchet expected Fang to lay down with him, but instead, the predacon simply leaned his back against the wall next to him, and sat with his knees against his chest. They both clicked the data cable home, however, Fang's firewalls were still up, and so were Ratchet's.

He reached out to touch Fang's armor, and Fang flinched.

Ratchet sat back up, surprised. "You don't want to do this?"

"I do!" Fang protested, then he sighed and slumped in place. "I do, but ..." he chewed on a talon, and Ratchet realized Fang's pupils were a little dilated. He was scared enough to activate some battle routines. Ratchet could have kicked himself. Fang had probably _never _had a truly good experience, where interfacing was pure pleasure and a meeting of equal minds, with no anxiety and no crazy emotions. He resolved to take this slow. He probably had some teaching to do.

He truly wasn't sure he wanted this, with Fang, on a personal level. Fang wanted _him_, that was clear enough. And he could see Fang's potential. Someday, given time and care, Fang could be a truly great leader ... he was in the right place, and he had the guts and charisma to pull it off.

Ratchet pointedly lowered his firewalls, giving Fang the opportunity to make the first move. He felt Fang examine his mood, scanning over emotional coding and surface thoughts. Only after Fang had verified Ratchet's mood did Fang lower his own firewalls.

Ratchet realized with a shock that Fang had taken _all _of his defenses down. Fang had laid himself bare before Ratchet, his entire lifetime's memories, his recorded data, his thoughts, his feelings, all of it. Even the firewalls to his autonomics were down. Had Ratchet wanted to, he could have destroyed Fang in a nanoclick, or reformatted him, or taken control of Fang's processor and downloaded every sensitive bit of information Fang had on the 'cons.

It was completely unexpected, yet somehow a very Fang-like thing to do.

Ratchet could tell over the connection between them that Fang was terrified. He'd never exposed himself to _this _extent with Deathwheels. He'd never lowered the firewalls to autonomics, though he had probably granted access to most of the rest. He'd trusted Death implicitly. Ratchet could feel the younger mech's near blind fear, but behind it, a desperate desire to know he could completely trust Ratchet.

_:I understand, Fang, but I can't reciprocate. I can't give you access to everything in my mind.:_

:I know. I'm not asking. I just ...: Fang was calming, a bit. _:_... _I have to trust you. To do that, I have to give you chances to hurt me.:_

Ratchet didn't especially like what that said about Fang's state of mind, but he figured they could address this matter later. _:Fang, you took a chance on Death and he hurt you, and you're worried you're wrong about me, too?:_

:Yeah.: The flare of pain at the mention of Deathwheels, the grief and rage and anger and hurt betrayal, was nearly as strong as it had been right after his death. Ratchet couldn't help but react with concern. He was truly worried that he was not making the right choice, either for himself or for Fang __

Fang reacted with a keen flash of pain, accompanied by swift self-insight. _:I need you, Ratch. I don't know if I could ... if I could function right now ... without you. Does that make me like Death? Because I'd take it really bad if you broke up with me. I want you so bad. I _want _you.:_

He could feel that desperation. On a personal level, it wasn't particularly appealing. Fang sensed that sentiment, and reacted with fear that Ratchet was going to reject him. Ratchet sighed aloud, and responded, _:I worry about you a great deal, and I am afraid that however much you want this, it is not in your best interest. I am _not _rejecting you, however. I worry so much because I see who you are, and I love you for it.:_ He reached up and unlatched his armor.

_:What are you doing?:_

:it's hard to hold you like I want to with half a hummer hanging off my chest.: Ratchet set the plates that formed the hummer's bumper down on the ground beside the berth. This exposed an inner layer of plating, far smoother, with a few exposed sensors and vents. He looked smaller with that bulk gone. _:Now, will you come here and lay with me for a minute?:_

After a moment's consideration, Fang crawled into Ratchet's offered embrace. He could feel Fang's uncertainty, still verging on fear, that he wasn't what Ratchet wanted, and that he was going to fail at everything.

_:Do you really want to do this?: _Fang asked, hesitantly. _:I can feel you're worried about yourself, too.:_

_:I've got too much self-respect to get into a relationship when I don't want to.: _Ratchet responded, with a flare of irritation. _:And yeah, Fang, you're needy and that bothers me. You also, genuinely, are in a situation completely out of your experience. I will say that looking for help from me is a healthier response than denying your needs in an effort to look tough.:_

:I ... am so scared.: Ratchet's annoyance, mild though it was, wasn't helping Fang's fear. _:I didn't think it would be like this. I figured I'd be leading my troops to victory, not ... trying to convince Decepticons that the Autobot way is in our best interest, which is what I effectively need to do.:_  
_  
:I know.: _Ratchet's fingers tugged at a tightly clamped plate of armor on Fang's back. _:Relax. Let me hold you.:_

Fang nodded. Ratchet could sense the mech's thoughts were in a whirl, but he didn't try to read them, as Fang wasn't projecting. He could have, but he chose not to, deliberately putting a barrier up. He kept the contact light and superficial. He wasn't ready for spark-baring honesty and intimacy yet, and he knew that Fang wasn't either, however much Fang craved it.  
_  
:Shh.: _Ratchet went for physical contact rather than mental as slid his fingers under an armor plate, working at it until Fang relaxed it. Finally, when he could feel Fang was far less tense he invited, _:Fang, look at how I feel about you.:_

Concerned or not, he _loved _Fang.

He felt Fang going deeper with his contact, examining Ratchet's feelings and surface thoughts. Ratchet ran a hand down Fang's back, knowing Fang was sensing Ratchet's concern, fondness, and love. _:That's right, Fang. See how I feel. I want to show you some memories I have of you.:_

Ratchet thought of the first time he'd seen Fang on Earth, stepping out of the dust and smoke of a raging battlefield, a vision from their past. Until that moment he had not even been sure that Fang still lived. Reports of a mech who met Fang's description had routinely come in from mechs in the field -- often, mechs who'd just lost a fight -- but they had not been sure. His bitter disappointment when Fang had attacked Bee tinged those memories, and Fang tensed, armor going tight again under Ratchet's touch.

Ratchet followed that by the memory of Fang snarking at them in negotiations on the Ark, the first time he'd _really _seen Fang since he'd left them. The revelation that Fang was a Prime, accepted by a Matrix for his leadership abilities, had been stunning and, yet somehow vindicating. Ratchet had suspected there was more to Fang than just another soldier when he'd known him thousands of years before.

And then Fang had proven himself, multiple times over, and Ratchet had a chance to observe Fang at close range. He had liked what he had seen. The tough little warrior he had known so long ago had grown up, changed, become _more_. And Ratchet's attraction to Fang, born long ago when he had come to know Fang's fire and determination, vulnerability and strength, and sheer courage, had turned to love.

Fang relaxed more. The armor plates that Ratchet stroked now were loose, no longer held rigid and tight. Through his light level of interfacing contact, he sensed that Fang was surprised by Ratchet's consideration, and was regarding Ratchet with curious amber eyes. _:Death ... got pushy when I was unhappy. He always wanted to 'face and know everything. He just plowed into my thoughts and looked at everything. I didn't ... I didn't realize it didn't have to be that way.:_

Ratchet reached up and pressed Fang's head down to rest on his chest. _:You're entitled to be upset sometimes. You have a right to your privacy and I will not violate it without very good reason. If you want to talk, if you want to show me how you feel, you need only ask. If you want privacy, that is your right also.:_

Fang said, _:Ratch, thank you.:_

:Mmmhmm.: Ratchet's rush of affection was answered by love from Fang.  
_  
:... A good reason?: _Fang asked, curious about what Ratchet might find worthy of being pushy.  
_  
:Sometimes I might push, if I think _I _need to know, such as the situation last week where I was concerned you'd been hacked.: _Ratchet rubbed two fingers over Fang's helm.

Fang sighed. _:I thought that interfacing was supposed to be more ... exposing!:  
_  
_:Permission should be granted first.:_

:May I ... go a bit deeper?: Fang's request was hesitant, but accompanied by curiosity and more of those dizzying waves of love. _:I want to know what you thought of the meeting, your perspective on how I was acting. I was wrong, I know, but ... I'm confused, Ratch. I want to see your thoughts.:_

Ratchet gave his assent, pleased that Fang had asked instead of just barging ahead. He felt Fang accessing Ratchet's memories of the meeting. _:Remember you're looking at my opinions, not fact, Fang. I was not always responding rationally.:_

His concerns about's Fang's likely reaction to Ratchet's negative perceptions still stood. However, Fang was already well aware that Ratchet had been pissed, given the snarling Ratchet had done over his comm at him. Fang just wanted to know _why _Ratchet had been so upset, specifically.

He felt Fang opening those memories, and then react with a swirl of emotions, including embarrassment, annoyance at Ratchet's less than complimentary views of Fang's behavior, and -- in reaction to his sudden realization that Ratchet was truly more concerned for Fang's welfare than his own -- a swell of true love and trust.

Death had been a _fool _if he thought Fang couldn't truly attach to someone. Ratchet realized it took him time to trust, and a person would need to prove himself several times over and put up with Fang's crap along the way, and probably even after the trust was achieved because old habits died hard, but Ratchet was flattered and pleased by the feelings coming from Fang. Fang didn't have a calm acceptance and assumption that Ratchet loved him yet. He was anxious, guarded, and he was trying too hard to prove to both himself and Ratchet that his feelings were real. However, Ratchet could feel the love across the bond, and the desire that Fang had for him, mix in with that anxiety.

The rest, and a lessening of anxiety, would come with time. Eventually.

_:Ratchet ... : _Fang said, in response to Ratchet's thoughts, _:Yeah. I think it'll come, what you want of me ... that calmness. I'm just ... it's hard. I've got memories of the lives of past Primes in my Matrix, and many of my predecessors had _good _relationships. I know what that feels like, how a good relationship functions. I want a relationship like that with you. I'm willing to do whatever it takes, but it's not going to be easy. Umm. Can we go deeper now, in the interface? Will you ... deepen it? I'm inviting you, I want you...:  
_  
Ratchet knew that any more connection and they'd start a feedback loop of pleasure. Already, both of them were feeling good: warm, relaxed, calm, reassured. Both were in the mood for more of the same. Ratchet had a rather strong desire to show Fang just how pleasurable interfacing could be, too, when it was done right, and Fang was relaxing. Ratchet would not mind if Fang saw more of his own thoughts and feelings and memories.

_:Mmm ...: _Ratchet responded, but reality intruded. _:Later. Maybe tonight. We don't have time to blow each other's circuits right now.: _  
_  
:Mmmmmmhmmm. You're right, slaggit.: _The predacon sprawled across his chest stretched lazily. _:Looking forward to it, lover.:  
_  
Fang basked in Ratchet's embrace. His mood had shifted a hundred and eighty degrees around. He was calm, alert, relaxed, and a little sleepy. He'd been reassured by Ratchet's affection for him.

_:I promised Prism I'd help her design a new alt mode. Want to come help?: _Fang toyed idly with one of Ratchet's hands. _:Wheelie's going to come too.:_

:Yeah, sure.: Ratchet smiled. _:Be happy to.:_

:Prism will be delighted to see you.: Fang scratched at something on Ratchet's chest. When Ratchet looked down he realized Fang was peeling a sticker off. _:If we're partners, that makes you her guardian too. She'd like that.:_

:Mm. We need to keep this quiet, Fang, for now.:

:I know. But someday ...: Longing filled Fang's thoughts now. _:Someday.:_

* * *

Optimus, amused, watched Ratchet and Fang re-enter the room. Making everyone take a recess had been effective, he determined. Fang looked far better, and he paused to touch Ratchet on the arm and murmur something too low for Optimus to hear. Ratchet gave him a friendly shove in the direction of his seat, then claimed a chair next to him.

_:I trust I'll have cooperation and compromise from here on out?: _He said, to both of them.

_:Thank you, Optimus,: _Fang said, with what sounded like real gratitude. It wasn't exactly an answer to Optimus's question, but the unspoken meaning behind those words was an affirmative.

"Good," he said, aloud, as the others came in. "I'm glad we have an understanding."

* * *

Ranger sat crosslegged on his berth, listening to his sister and Pulsar chase each other through Optimus's quarters. Both of them were giggling hysterically. Pulsar had a nerf gun and very good aim. Wheeljack, who'd agreed to watch Paladin (and bring his kids over to play) was laughing with them.

They were loud, and he found it difficult to focus on the book in his hands. Human books had tiny print and delicate paper, but not all texts could (legally) be found on the internet. If he wanted to (legally) read novels, he had to do it with paper texts. However, he had discovered he didn't really mind. There was a certain pleasure to savoring the words; to stopping and analyzing what the author might have meant beyond the literal context, or to admiring clever turns of phrase. He'd quickly come to prefer leisurely reading a book to zipping through an electronic file in seconds.

And he really did like Harry Potter.

_I should see if Optimus will lift his ban on me communicating over the internet with humans. Maybe if I let him see my comments first, before I post, he would allow it. I'd like to talk to other fans of these books._

Annoyingly, he Optimus -- or, more likely, Elita -- had done something to his internet access. Half the fan web sites that looked interesting were blocked, with a flag that said, "When you're older, kiddo. These sites contain concepts you are not ready to process."

That was definitely Elita's handiwork, he decided. As his secondary guardian, and as a better coder than Optimus, she had done his last operating code updates. He couldn't figure out a way to get around the restrictions without alerting Prowl, or leaving an audit trail Optimus or Elita would catch the next time they updated his code. He wasn't entirely sure what the concepts _were _that they didn't want him seeing, doubling the frustration. He was beginning to wonder if it wouldn't be worth the punishment that would follow to satisfy his curiosity now.

Well, he had two books to go in the series. He reached out and tuned the radio on his desk to a hard rock station, then turned to volume way up. He could listen to music on his internal comm, but playing it out loud drowned the noisy game in the next room out.

Seconds later, Paladin, shrieking, darted into his room. "He's going to get me!" She launched herself onto his berth and dove behind him, scattering several books and two X-men comics that Gallego had suggested he might find interesting.

"Paladin!" He grabbed her and roughly shoved her off. "No! My books!"

Pulsar charged into his room too, firing nerf missiles at her. One hit the radio instead, knocking it off his desk. He caught it in mid air, scowled fiercely at both of them, "OUT!"

"How come you don't want to play with us?" Paladin planted both her hands on her hips.

"Because I want to read. Out!"

"You're no fun." She pouted at him.

"OUT! Get OUT!" He threw a nerf missile at her. "I'm trying to read, you brats!"

Wheeljack peered through the doorway, and saw Ranger with the rescued radio in one hand, and his books scattered across the berth and onto the floor. He then scooped Pulsar up and shooed Paladin out with a gentle shove. "C'mon, you two. I believe Ranger doesn't want to play nerf tag right now."

"Thank you," he called after Wheeljack.

_:You might want to play with Paladin, though. She'd really enjoy it. She looks up to you.:_

:When I finish these books I will. I promised her I would,: he couldn't quite keep the annoyance out of his voice, _:play dolls with her later.:_

:You don't like playing with her dolls?:

:Boring.:

:Ah. Well, tell you what. Pulsar and Paladin want to go up to the observation deck and watch the jets land. Array hates the deck, I think because there's no cover. Will you keep an eye on her? That'll get the two noisy ones out of here so you can read in peace.:

:You want me to babysit?: Wheeljack was supposed to be babysitting Paladin. Ranger himself didn't need a babysitter; somewhat to his disgruntlement, he was realizing that having the former SIC and security director of the entire fleet sharing his processor core could be a bit of a curse. The odds of him _ever _getting into trouble without Prowl's explicit cooperation was slim to none.

On the other hand, he had far more freedom than any of the other sparklings. A double edged sword, as the humans said.

"Array's easy, aren't you?" Wheeljack said. He scooped her up and set her down on the berth next to Ranger. "Stay here, kiddo, and do what Ranger says. Ranger, I'll be just a few minutes away if you need me."

"Okay," he said, slowly, not entirely sure that Optimus would approve -- he'd objected the time that Prism had been left in Ranger's care. On the other hand, Wheeljack would be close by, and Array was easy to take care of. Even now, she was curling into Ranger's side.

From his spark -- his shared spark -- he caught a flash of fear that wasn't his own. It was too late, however. Wheeljack was leaving. Ranger's door slid shut after him.

Array studied him for a minute, then mournfully stared at the door.

"Here, kid. Can you read?" He handed her one of the comics, then rose to pick up the books that had been scattered about. One of his Harry Potter novels had a broken spine now, and the other comic had been torn. He fished around in his desk, found a roll of tape, and repaired the comic to the best of his ability.

Apparently, Array could, in fact, read. When he sat back down on the berth she crawled into his lap, still holding the comic.

The flash of fear from Prowl was stronger, mixed with hatred and anger.

_:Woah, Prowl. What's up?:_

:Nothing.: Prowl sounded more curt than usual. _:Don't worry about it.:_

:I am going to worry about it, because you're scaring me. What's up?:

:Just ... just ignore me. I'm okay.: Prowl sounded uncharacteristically scared and hesitant. He'd always been a warm, confident voice and now he sounded frightened.

_:What is it?: _Ranger demanded. _:You're scaring me!:_

:Bad memories, kid. I don't want to talk about it.:

:Do you want to take over for a bit? I don't mind going into recharge now and waking up earlier than usual tomorrow. You usually don't wake up this early.:

:NO!: The response was nearly panicky. _:No. Ignore me.:_

:Pretty damn hard to ignore you when our spark's full of that much fear.: Ranger shot back at him, frightened.

Array patted his arm, then put her arms around his chest. Her shining blue optics gazed up at him, full of worry. It was if she was asking if he was okay.

"I'm fine, kiddo." He stroked her back like he'd seen the adults to, and like how Elita and Optimus sometimes touched him. Array snuggled closer, and Prowl's fearful reaction spiked even higher. Then, abruptly, Prowl's presence disappeared. Ranger's HUD and the lack of conflicting emotions from their shared spark informed him that Prowl was back in recharge. He'd probably shut himself down deliberately.

Ranger tightened his grip on Array, not understanding Prowl's reaction at all. It was as if he was afraid of Array. But who could be frightened of Wheeljack's silent, innocent child? Array was harmless.

Unsettled, Ranger snapped the radio on. Array lifted her head up at the noise. The station began to play a fast rock and roll song with a strong beat. Array started to bob her head in time to the music. Ranger took the opportunity to distract himself, and began to sing along with the radio. He was no Bumblebee, but he had a good voice, and he was learning that he enjoyed music. The math was _fascinating_.

When the next song began to play, Array sat very still, head tilted to one side. He sang along with the next three songs, and Array simply listened. The fourth song, a Queen tune, caused her to scramble out of his lap and stand in the middle of the room with her optics off and her face turned towards the radio. He stopped singing and watched her, unsure what she was doing.

"_Ummm-mm-mmmmmm ..." _she made a humming noise, then her optics lit. She stared at him, looking startled.

He hummed back at her. Freddy Mercure's clear, pure voice made him want to sing too.

_"Mmmmmmhmmmmmmm!" _She was more emphatic this time, and pretty far off key.

The apartment's main door slid open. _:Wheeljack, is that you?:_

:Yeah. Who's in here with you?: Clearly, Wheeljack had heard an unfamiliar voice.

_:That's Array.:_

:What? I've never heard her make any noise!:

:She likes rock and roll, apparently.:

"Mmmmmhmmmm-HMMM-mmm!" She hummed. "Mm? Mmmmmm? _MMMM?!" _She seemed to be experimenting, now, trying to figure out how to hit the right pitch.

Wheeljack appeared, with Pulsar and Paladin close on his heels. Pulsar exclaimed, "Array! You did it!" Paladin cheered too.

She fell silent, hugging herself, optics open wide with sudden fright.

Pulsar shook his head, reacting to some unspoken communication from his twin. "I know it's not words, but you can do it!"

Wheeljack crouched down, then said aloud, "Good job, kiddo. You want to try it again? I can play the same song if you want ..."

Pulsar winced, even as she pulled away from Wheeljack. Pulsar explained, "She doesn't want to try again. She doesn't like it when lots of people look at her." He glanced up at Ranger, though. "She likes Ranger. She says Ranger's quiet and he doesn't get excited. She doesn't like it when people get excited."

"Sorry, kiddo." Wheeljack apologized, standing up. "I know you don't like us to fuss over you, but I'm really happy you figured out how to make noise." He sighed. "I just wish you could talk to us."

Array tilted her head sideways, then walked back to the berth and picked up the comic book, which she had dropped when she'd grown interested in the music. She pointed at the title.

"X-Men?" Wheeljack guessed.

She shook her head, frowned, and flipped the comic open. She tapped the word, "I" and then shuffled through several pages to find, "read" followed by (after quite a bit of search), "can."

Pulsar crowed triumphantly, "Yay, Array!"

Wheeljack crouched down again. After a moment's obvious thought he asked, "Can you write?"

She shook her head, frowning. Then she searched through the comic book to find the words, "Broken ... up ... letters ... mixed."

Her brother added, "She says she can read, but she can't put the letters together to _make _words. She just can't do it."

_:Wheeljack, is it possible she's got circuit damage?: _Ranger asked.

_:We've scanned her twice, Ranger _and _actually_ _replaced her processor core. It's a lot easier to replace a processor on a sparkling than an adult ...: _He trailed off. _:Her code's fine, too, but she's not _accessing _the right routines, even when I've shown them to her. It's either psychosomatic or a spark trait. Just like you're profoundly gifted, some sparklings just ... lack ... certain skills most of us take for granted.:_

:Oh. But there has to be a way to help her.:   
_  
_"Hmm." Wheeljack unsubspaced a datapad. He sat down crosslegged on the floor, jacked the datapad in to his port, and fiddled with it for a minute. To Array he said, "Here. I've put several thousand common English words. We'll probably have to mess with this a bit and fine tune it, but now you can point out words. It'll be nice to be able to _talk _to you, kiddo."

She flung her arms around Wheeljack's neck and hugged him. Then she fiddled with the datapad for a moment to put together the sentence, "Thank you ... wheel ... thing ... talk me."

"Wheel thing?" He blinked at her.

She searched through the vocabulary for a moment. "Daddy ... wheel ... thing."

"Jack's not listed in there," Wheeljack slapped himself in the forehead. "I'll add everyone's names, kiddo. Daddy's close enough, I guess, for now."

She grinned at him, then turned the datapad around and pointed repeatedly at, "Thank you!" Then she hunted for a moment, turned the pad to Ranger, and showed him the words, "Quiet good kid. Like."

"Glad you like me." Ranger smiled as she climbed back into his lap. __

:Looks like you've got a fan there,: Wheeljack laughed. _:She's kinda wary of people. Do you mind being her buddy?:_

:Not at all.: He grinned at Wheeljack. _:She's quiet too.:_

Aloud, Ranger asked her, "Do you like reading?"

She showed him the words, "Read fun good. Story book you read too. Speak?"

He frowned. "I don't understand."

Pulsar interpreted, "She wants you to read aloud."

"I don't know if she'll understand Harry Potter ..." he worried.

Emphatically, she jabbed at the book he'd been reading earlier. Pulsar said, "She thinks she will. And I want to listen too."

"Me too!" Paladin agreed.

"We can try it." He dubiously picked up the first book in the series. The other two sparklings crawled up on his berth with him, one on each side of him.

He looked up at Wheeljack, who simply smiled.

He opened the book carefully, and with a mental shrug, began to read. At least they weren't chasing each other across his berth now ... he wanted to talk to someone about Prowl, but he thought that could wait. Prowl remained soundly asleep.

He was still reading, and all three of them (plus Wheeljack, who'd taken a seat at the desk) were still engrossed, when Optimus returned from his marathon meeting with the other Primes hours later. He looked up to find his mentor leaning against the door frame and smiling fondly at him. _:You make me proud, Ranger.:_

He considered bringing the issue with Prowl up to Optimus, but ruled that out. He didn't want to worry Optimus, who had enough other concerns. He wasn't sure who he was going to talk to, but it would definitely not be his mentor. Therefore, he simply said, _:Thank you.:_

Optimus smiled. He looked tired, but pleased. _:It's about time for Prowl to take over, isn't it?:_

:Yeah. I have ten minutes remaining.: Reluctantly, he closed the book, which earned him whined protests from the other three kids. "Sorry," he told them, "but we can do this tomorrow."  
_  
:Tomorrow, Elita's going to take you into Tranquility to help with the rebuilding. Paladin's going too.:_

He nodded, rising. It really was time for Prowl to take over. His HUD warned him Prowl was waking up, too. He wondered if it was wrong of him to resent Prowl, just a little. Earlier, he'd been willing to let Prowl take over, but now he was enjoying reading to the others, and he had to stop.

Optimus straightened up, entered his room, and pulled him close in a brief hug. "I've got to go back to the meeting, but I wanted to see you before your time was up."

"Thanks," he murmured, leaning into the hug before pulling away. "I'll see you tomorrow, Optimus."

_:You ready, kid?: _Prowl sounded a little reluctant. However, there was also a flash of jealousy from his spark. Prowl added apologetically, _:Sorry. My own mentor never ... cared for me, like Optimus cares for you. I can't imagine him leaving an important meeting just to say good night to me.:_

:He cares about you, too.:

:I know he does.:

He bent over and told the other three kids, "I've got to let Prowl take over, in just a minute. I'll see you tomorrow."

She pouted. "Will Prowl read to us?"

Ranger felt a flash of unease at that thought, though he couldn't define why. He trusted Prowl. However, Optimus answered her, "Sorry, Paladin. I've got a job for Prowl."

Ranger felt Prowl's interest in that statement. He ceded control to the other mech, and felt his body become not his own. Someone else was moving his limbs, looking through his optics, operating his vocalizer. His HUD informed him that he'd shifted his color to white, but it had not been his command.

"Prowl, good evening." Optimus's entire body language changed, becoming more formal. "Ratchet has told me he believes you could handle some light duty work."

"I'd appreciate that, sir."

"I need someone to compile information about the defensive capabilities of Earth's cities."

"I can do that, sir." Prowl added, to Ranger, _:Go to sleep, kid. This'll be boring and tedious.:_

Ranger sighed. _:I'd learn a lot, watching you.:_

:Yes, and you need your recharge. I'll leave you a file showing you the data. You can look at it tomorrow.:

Reluctantly, he powered down. It felt weirdly rude to cycle into recharge while Optimus was talking, even though he really wasn't a party to the conversation. His last conscious awareness was of Array leaning against Prowl's leg, and Prowl reacting with a flash of fear even as he stroked her helm.


	95. Chapter 95

Chapter 95

* * *

Sam caught Bee around the waist and spun him about playfully. Bee was laughing, grinning, a little hyped up with lack of recharge. The Autobot's laugh was just a little wired. The con had proven to be more fun than either of them had expected, and both of them were a bit buzzed from it. The evening was warm, and the area around the pool empty, as most of the fans were headed for the masquerade. He took the opportunity to wrestle Bee up against the wrought iron fence around the pool and kiss him thoroughly and with enthusiasm.

Laughter made both of them stop, though the giggles weren't aimed at them. A couple girls and a guy stepped out of Jazz's room, and Sam recognized them as part of the pack who had quickly become Jazz's shadow. Jazz followed, neatly twisting through the doorway. He'd done something to his armor, as it was pitch black. A line of red lights on his chest plate made Sam frown suspiciously.

"What are you wearing?" Sam asked, of the guy, who had appeared to have some sort of fluffy fake fur stuck to his head. He gestured at his own head with a laugh.

"I'm Michael Knight," the guy said, grinning broadly.

"I ... see that. Is that a dead poodle on your head?" Sam teased. The wig was curly, thick, and black.

The man held his arms wide, displaying a black leather jacket, skin-tight jeans, and a bright red silk shirt. He also had on a plastic watch and converse sneakers. "Height of 80's fashion."

"That's just radical, man." Bee grinned.

Sam turned to Jazz. "Don't tell me. I do _not _know you."

Jazz's grin was every bit as bright as Bee's. "It's about the _only _character we could think of that I could go as. I'm not transcanning anything new -- we can't afford the energon -- but I think we've got the effect down with some kibble they stuck on me. Though I did try to convince them to let me go as Bee." He tilted his head. "You two are not going in costume?"

Bee shook his head. "We got drafted to help judge."

Sam held a hand up. "I'm in costume. I'm going as a mundane."

The fans snickered. He grinned, happy he'd made them laugh. He was truly enjoying himself, and he hadn't expected to at all.

* * *

The masquerade was just way too much fun. The participants came as everything from anime characters to vampires to three women who pulled off a rather good Captain Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. However, inspired by recent news, a good number of the participants had shown up in Transformer costumes ranging in complexity from spray-painted cardboard to professional-looking chromed plastic that could pass for metal at a distance.

When Jazz rolled on stage with ''Michael Knight" and both girls (now wearing skanky 80's hot pants and tight t-shirts) they got a roar of applause. The applause turned to laughter when they did a skit where the 'Michael Knight' guy proved to have a lousy singing voice, and 'KITT' kept complaining and telling him he was supposed to be able to sing better than that, and then finally took over and finished 'We are the Champions' for him.

The last category of the evening was Giant Alien Robots. Sam had initially not been sure if he should be anticipating that category, or dreading it. It turned out the former emotion was correct. He laughed until he cried at a steampunk-inspired Wheeljack (proving these people paid attention to Bee's blog!), clapped enthusiastically at child wearing a Chibi Optimus, and was inordinately impressed by a man who'd engineered a human-sized Bumblebee suit that actually folded down and transformed. It even had a small engine and once he transformed it, he could drive it around the stage.

Afterwards, Bee excitedly towed Sam through the crowds to the stage and insisted that he, Jazz and Sam have his photo taken with every single person in costume.

Jazz, the red light still racing back and forth across his chest, joined him and observed, "Wheeljack is going to _love _that."

"Wait'll Elita sees Little Optimus!" Bee wrapped his arm around the miniature Optimus's shoulders; the costume came up to his elbow. The girl inside giggled. Her mother beamed and snapped a bunch of pictures. Then, after asking their mothers' permission, Jazz boosted Chibi Optimus up onto his shoulder, and picked up another kid who was dressed as an Inuyasha, and posed for more photographs.

After Jazz set the kids down and sent them off to play, Sam overheard him inviting their parents to visit him at the base next month (they apparently lived in Vegas), then adding soberly, "I ... don't want you to tell them about it for a couple of weeks, though, okay? I've got a mission coming up."

_Oh, geeze_. Suddenly, Jazz's over-the-top partying made a bit more sense to Sam. He'd been mildly intoxicated most of the weekend with whatever it was that Autobots did to get the robot equivalent of drunk. He was a happy, cheerful drunk but it had seemed odd to Sam. Sam knew that Jazz was very likely to be sent into the thick of it if there was a fight coming up. He also knew that behind Jazz's perpetual good cheer lurked a very capable mech who'd earned the respect of every mech Sam had heard speak of him.

The women regarded him uneasily, likely remembering for the first time that Jazz was a soldier, until Jazz shrugged. "I'm good at my job, and I don't anticipate too much trouble. And, hey, with lovely children like your two on Earth, it's all the more motivation for me to keep this world safe, yes?"

After a brief intermission the con had a dance planned, with a DJ who was dressed as an anime character that Sam didn't recognize. Sam danced until his lungs and his legs burned, with not just Bee but nearly everyone else, including a few men. Bee danced with _everyone_, with abandon and enthusiasm, though Sam noted he needed to take regular breaks. He was growing mildly concerned about Bee's health, but decided to save the questions for after the con -- Bee would probably be defensive and evasive and he didn't want to ruin the mood.

Jazz had taken up a position in a corner of the room, and for safety's sake they'd put a protective barrier of ropes up. He was big enough to do real damage if he stepped on a human, and despite the sonar that Sam knew most Autobots ran as a matter of course around humans, that could happen if there were too many people crowded around him for Jazz to avoid. However, somebody found a small raised stage and set it up and there was a long procession of women (and one or two men, but Jazz seemed to have more girl appeal) who climbed up on top to 'dance' with Jazz at a more convenient level than knee-high. Jazz looked like he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

At the end of the night, the crowd started to thin, though plenty of people still remained. The DJ played a slower song, a love song. Sam, smiling, turned to look for Bee.

Bee was seated on a chair by the side of the room. He looked tired, but when Sam approached, he rose. Sam offered his hand, "Can I have this dance?"

Bee's eyes _lit_. "Sam?" He murmured, giving the room a significant look.

"I don't _care_," he said, a little defiantly and a lot truthfully. "C'mon."

Bee fit so easily into his arms. He held him close, folding Bee into his arms, moving easily to the beat of the music. Bee was so warm, so alive, so _right _in his arms. He had made his choice. No matter what happened, he decided, he wasn't going to regret it.

_I love him. This is who I belong with, and supporting the Autobots is what I want to do with my life._

And he found he _truly _didn't care what anyone else thought. It just didn't matter anymore. He'd found his place in the world, and the opinions of the rest of the universe didn't matter.

* * *

_:Freedom!:_ Fang cried, tightly encrypted. He ran on all fours past Ratchet down Fort Max's great hall. _:I have escaped!:_

Ratchet smirked, watching him. It was probably unprofessional behavior on Fang's part, but he certainly understood Fang's sentiment. Anyway, anyone who knew Fang even casually learned about his hyper excess of energy in very short order. Fang had two basic modes of operation: literally bouncing off the walls, and emo depression, and Ratchet was pretty sure he was one of two mechs in the universe who'd ever seen Fang be emo.

He strongly suspected that Fang had moped alone (which was never healthy for a species with social needs as strong as theirs) out of lack of trust of basically anyone, until Deathwheels had cracked his walls.

Well, Ratchet decided, the exuberant display shouldn't actually surprise anyone. Also, he was encrypting the comments tightly enough that it would take real work for someone to decrypt ... only to find out that Fang had just been bantering with a friend after a long meeting had let out. Perhaps people would assume that Fang was just testing out a new repair, since it was well known that Ratchet did Fang's medical care.

During the meeting, they had established that teams of squishy-safe Autobots would be dispatched to Earth cities for Earth-based defenses. Fang's troops, who were assumed to be largely dangerous to allow around humans, would be split between monitoring stations around all of this system's major planets and some of the significant moons, and staffing some cloaked orbital defense and surveillance platforms in high Earth orbit. Autobots not considered safe around humans, plus some general bad-ass fighters, would be put in low Earth orbit as a rapid strike force capable of arrival within moments via quantum teleport or hot reentry. They only had a handful of mechs on either side who could teleport safely to the planet's surface.

Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Perceptor had been assigned the task of making more mechs jump-capable. Silverbolt was on the short list for that, since he was not capable of atmospheric reentry.

The only Decepticon mechs to be permanently stationed on Earth would be those directly involved with the sparklings, and those capable of teleporting. Teleporters would be stationed on Earth, not in orbit, because orbital stations were so slagging vulnerable to ranged attacks. Earth's atmosphere limited the effective range of energy weapons.

Fang had seemed pleased by the logic of their plans, and had indicated he would recall many of his Decepticons to Earth's system, pending approval of the humans. Ratchet didn't envy the humans that choice: trust the Decepticons, or face alien invaders who were potentially worse. He knew that he'd flat-out bet on Fang, with his only caveat being Fang's potentially limited control over his troops at this stage, but the humans didn't know Fang.

Ratchet suspected that once the Decepticons were within Fang's direct sphere of influence, i.e., within Skywarp's teleporting range, Fang would be able to kick afts, take names, and increase his power base. Fang's power came from the twin appeal to the 'cons of a mech who could tear an opponent to shreds while simultaneously being very predictable. He didn't kill anyone who didn't need killing, so the mechs who did follow him didn't need to worry about being fragged in a fit of rage.

They were tentatively planning an attack on the presumably Nebulan ship in orbit within the next week. They couldn't allow it to remain there. It was just too much of a hazard to Earth, and they wanted to make the attach a surprise. Optimus had assigned Jazz the task of planning that assault, as Jazz's expertise was strongly along the lines of sabotage and destruction. Fang had offered the assistance of Skywarp, Onslaught, Blast off, and Movor. Jazz had not yet accepted the offer, but Ratchet hoped he would.

However, they had not yet decided if this would be a sneak attack, with one or two mechs slipping aboard with explosives, or a full out assault. Ratchet personally hoped they tried sabotage first, with mechs standing by for a direct attack if sabotage failed. The problem was that they really didn't know what they were attacking. If it was a Cybertronian ship they could make some assumptions, but it could be anything from a dreadnought the size of a small moon to a small orbital surveillance satellite with a greenhouse attached.

Between Jazz, Mirage, and Wheeljack, they had the makings of one hell of a team of saboteurs. Ratchet didn't want to see it turn into a shooting battle simply because they had no idea what would be shooting back at them.

The other issue they'd discussed in some detail was the search for the _Freedom. _

With sending him as a medic in mind, Fang had scheduled Rivet for a long-overdo upgrade to a far bigger protoform. Along with Rivet, he would send Crowbar and potentially Onslaught, though Fang indicated he wanted to talk to Onslaught first. Leading the team would be Grimlock (if Onslaught wasn't going) or Magnus (if he was.) Nobody found it a good idea to mix Grimlock and Onslaught on the same team. As Bee had observed, that would be like putting acetone, peroxide, and Wheeljack in the same room. However, they all thought it a good idea to have a very strong leader in charge with a mixed crew of 'cons and 'bots, and zero doubt about the chain of command.

Rodimus was not keen on losing Magnus for several months, but they could spare him -- and as Optimus's brother, it was fitting that he search for a ship commanded by Optimus's son. The rest of the crew would be established after they figured out exactly where the ship was likely to have come out of subspace, and if they might have made planetfall somewhere. The composition of a search crew would be affected by the location. Teletraan was currently running calculations regarding a likely subspace break point, and possible stellar systems within range of that point.

_Primus, I hope we find them. _Ratchet knew it was a long shot, but not an impossibility.

Ahead of them, Fang spun about on his heels and charged back towards Ratchet. Ratchet knew that Fang was going to come to a sliding stop next to him purely from experience with Fang's quirks. He smiled, watching Fang approach. Fang had his ears pricked all the way forward and his optics fixed on Ratchet, and he was running flat out. If he'd planned to pounce on Ratchet, he would have slowed down some. He could get more of a sliding stop with greater speed, but risked doing damage to himself or his target if he hit someone while running full out.

He was beautiful. Physical attraction had very little to do with Cybertronian romance, but Fang's form, all predatory grace and agility, speed and power, was _art_. Ratchet didn't think he could ever get tired of watching Fang.

"No!" someone shouted, abruptly shattering Ratchet's calm.

Ratchet booted his combat routines so fast they triggered some painful errors in his hydraulics. He saw a blur of motion. He barely had time to recognize the mech -- a front liner he barely knew.

_:Fang, DOWN!: _he shouted, able to spit the command out over the comms faster than he could with his vocalizer.

Unquestioning, unhesitating, Fang went from a dead run to flattening himself to the floor so fast that he slid across the metal decking. Sparks flew from his chassis. His attacker fired a burst of plasma at the same time; it crackled through the air and splashed into the far wall, hissing over Fang's back by inches. There wasn't enough power in that strike to harm Fang, but Ratchet had not known initially what he'd been armed with.

_Idiot, _Ratchet thought, _Fang's not invulnerable, but he's got an outsized force shield for his size._

Klaxons sounded nearly instantly. Ratchet yanked his own cannon up even as the Autobot lowered his aim towards Fang, who was rising again with a clear intent to find cover. Fang might be able to weather the plasma strikes from that weapon, but there was no way of knowing if the mech was acting alone, or if that was his only cannon. Fang sensibly bolted for the shelter of a doorway and let Ratchet deal with it. That wasn't cowardice, it was an acknowledgment of both the political sensitivities and the fact that Ratchet had far better ranged weapons.

Ratchet didn't bother to order the other mech to cease fire. He just shot back, with very good aim. The other mech had his force shield up, but Ratchet had the power cells to pack a formidable punch, and the other soldier was heavily outgunned. The blast flung the mech into a wall hard enough to bend struts and leave a sizable dent that broke some lights. The inertial stress knocked him temporarily offline.

_:Sorry, Max,: _Ratchet comm'd him, even as he ran towards the mech. He aimed his cannon at the soldier's optics.

"Why?" the attacking mech said, as he came back online.

Ratchet belatedly retrieved his designation, Arrowhead, as well as a psych profile that left him unsurprised that he'd attacked. "You shot at a _Prime_," he growled. The mech was a known hothead, suspicious, and arrogant and not particularly stable.

_:I'm okay, Ratch.: _Fang stepped out of the doorway. A door slid shut behind him, and Ratchet realized it was a normally locked supply closet. Fangface added, _:Thanks, Max.:_

Apparently, Fortress Maximus had unlocked and opened the door for him. Max didn't miss much. Ratchet added his own praise for Max's quick thinking.

_:Get your aft over here, Fang,: _Ratchet growled at him, letting some of his aggravation with Arrowhead bleed into his words to Fang. As Fang warily approached did, the Autobot warrior tensed. Fang hadn't even blinked at the irritated note in Ratchet's voice.

Ratchet said quietly, "Fang is not our enemy."

"He was going to attack you!" Arrowhead snarled.

"Hardly." Fang sniffed. "If I was going to attack Ratchet, I'd damn well make sure he didn't see it coming. I value my aft too much to give him a chance to fight back. He can _beat _me. Unlike you. If I'd wanted you dead, I could have done it. That cannon of yours could not overpower my force shield before I ripped your spark out."

"I know what I saw!" The mech snarled, "And if you're so hot, why'd you run?"

Ratchet snorted. "Aside from the fact it could provoke others to defend you, would _you _stand still if someone was shooting at you? The concussion hurts even with a force shield."

At that moment, Red Alert screamed up on four wheels, lights blazing. He'd taken the form of a human police car with the Autobot logo replacing a department's shield on his logo. He transformed with lightning speed and asked Fang, "Are you unhurt?"

"I'm fine." Fang chewed on his nail. "Red, don't be too hard on him. I can see how he thought I was attacking Ratch."

Red rolled his optics. "I was watching you on video, Fang. That didn't look like an attack. That looked like a sparkling screwing around."

"Are you calling me a sparkling?" Fang straightened up to his full height, and regarded Red Alert with affronted indignation.

Red ignored Fang's irritation and asked instead, "Fang, what do you want us to do?"

Arrowhead snapped, "Why are you asking him?"

"Because he's a Prime, and you attacked him." Red Alert turned to Arrowhead, optics blazing with anger. "You _glitch_. I've got enough to do without a stupid idiot picking a fight with the Decepticons by trying to kill their leader. _Primus_."

Fang waved his hand casually. "I'm not hurt_. _It was probably poor judgment, but I can certainly see why he thought I might be attacking Ratchet."

"Primus." The oath came from Tracks, who was part of a large group of gathering spectators. "Lord Fangface, you're the leader of the Decepticons and you're comfortable enough among us to roughhouse with Ratchet, and you're just basically a decent mech, and one of _our _number attacks you? I'm embarrassed. And he's an idiot."

Ratchet could see Fang hesitate. His gaze seemed to go distant for a moment. Ratchet suspected he was consulting his Matrix. Then Fang said, "Arrowhead's afraid of me. I could ask for a punishment, but that isn't going to help him get over that, now will it? This is not like with Skywarp as Arrowhead is rational."

"No," Ratchet agreed, impressed by what he thought Fang was going to do.

Fang bent over and offered Arrowhead a hand up. The Autobot warrior, very warily, accepted -- and only after Red Alert made a throat-clearing noise borrowed from their English lexicon. Ratchet detected a quick, encrypted discussion between Fang and Optimus.

"Mm." Fangface nodded. "Optimus agrees. Arrowhead, you will meet me at ten AM tomorrow. I need a flunky who I can trust not to squish the squishies and who's street legal. For the next week, you're _mine_."

Arrowhead tried to appeal to Red Alert. "Sir! Am I supposed to ..."

Optimus had comm'd Red Alert also. Red grunted. "You answer his commands like he's one of our officers for the next week."

"But ..." Arrowhead seemed genuinely frightened. "But ... he's a 'con!"

"He's a _Prime_." Ratchet growled this out. "As am I. You will be assigned to Fangface, and you will answer to him as you would any Autobot officer, or you will answer to _me_. And I can guarantee that he's a lot more agreeable than I am."

Arrowhead blinked, then stood with his armor clamped tight and his mouth set into a very unhappy line.

Red Alert added, "And as for tonight, and every night for the next week after your shift, you'll spend it in the brig. That's not for assaulting the Decepticon Prime. That is for discharging a weapon within Fortress Maximus in such a way as to cause him harm." Red pointed at the scorched wall. Then he gave Arrowhead a shove in the direction of the brig. "Starting now. March. I'll let you out fifteen minutes before you're to meet with Fang tomorrow."

After the crowd had dispersed and they were headed back for the exit, Fang said softly, "Thanks, Ratch."

Ratchet grinned and told the crowd, "Behold, a Decepticon leader who knows how to display gratitude. The universe has officially ended."  
_  
:C'mon, Ratchet. My sparkling awaits.: _Fang summoned his dignity, and walked at a far more sedate pace to the door.  
_  
_

* * *

There were a two different ways they could have designed Prism's new alt mode. The easiest, given a sparkling with a different temperament than Prism, would have been to feed her some scans and enable her transformation subroutines. She _did _have the ability to transcan and/or modify her armor with nanytes, once the right code was unlocked.

However, Prism was impulsive, didn't follow directions particularly well, and was not very good at thinking problems through. They were also rationing energon, and transcans took a huge amount of power. Fang had, therefore, vetoed Prism's request to 'do it herself' and told her she wasn't ready, end of story. There were countless ways that a young sparkling could screw themselves up with badly handled transcans.

That left a manual redesign. It was a lot more labor, but Fang loved working with his hands. The company also promised to be excellent. He looked forward to doing something fun with Ratchet and with his children. _Family_, he thought. _Someday we could be true family. Ratchet's child and Prism be raised as siblings._

"That's very good work, Wheelie," Ratchet said, examining a three-dimension render that Wheelie had done of most of the tiny armor plates.

"Coulda done that," Prism said, a bit sullenly. "_Did _do that."

Prism had, in fact, come up with a fairly good design. However, it had some flaws that Wheelie had corrected at Fang's request. It was good training for Wheelie. Fang beamed too, in reaction to Ratchet's praise. He was so very proud of Wheelie, who'd come so far, from a sullen, scared little mech, who acted far older than his years, to the bright-eyed youngling seated on the table now.

Fang had always known Wheelie had potential, and he was entirely thrilled to see him get a chance as Ratchet's apprentice. Proper medical and engineering training was an opportunity that Fang had never had. _I would have been a far better medic than warrior, _he thought, with some grief for what might have been.

"C'mere, kiddo. We should show you the changes Wheelie made, and why he made them. You'll be doing it all yourself soon enough." Ratchet reached out, picked her up off the table next to Fang, and set her down on his shoulder. "Wheelie, show her the changes you made."

"Here, kid ..." Wheelie, who was standing on Fang's work bench, cast a render of the armor into the air. "You had a big huge seam here, on your legs. I made the armor plate on your leg thinner and tucked in, and flared it over your hips, so it overlaps, but doesn't restrict mobility ..."

"No." Prism pouted. "Want _mine_. My design."

"Prism, be nice." Fang heard the ominous notes of an incipient tantrum in that tone.

"MY design!" She hissed. "MINE! No changes! MINE!"

Ratchet very calmly pulled her off his shoulder and dropped her into Fang's outstretched hands. Fang commanded, "Prism, look at me."

"NO!" She crossed her arms and stared down at the ground.

"Prism, your brother's spent a lot of time on this." He was dismayed by her behavior. He'd been looking forward to an evening spent having a good time with her. She was ruining not just everyone else's fun, but her own as well. It was keenly disappointing.

"NO! MINE! His is ugly!" As he suspected, she wasn't going to back down.

"Hey, runt!" Wheelie protested, not really mad, but starting to sound annoyed. "It's not ugly, it's better!"

"Not mine! Not better! Hate it! Want my design! Wheelie's is ugly!" She twisted around to Fang and slapped a small hand against his chest. "I'm better! I'm yours! Don't let him ruin it! I want Wheelie to go away! I'm your sparkling! Me!"

"Prism, don't be rude." He scowled at her.

As if encouraged by Fang's rebuke, she turned to Wheelie and hissed at him. "I don't want you! I want Ratchet and Fang! Not you! Go away!"

Wheelie cast a dismayed expression first at Fang, then at Ratchet. Ratchet reached a hand out and rested it across Wheelie's shoulders in wordless support. Despite that, Wheelie's expression changed from his initial hurt and shock to hard anger. He pressed his mouth together angrily and didn't say anything, but Fang could tell he was pissed.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" Prism screamed at Ratchet, then chucked something at Wheelie -- a crayon, apparently tucked into a pocket under her current armor. The crayon bounced harmlessly off Wheelie's forehead. Wheelie glared.

"That's it." Fang plunked her down on a completely empty table. "You have three seconds to knock it off or we won't be making your new armor tonight."

"NO!"

"One."

"NOOOOO!"

"Two."

"I HATE YOU! YOU DON'T LOVE MEEEEEEEEEE!"

"Three."

"FUCK YOU!" His sparkling snarled at him.

Fang stared at her, in complete disbelief. He was so shocked he had no idea how to react. He heard Ratchet click in surprise, and Wheelie mutter under his breath in disbelief

She sniffed and turned her back to him. At her absolute maximum volume she screeched, "I HATE YOU!"

"That's it." He'd made the threat, so he was going to carry through. Very calmly, he picked her up, carried her all the way to her berth (which was mounted on the wall above his berth), plopped her down, and walked away. He was disappointed that they would not be designing her armor today, but he figured he needed to make his point. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

"I'm not going to stay here!" she told him as he headed for the door.

"You don't have to stay on the berth. You can sleep on the floor if you want. If you leave the bedroom, however, you'll have to scrub my entire lab floor before you get to be a kitty. It will be very boring to do."

She was silent, probably wondering if he was serious.

"That's on top of cleaning Mrs. Lennox's house."

Not a peep came from his sparkling. She'd probably concluded he _was_ serious.

He turned back to face her. "I love you, Prism, but your behavior was unacceptable. If you can't behave nicely, nobody will want to do fun things with you. It's part of my job to teach you how to be nice."

"I'll be nice." She still sounded sullen.

"You can be nice later. Think about how your own actions ruined things for you tonight." _And for us. _He'd been looking forward to doing something fun with Ratchet and his kids, _smelt _it. Wheelie was just starting to trust him again.

"Fang, don't go!" she screamed. He ignored that, though he really wanted to go hold her, because he could hear the real upset in her voice now. "Don't go!"

The door slid shut behind him. It wasn't locked -- he _wouldn't _lock her up -- but she was alone. He could hear her whimpers through it. The isolation, limited though it was, would be as effective of a punishment as anything else he could devise.

In a low voice, as he returned to the lab, Ratchet said, "Nicely done."

"What set her off?" Wheelie asked. He still sounded ticked off. "Slag, she just blew."

Fang shook his head, "Jealousy, insecurity, who knows." He leaned against Ratchet for a moment, making Wheelie's eyes widen. The youngling looked Fang to Ratchet, then back. Fang relaxed further into Ratchet's arms, drawing comfort from Ratchet's sturdy confidence.

"No way. You guys must be really official now, even if it's all secret-like," Wheelie blurted out. "About slagging time!"

"Yeah, we're official, I guess, though we're keeping it quiet." Fang asked. "And you're on the need to know list."

Wheelie smirked. "Ratchet's the God of the Med Bay. You couldn't do better than him, Boss Kitty."

"... Boss Kitty?" Fang asked.

Wheelie's expression grew into an open grin. "Well. I think I should be going now, because you two are just _adorable _and I don't want to get in the way or anything ..."

"Get." Ratchet agreed. "And you better watch the teasing, runt, or Prism won't be the only one scrubbing the floor."

"Byeeeeee!" Wheelie sang out as he bolted for the door.

After his elder youngling was gone, Fang said, "I have no _idea _what set Prism off like that."

Ratchet shrugged. "She's testing you. It won't be the last time she sees what she can get away with. That child's a handful and a half."

"She was so upset. I hate upsetting her." He leaned into Ratchet's arms. "Wheelie got away with a lot of crap, you know, because I hated hurting his feelings. He turned out okay, but Prism's different."

"Wheelie's got a sense of justice and fairness that Prism does not innately possess. Remember, Wheelie made the choice to turn his back on the Decepticons all on his own, based on his own conclusions and observations -- and the Autobots and Mikaela weren't exactly welcoming. She burned his eye out and he _still _was able to see past that and see that he was fighting or the wrong side. Prism, on the other hand, doesn't like to think past her own self interest. Keep after her and she'll learn, but it won't come naturally to her." Ratchet straightened up. "C'mon. Speaking of difficult people, Optimus asked me to get your take on the temperaments of your Bruticus combiner team and Movor and find out what your plans for them are."

"They're all formidable fighters. I'm going to keep Movor here, for transporting crews to assignments. I _have _worked with him once before, and I think he'll be fine here. He's a good mech." Fang straddled his desk chair backwards, "Blast Off got sent on solo surveillance missions by Megatron a lot, at least partially because he _is _stable enough to handle it, and I'll continue to do that. However, it can't have been fun for him to be alone, and it wasn't right to do that. I'm going to acknowledge how miserable that was for him, and then assign him someone to keep him company."

"Does he have a partner, or an interest in anyone?"

"Dunno, but Swindle probably could give me an idea, or Onslaught." Fang rested his chin on his arms for a moment. Ratchet was comfortably leaning against a table. It felt so _good _to be discussing this sort of thing with Ratchet. Ratchet had a tendency to reinforce and expand on his ideas, rather than shooting him down or arguing. "Hopefully, that'll go a long way towards ensuring his loyalty and general morale. And as far as _ensuring _his loyalty goes, I'm going to make sure he's seen some video of me in combat."

"Heh. That'll help."

"Carrot and a stick, as the humans say." Fang regarded Ratchet through half-lidded optics. "As far as Onslaught goes, he's tougher. He has no love for Autobots, but he's a fairly brilliant tactician and commander. In many ways, he's like Strika, though he has far more of a temper when he's crossed. According to the psych profiles I have on him, he's also stable and sane enough that I believe he could be entrusted with sparklings. My plan with Onslaught is to appeal to his logic. We can't defend this world or provide for the sparklings alone, yadda yadda."

"And the rest of the team?"

"Brawl's psychotic. Not virus glitched, but definitely minus some circuits. He may have some arc-out problems, honestly, from what I've heard of him and what his profile implies. Dumb and aggressive to the point of being irrational. Vortex is functional, but he's the one who worries me the most. He's got a vindictive streak and he's very good at head games. Likes torture for the power rush it brings."

"We can deal with dumb aggression -- both factions have mechs like that -- but Vortex could be trouble if he's as smart and sociopathic as _our _intelligence indicates," Ratchet noted. "You could send _him _with Blast Off, get him out of the way ..."

"They don't get along."

"And they're a gestalt?" Ratchet's optic ridges rose. "I'd heard that, but I wasn't sure how much credence to put into it. I know our gestalts generally fought like siblings, but they were pretty tight."

"Heh. That whole gestalt's pretty dysfunctional. They've been quantum linked since they were sparklings, but that doesn't mean they like each other. They were _not _well matched."

"Mmm." Ratchet considered the problem. "You can either deal with him here on Earth, or ship him off elsewhere. The question is, is Vortex more of a liability than having Bruticus available in a fight would be a help?"

"I don't know. I'm going to need to talk to him and observe him a bit. Swindle's got zero conscience, but he's pretty predictable in his motives and he's not sadistic. Vortex ..."

"... has a sadistic streak." Ratchet frowned. He'd treated Vortex's victims. "The other option would be to assign him somewhere that would limit his exposure to human civilians. Unfortunately, he's not got the mods for orbital flight, right? We were talking about strategic locations in the meeting earlier ... We agreed we were going to set up a ground-based optical observatory in Chile and that might be a good place for him."

Fang nodded. Orbital platforms were highly vulnerable to attack, which meant it was wise to reinforce them with terrestrial observatories. This world needed a better surveillance system, and the dry, high-altitude, sparsely populated deserts of Chile were perfect for some remote installations. "That'd work ..."

A soft keen from the bedroom interrupted them. Fang winced. Ratchet gave him a sympathetic look. _:She's probably had time to think about it. Do you want to go talk to her?:_

:I probably should.: He rose from the chair. Ratchet, somewhat to his relief, followed after him.

Prism was still curled up on her berth, head buried under her arms. She didn't look up as he approached, and when he reached out to touch her, she scooted away. "Go away!" Then she keened.

He felt horrible. He dropped his hand to the ground and said softly, "I'll hold you, if you want."

"I want to make my new alt mode!" She sat up, and chucked something at his head. Another crayon.

He ducked, caught the crayon, inspected it for a second, then said, "Hmm, nice crayon, thank you. I love gold. I think I'll keep it." He was astounded he could manage that level of snark. He wanted to cry right along with her.

"NOOOOO!"

He turned and started to walk away.

"Fang, Fang no!"

He didn't turn back to her, but he asked, "Are you ready to be nice?"

"Yeah." She sounded defeated. "Can I have my crayon back?"

"You throw it, you don't get it back." It sounded like a sensible rule to him, and it was just a crayon. Maybe if she lost a few crayons, she wouldn't throw anything valuable or breakable.

"I hate you."

"Tcha! Well, you're not ready to be nice." He left the room, ignoring her wails.

Ratchet clicked sympathetically, once the door was mostly shut. In a low voice, he said, "Nice job."

"I am _not _looking forward to dealing with her when she's older, she's bad enough when she's still a sparkling!" he confessed. "I'm sorry, Ratch. We were planning on interfacing tonight, and Prism's kindof being a mood killer ..."

Ratchet's chuckle drew his gaze upwards, to Ratchet's smirk. The bigger mech only seemed darkly amused. "It's okay. We'll get Wheelie to babysit sometime when she's not being a brat."

_:What I don't get is that sometimes she behaves better for Wheelie than she does for me.: _He didn't want to risk Prism overhearing this comment.  
_  
:Oh, that's easy to explain.: _Ratchet led the way back into the lab. _:Wheelie will dump her aft back on you in a hurry if she acts like that, and she knows it. You, on the other hand, are stuck with her. So you're safe for her to throw a temper tantrum at when she's feeling insecure. On the other hand, there's also probably an element of testing there. She's trying to see if you really care about her enough to stick by her when she's being a brat.:_

"Her insecurity would totally be my fault, of course."

"Eh, maybe not completely." Ratchet rested a hand on his shoulder. "I've known a lot of sparklings, Fang. You've got your hands full with that one."

Fang leaned against his bulk. It was probably crazy, and foolish, but Ratchet's support felt like the best thing that had ever happened with him. His Decepticons were going to react badly when they found out, but he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. He couldn't imagine a world without Ratchet in it. Ratchet's love also gave him the motivation to be more than he'd ever been before, a love he damn well knew was conditional on him _not _being another Megatron.

He thought that was probably a good thing. Ratchet's approval mattered to him, and inspired him to greater things.

Ratchet's arms tightened around him, and Ratchet murmured, "You've got to be more careful, Fang."

"Hm?"

"I was just thinking about today. You've got to be more careful. Use your bodyguard. Be careful how you present yourself." Ratchet pushed back a little and dropped to one knee. "Fang, I'm serious. Too much is riding on you."

He sighed. "I know, I know."

Ratchet stroked his knuckles along the arch of Fang's cheekplate. "Please. Be more careful. Boomer seems like a good guard for you. _Use _him. Don't trust the Autobot soldiers. Many of them have as many grudges and issues as _your _troops do."

He thought about pointing out to Ratchet that his own troops had the added motive of a potential coup over him, but decided that Ratchet knew that. Instead he just clung to Ratchet's grill for a moment, as Ratchet stroked his back like he was a sparkling. It was so very reassuring to have someone who cared for him like Ratchet did.

"Do you want me to stay?" Ratchet said, finally, straightening up.

"Please." He couldn't keep the earnest need out of his voice.

Ratchet chuckled. "I shouldn't have bothered to even ask, should I? C'mon, Fang." Ratchet led the way into his sitting area, where he sat down into one of the chairs. Fang settled into his embrace, and shuttered his optics, and just basked. After a bit, he felt a need to recharge sneaking up on him. He listened for a moment, and verified there was no sound from Prism. Likely, she was already out cold.

"'Mm gonna doze off here," he said.

"Go ahead." Ratchet settled himself deeper into the chair, and shifted his arm to support Fang bette with the bulk of his grill between them.

After a moment's conscious thought, Fang asked, "Are you going to defrag tonight?"

Ratchet trailed fingers over Fang's back again. "I was just going to do a light recharge. I'm on call. Go ahead and start a deep cycle. If I have to leave I'll carry you to your berth. Just set a routine to recognize the motion as acceptable sensory input if I have to go, and I'll wake Boomer up to guard your door."

"Thank you." He'd been wary of doing a deep defrag with Prism to protect, and nobody he truly trusted around. It would take several hours to do, and would require offlining some of his sensors. He told his autonomics to not wake him if Ratchet got up while holding him, initiated the cycle and swiftly powered down. His last awareness was that of the warmth of Ratchet's armor against his side, and the soft murmur of his well-tuned systems.

It would be the deepest, most thorough recharge he'd had since Deathwheels had died.

* * *

Bee had expected Mikaela to meet him in his quarters for their date. However, the apartment was empty of even the Witwickys, who'd gone into town with Magnus to retrieve more of their belongings.

He called Mikaela's cell phone. It rang several times and then rolled over to voice mail. When a text message he sent wasn't answered, he asked Fort Max, _:Max, is Mikaela within your walls?:_

:She's in the med bay.:

:Thank you.:

He checked the med bay schedule, determined that First Aid was scheduled as the officer in charge, and sent him a quick question, _:'Aid, is Mikaela working right now?:_

:Yes, she volunteered for a shift doing sparking maintenance. She's working until eleven. I must say, she's a hard worker. She put in a full shift this morning and then volunteered for another. Do you need her for something? I don't mind kicking her out.:

He very nearly stomped down and had a discussion with Mikaela then and there. Only his concern about how that might appear to others stopped him, and he replied politely, _:No, thank you, First Aid. It can wait.: _

If he summoned her from a shift of work for personal reasons, and others learned of this, it could be seen as unprofessional. However, he couldn't imagine she'd forgotten their date. Taking a shift -- and not telling him -- had to have been deliberate. He'd never known Mikaela to work two complete back to back shifts before without it being an emergency.

_I'm being avoided. _He sighed.

A time zone away they Sam grabbed him with delightful enthusiasm and pushed him towards the hotel room's bed. Sam's intentions were clear, and Bee let him distract him from his worries about Mikaela.

Sam's reaction when Bee closed his mouth around him was very distracting indeed.

* * *

Fang felt good, well rested and relaxed, when he woke. Prism, by contrast, had woken cranky and had tantrummed for no particular reason when he'd left her with the Witwickys. He had been somewhat wary of humans babysitting her, but they knew her and Ron seemed capable of dealing with the worst that Prism could throw their way. He highly doubted Prism would try biting again, given her growing distaste for household chores.

It was very early morning, and the med bay was empty except for their prisoner, and the mechs assembled to bring him back online ... and a certain warm presence that told Fang he had supernatural observers. Ratchet felt them too, and kept surreptitiously glancing around, as if the Order of the Primes might suddenly step into view.

Fang ignored the Order; it wasn't that unusual for them to just hang around and watch. It might simply mean that they were bored. Had he been alone, he might have demanded they say something or leave him alone, because the sense of presence and power was making his plating twitch. However, talking to thin air was a good way to make his soldiers doubt his sanity, so for the moment, he muted his irritation and turned his attention to Skyfire.

Skyfire was truly an enormous mech. He was far from the tallest or the heaviest mech Fang knew of, but he was at the upper limits of what was practical for routinely mobile, bipedal robot. Even with a good half of his bulk moved into subspace, he was still impressively big. He was taller than Optimus, with upswept wings and powerful, yet sleek lines. Fang suspected he would be graceful and quick despite that size, just looking at his design. Additionally, that subspaced mass would give him quite an advantage in a physical fight. He would outweigh anything short of one of the combiner teams.

Fang, worried about violent reactions, was glad for the combined bulk of Ratchet, Boomer, and Aquaregia. Rivet, who was barely palm sized to Fang, also seemed a bit worried as he'd taken up a position on Ratchet's shoulder. Fang's guess that Rivet was intimidated was confirmed when he overheard Rivet joking about 'pretending he was Prism' if Skyfire woke up fighting.

Starcatcher finished checking a few connections in Skyfire's chest and then slid off the berth. He picked up a datapad connected to Skyfire's port, and, after Fang nodded permission, he punched in a few commands. The idea was to bring Skyfire's internals online first, then his cores.

Fang heard Skyfire's power plant rumble to life, and as it did he heard an unhealthy note. His valves needed work. Hydraulic lines rattled in their casings as they pressurized, and tension wires and cables creaked and groaned. A low whine rose in volume as capacitors for his flight systems began to charge.

Starcatcher scrutinized the datapad's readout, then said, "Hm. His systems are online, though I don't really like his baseline readings."

Ratchet joined Starcatcher and both of them scrutinized the information. Ratchet leaned over the table briefly, retracted Skyfire's armor, and adjusted some mechanical bits. Ratchet said, "Does that help?"

"Fewer errors."

"Hm. Well, he's not going to deactivate on us." Ratchet returned a wrench to his subspace and backed off. "You've got his motor relays offline, right?"

"Everything but his vocalizer. I'm going to boot his cores now," Starcatcher warned.

Ratchet backed off. Fang had seen a few mechs come up swinging when the were supposed to be medically paralyzed, and didn't blame him for that caution. Boomer put himself between Skyfire and Fang, forcing Fang to peer around his arm. Starcatcher poked at the datapad, and after a moment, the mech's optics lit.

Starcatcher said gently, "Can you understand me?"

Silence.

"My name's Starcatcher. I'm a medic. You're safe, and there's an open door behind me. You'll find your comm has been enabled, and you should be able to hear substantial radio chatter. You're in a med bay in a base."

Silence, though the mech could certainly see all of them with peripheral optics.

"Do you understand me?" Starcatcher asked.

Ratchet rolled his optics and stepped forward. "Skyfire, you have a working comm. There's two mechs here you may wish to speak to. One's Skywarp, and the other's Optimus Prime. Feel free to confirm with either of them that we're not your enemies. Also, Fang and I are both Primes. We found the lost Primes, and their Matrixes. Things have changed a lot since you were captured."

"It wasn't a capture." Skyfire slowly sat up, blue gaze extremely wary.

Starcatcher -- who had _not _enabled the big mech's motor relays -- scrambled hastily off the berth, though Skyfire had been careful to move slowly and not to jostle him off it. Starcatcher scowled at his datapad once he'd retreated to the safety of the floor. Fang made a mental note that they needed to cut wires rather than use a programmatical block on Skyfire in the future. The mech was supposedly a genius, and he'd just demonstrated it by circumventing the code block.

Skyfire added, with dignity, "I went willingly with them, and Starscream betrayed my naive trust in him. I ask that you pardon my caution."

There was no panic in his optics, Fang noted, and no aggression. He was suspicious, cautious, but not afraid. He was also not threatening them in the slightest.

Then Skyfire's optics dimmed. "My brother is dead."

"I'm sorry." Ratchet stepped forward. Fang realized they must have been spark twins, for Skyfire to know this without being told. "Jetfire died a hero, saving this world, saving Optimus Prime, and stopping the Fallen. Without his assistance, all would have been lost."

"This does not surprise me." The big mech's words were weighted down with quiet grief. "The Fallen is dead, then?"

"And Megatron." Fang hesitated, then plunged ahead, "And Starscream, too. I'm sorry."

"I'm ... not sure that I am sorry." Skyfire fell silent, optics regarding them warily. The sadness in his eyes doubled, however.

Starcatcher took the opportunity to make introductions. "Sir. These are Ratchet, who is a Prime, and the Decepticon Prime Lord Fangface, and Aquaregia, Fang's third in command."

"Senator Ratchet," Skyfire recognized, with some surprise.

"I'm Optimus's CMO, these days." Ratchet said, "There are a few mechs you may know aside from Skywarp. Perceptor -- once called Compass -- and Doc."

Skyfire nodded slowly, cautiously. "I know them both." He stared off into space for a moment. "Where is Skywarp?"

"In the brig." Fangface felt somewhat awkward telling him this. "I'll let him out now. He's ... been harmed. By Megatron, and Soundwave. He is not, strictly speaking, competent in a mental sense. I put him in the brig because he threatened Optimus Prime ..."

"He _what_?" Skyfire seemed dumbfounded. Then he fell quiet again, saying nothing more.

Feeling a little uneasy as he stood before this tall, stately mech with his too-sad eyes, Fang stammered, "You have to understand, he's been hurt. Soundwave screwed up his code. Nobody's been able to fix it. He's, well, there's no diplomatic way to put this, but ..."

Ratchet snorted. "What Fang's trying to say is Soundwave made him as dumb as a stump, because he couldn't control him any other way. He's very severely underclocked, he's lived through the carnage of the war, and he's probably still the Skywarp you remember for all that."

Skyfire blinked. "Starscream was _not _as I remembered."

Ratchet shrugged. "Probably not. Screamer was nuts."

Skyfire didn't say anything at all in reaction to that.

"Well." Fang said, "I'm going to have Skywarp come here to the med bay. I'm willing to bet you've seen enough of Deception brigs to last a lifetime."

Skyfire inclined his head in a nod, apparently agreeing with that. Then he asked, "Am I a prisoner?"

"Primus, _no_." Fang shook his head. "Aside from the fact we don't have a brig big enough, I wouldn't _do _that. We're assuming you will go with the Autobots, however. They're, ah, the good guys."

Skyfire frowned. "I'm not certain there _are _any good guys in a war that destroyed half our population." His tone held sharp censor and disapproval. "Starscream told me about it. I have little reason to doubt the truth of his words, given the evidence of what he became because of it."

"How long have you been in stasis lock?" Ratchet asked, voice gone gentle and quiet.

Fang, meanwhile, comm'd Crowbar. _:Crowbar, let Skywarp out of the brig and tell him to meet us in the med bay, will you?: _

"If my chronometer's correct, some tens of thousands of years." Skyfire sounded dubious. He added the date in Cybertronian time.

"That's roughly correct." Ratchet traded a look with Fangface.

"And yet the war still continues." Skyfire glanced between the two of them.

"We're trying to end it." Fang rubbed his face with a hand. "There are fewer than fifteen thousand adult Cybertronians left alive, Skyfire."

Skyfire sighed. "If that's true, there's hardly anyone left to fight." Bitterness tinged his words. "And what of Thundercracker? My other partner?"

"He's fine. He's my second in command. He'll be back on Earth in about three weeks."

Skyfire looked down his nasal ridge at all of them for a moment. Then, with a certain note of disgust, he said, "I do not believe I'll be joining either faction. I want nothing to do with your war that has caused the virtual extinction of the civilization I was once sworn to protect."

"SKYFIRE!" Skywarp hurried through the door. Every mech present tensed, well aware of 'Warp's reaction earlier.

The scientist pulled himself up even taller, and regarded Skywarp warily. Skywarp seemed oblivious to that suspicion, however. He just hurried across the room, and wrapped his arms around Skyfire's narrow chest. Compared to the bulk and the breadth and roughly jointed armor of the seeker, Skyfire seemed even more sleek and elegant.

The scientist was wary, tense, and unresponsive for a moment. Skywarp looked up at him and said urgently, "Skyfire, it's me. You remember me, right? They didn't scramble your memories?"

"No." Skyfire finally relaxed, just a little. He bent over and returned the embrace, arms tightening, optics suddenly squeezing shut as if to hide wild emotions. "I remember, Skywarp. Primus, I remember."

"I never knew ... I never knew he had you. He went so twisted and _wrong_. I never knew." Skywarp buried his face in Skyfire's chest. "If I'd known I'd have done _something_."

Skyfire bowed his head. "Starscream should have done something. Be betrayed me, when all I wanted to do was help him. Skywarp, he ..." abruptly, Skyfire changed to an encrypted channel.

Skywarp keened softly, and held on to the bigger mech like he never wanted to let go again.

Fangface suggested, "'Warp, why don't you take off and have a talk with him? Down by the river would be good. I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about."

The tall scientist shot Fang a surprised look, looking down at him over 'Warp's shoulder. "I could escape."

"You're not a prisoner." Fangface would have patted his arm if he could have slagging reached. He only came up to Skyfire's thigh. He settled for a smile that he hoped was reassuring. "You're free to go. I believe _both _factions could use you, should you wish to help us, and Skywarp can fill you in with a reasonable degree of accuracy. If you'd like a more detailed situation report, see me later ... take your time, however. I know what it is to love and lose someone."

Skyfire had lost his brother, and had been betrayed by a lover. The way he was now holding Skywarp, which was with rather closely, was telling.

"I ... thank you."

"C'mon." 'Warp towed him towards the door. "I've missed you so much, Skyfire. We all thought you were dead. Starscream never let on you were alive ..."

"He told me _you _were dead," Skyfire murmured. Then the two switched to their comms.

Aquaregia snorted after they were out of earshot. "Fang, I can't believe you just let him go. Sorry, but what if he just flies off?"

"He wouldn't get far," Starcatcher said, with a sly smile.

"What did you do?" Fang demanded.

"He's only got about two day's worth of energon in his tanks." Starcatcher seemed proud of his ingenuity.

"Starcatcher! Primus! That mech is going to respond to kindness far more than he will manipulation." Fang rolled his optics. He stalked to the dispenser in the corner of the med bay, grabbed a plastic jug, filled it up with what he calculated to be a month's worth of fuel, and thrust it into Boomer's hand. "Boom, go catch up with them and make sure that he knows I apologize for my medic's ... initiative. If he needs more fuel, tell him to ask me personally and he _will _get it. Also let him know we're on tight rations, so he'd better not waste it."

Boomer hesitated, then nodded curtly and headed out in the door to chase down the two fliers.

Fang turned to the others, who were all staring at him, and demanded, "What?"

"You just ..." Aquaregia raised both optic ridges, tilted his head, and thought about it."Smelt it, that probably _will _be more effective than throwing him in shackles and torturing him until he yields ... though I'm not sure if I want to be approving or appalled by how much it violates the Decepticon way."

"'Regia, I didn't know you had a sense of humor." Fang smirked at him.

Aquaregia replied dryly, "I have my moments, sir."

Ratchet gave Aquaregia a wary glance, then dropped a hand on Fang's shoulder, bent over, and said, "I need to go. My shift starts in ten minutes. Comm me if there's any interesting drama."

"You mean gossip?" Fang smirked at him.

Ratchet answered the smirk with a roll of his optics. "Or any more attempts on your life, Lord Friendlyfangs."

He was still sputtering indignantly after Ratchet had exited the med bay. Then he became aware that the others were staring at him speculatively. Rivet, Starcatcher, and Aquaregia traded looks. 'Regia said speculatively, "You're very friendly with Ratchet, these days."

Defensively, Fang said, "You three are on my need-to-know list. We're not trying to hide it from you. If I get fragged up, Ratchet's going to be emotionally compromised, so all the medics need to know. 'Regia, you need to know because you're in my direct chain of command."

"Are you _insane_?" Rivet rose up on his toes. "Seriously? You're swapping electrons with _Ratchet_?"

"Keep it down, runt." Starcatcher glared at him. "There's no privacy shield in here."

"You realize I'm going to be bigger than you by tomorrow?" Rivet shot back at him. Then he raked his hands over his head. "Fang, I adore you. I'm loyal unto death to you. So I hope you won't take this the wrong way when I tell you that you're insane ..."

"Tcha! You're not qualified as a shrink." Fang laughed.

Rivet ignored that comment and continued mercilessly, "Ratchet is an Autobot. He's the Autobot CMO. What's to stop him from stripping out every bit of intelligence you have in your head? I can flat guarantee he'd win a coding war with you. I've _got _the specs on your processor, and I'm astounded you function at the level you do. That core of yours was never designed for anything but experimental use, in the lab, by a new sparkling. It's a cheap, basic, it has never been upgraded because you don't have the chassis space for an upgrade much less the motherboard slots, it wasn't even intended to last more than a few centuries and I'm amazed it hasn't arced out on you yet given the inertial abuse you give it _all _the time. _I've _got more processing power than you do. Skywarp damn near does."

"I'm pleased to know I can beat Skywarp in the intelligence department," Fang shot back. Then he sighed, bent over, and offered Rivet the palm of his hand. "C'mon up here where I can talk to you without looming over you."

Rivet hesitated, looking suddenly ill at ease. "Boss, I'm sorry if I was a bit outspoken."

"I'm not mad. -- Okay, yes, I _am _mad." Lightning quick, Fang grabbed him. Rivet squawked but didn't even have time to start to thrash in fear before Fang dropped him on a table. Rivet scooted away a couple of feet, and Fang stepped on the foot pedal to raise the table higher, so he was at a more convenient height. "Rivet, stop flinching. I'm irritated, but I'm not going to smack you. I'm not even tempted."

"... Oh."

"I don't hit my officers for speaking their minds."

"I'm not an officer," Rivet said, uncertainly.

He rolled his optics, "I don't hit _anyone _for speaking their mind. But let's see," Fang started ticking off on his fingers, "You've got the guts to stand up to me, you've got an actual education, and I haven't missed that you've earned the respect of the medical staff on both sides. Oh, and you were unjustly punished by Megatron and probably _would _be an officer by now, of some rank, if he'd treated you fairly. So, yes, lieutenant Rivet, you're an officer. I'll make it official today. We'll have a little ceremony in front of the troops because you deserve it. Also, consider yourself part of my inner circle, which means you _do _get to tell me off when you think I'm being an idiot, and I encourage it, and I'll listen. Sometimes you'll be right, because, you know, Skywarp level intelligence ..."

"I was exaggerating a bit," Rivet mumbled, clearly stung by the sarcasm in that last sentence.

"Which wasn't very kind to Skywarp," Fang snapped, then continued from where he'd been interrupted, in a kinder tone of voice, "... and sometimes you'll be wrong, because, you know, I really do know what I'm doing most of the time. I will _always _listen, however. Rivet, I need mechs who are not afraid of my titles -- either of them, Prime or Deception Grand Poobah -- and who do think divergently from me."

Aquaregia spoke up, "Fang, that awareness of the value of other opinions is probably one of the reasons the Matrix accepted you. It's one of the reason _I _follow you."

"Yeah, the Matrix has a few opinions of its own sometimes, too. It's not quite sentient, but it definitely has a high-level AI. And then there is the Order itself, which gets downright chatty sometimes, without actually telling me anything, because, you know, that would be too easy."

_:And not nearly as entertaining,: _A voice said out of the ether. He was totally unsurprised by that.

"Oh, shut _up_." He growled at it. "Unless you're going to tell me the location of the _Freedom_, or what precisely we're facing in orbit, or some winning Powerball numbers ..."

_:The destination of the Freedom should be obvious, there are eight Primes,: _they informed him, _:And we can't predict the future.:_

"Slaggers." He turned back to Rivet. "Sorry. The Order of the Primes actually has a sense of humor, believe it or not ... I cannot lead by committee. There are times when I'll tell you to shout into vacuum. But I _will listen_."

Rivet said softly, "I'm sorry for being frightened by you. I thought you might strike me for my words. I know you won't ..."

He retracted his claws, then touched a blunted finger to Rivet's chin and encouraged his little medic to look up at him. "I would never hit you, Rivet. Ever. I know you suffered badly under Megatron, but you won't with me. You are too good of a medic, and too loyal, for me to ever treat you as anything but deeply valued."

"Yes sir."

"As far as your assumptions about Ratchet, yes, you are correct." He saw all of them react to this confirmation. Aquaregia frowned, but said nothing. Starcatcher pressed his lipplates tightly together. Rivet scowled.

"I could give you my first reasons, and the only ones that matter to me, which are that I love him, that I trust him, and that he feels the same towards me. He inspires me to greatness, and kicks my aft when I act like a glitch. I _need _that." He ran a hand over his helm, flattening his ears under his own fingers. "We are not going to be able to keep this secret, but we're going to be _quiet _about it. Discrete. If anyone asks about us, please don't deny it, because then when the truth does come out, the scandal will be ten times worse. What I do want you to do is point out that Ratchet is Optimus's CMO and one of his oldest friends. Few among us will understand 'love' or 'trust' but they _will _understand influence."

Aquaregia was frowning less. Starcatcher looked unhappy, but not outraged. Rivet's scowl had lifted a bit. Rivet said slowly, "Ratchet has a huge amount of influence with Optimus. That could lead to better terms in a peace deal."

"That's the party line I want you to repeat. Honestly, Optimus will deal with us fairly. I'm not worried there, with or without Ratchet vouching for me after poking around in my head. Both of us are motivated to _end _this slagging war, and we know we'll both need to make concessions to do it. I'm not Megatron, to try to negotiate with cannons, and Optimus is very reasonable when you don't provoke him into making a moral stand ... But feel free to remind anyone who is concerned that Ratchet and Optimus have been friends for hundreds of thousands of years. You may also mention that Optimus approves of us."

Aquaregia observed, "From Optimus's standpoint, that gives one of his best friends influence over _you_."

"Don't I know it." Fang laughed. Then he grew serious again. "I know that there will be ia negative reaction to this. I hope that I can trust you three, and the rest of my officers, to support me. Ratchet is important to me. We can justify it strategically, but the truth is, quite honestly, that I simply love him. It may be selfish and foolish of me, but he's my partner, and I won't give him up."

Aquaregia ran a hand over his face. "You never take the easy route, do you? -- We can probably get the mechs who want the war to end to accept this, and for the reason you cited. Ratchet's respected and known on both sides of the war, and the argument that it gives you influence with Optimus is a good one. I'd also point out that that Ratchet has been helping with _our _repairs, and training our medics, and that this is your influence, right?"

"It's something Ratchet and I agreed on, yes." And having Ratchet in their med bay was a perfect excuse to for him to see Ratchet, but he didn't think he needed to admit to that.

"We need medics." Aquaregia made a sharp hissing sigh, half expression of irritation and half resignation. "We'll emphasize this, and also that he's saved your life at least twice, and we'll keep pointing out the good things that you've brought us -- the sparklings, the new orders you've issued to increase maintenance schedules and do neglected repairs to ourselves and our ships, the cease fire agreement that has lent us the time and security to _do _those repairs."

Fang rubbed the delicate plating around one of his optics. Wearily, he said, "It's still going to be ugly when the rank and file figure it out, won't it?"

Aquaregia shrugged. "You will lose support from some. However, they hated Megatron with a passion and never managed to overthrow him, and not for lack of trying. They didn't support him, they followed him because he was the only leader they saw as strong enough to win. We will need to spin your image, Fang, but you are the _Decepticon Prime_. You have the support of Primus, and that alone gives you an advantage that Megatron never had. Our _god _backs you. There will be those who lose faith in you simply because they hate Autobots beyond all reason. That is a significant portion of our forces -- the virus-addled glitches, the psychotics, the mechs who _enjoy _fighting and death and mayhem for the sense of power it brings them. There are mechs in this army who are so twisted that they see evil as good, and good as evil, and we both know this."

Fang sighed.

"But they are not the majority. Megatron used them, and used them to good effect, to control the rest of us, to unleash mayhem on unsuspecting populations -- he never asked _me _to destroy worlds, because I would have refused, but Brawl, or Bonecrusher, or even Starscream? They followed those orders, and did so willingly, with enthusiasm and joy in their sparks. That level of twisted insanity is rare, Fang. You and I both know that most of us are just surviving any way we can, and we're _tired _of fighting. We have nothing left to lose, really, but you give us something to gain. You give us hope. You are _our _Prime." Aquaregia dropped to one knee, bowed his head, and said softly, "You are _our _Prime, and we _will _follow you. The message of what you bring, what you believe, and your strength and courage and power, need only be clearly communicated to the troops. Most will follow you, the faction of your lover be damned. And those of us who follow you ... _we _will deal with the crazy glitches for you."

"'Regia, get up. I don't like it when you do that." He didn't want anyone kneeling before him. It made him uneasy, and it never felt sincere. It made him wonder if 'Regia wasn't just trying to cultivate favors, even though his gut feeling was that his third in command was completely sincere. His speech had rang with conviction.

Rivet said quietly, "Fangface, you want our opinions?"

"Yeah, Rivet. I do." He caught Aquaregia's elbow and tugged, when the officer was slow at rising. "Get up. Stop that. I already know you're loyal, 'Regia."

Rivet said firmly, "You've kept Aquaregia here because you think you need officers to support you here. You don't. You've got control of the troops based on Earth. Nobody's going to try to frag you on our side. We love you, and if someone did attack you, the rest of the troops would tear him apart. You've got Ratchet and the other Primes for advice and moral support, you're far better at tactics than you think, and Swindle and Starcatcher can tell you anything you want to know about anyone in this army. However, you need someone you can trust to go make your case to the troops that are still in the field and on Cybertron."

"Aquaregia? What do you think?"

Aquaregia said hesitantly, "Sir, I do not want to leave your side. Rivet might have faith in the affection for the 'cons here for you, but that doesn't extend to the Autobots ... but if you are Ratchet's partner, with Optimus's blessing, that gives me some faith in _their _sincerity. I ... would be honored, to carry a personal message from you to the troops. Someone also needs to talk to Straxus and sway him to our side."

Fang tilted his head sideways and considered, "I think I like that idea. 'Regia, think about which shuttle you want to take you, and who you want for a crew, and let me know."

Aquaregia nodded. "_Thank you _for this opportunity, sir."

"If you bow again, I'm going to make you scrub the floor before you get up," Fang added, when it seemed like Aquaregia was considering kneeling. That provoked a laugh from Rivet, if not even a smile from 'Regia.

"I merely wish to demonstrate my loyalty ..."

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway." He would have assured Aquaregia that he believed him (it seemed to him that 'Regia's anxiety was obvious, and likely a byproduct of years of serving Megatron) but a ping from Crowbar, who had guard duty, distracted him.

_:Yeah, Crow?:_

:There's a little human here who says you hired her.:

:Oh. Sidney. Right.: He wanted to discuss a few other matters with 'Regia and his medics, but he also didn't want Sidney to walk alone through the Decepticon base to his office. It was too likely that she might run into trouble with some of his more ... troublesome ... soldiers. However, every mech on his short list of human-safe soldiers was currently busy, on assignments either far from the base or working on tasks that they couldn't leave. In fact, the only mech not currently off duty or patently dangerous was Pounce. That was because Pounce hadn't been scheduled a shift yet.

Smokescreen's assessment was that Pounce felt betrayed and violated by their decision to lock a lifetime's worth of memories, but that this could be remediated with therapy. However, he seemed otherwise normal and probably saner than most of the mechs Fang dealt with on a daily basis. Fang hadn't assigned Pounce to any work details yet as he wanted to sit down with Pounce first and find out what his talents were.

_Well. Hmm. This is not a hard task -- just get the squishy to my office unmolested, and then stand outside the door and don't let anyone in. _He commed Crowbar with the orders to have Pounce play escort and bodyguard.

There. Problem solved.

He turned his attention back to the others. "I'm sorry. We were talking about sending 'Regia off to campaign for me ...?"

Aquaregia said, "Let's go to a conference room with a privacy shield and discuss this in more detail. I'm eager to do what I can to help solidify your power base."

Fang thought that was a good idea, "I've got a couple hours before I need to meet with the other Primes again. Rivet, you want a lift?" he held a hand out to the tiny mech on the table.

Rivet willingly stepped into his palm this time. He stated, however, "I will be _very _glad when I've got legs long enough to keep up with you guys."

Starcatcher murmured, "Megatron would have drop kicked you home before he carried you."

"True." Rivet scrambled up to Fang's shoulder. "Thanks for the lift, Lord Friendlyfangs."

"Oh, Primus, do _not _call me that."

Rivet's chuckle made Fang grin.

_They're my officers, _Fang thought, as he stretched his own short legs to keep up with Aquaregia's longer stride. _They're also my friends. _It felt very good to know he had friends who had his back.


	96. Chapter 96

Chapter 96

* * *

"... Sure you don't want to stay longer?" Felicity asked, perpetual good cheer still strong in her voice despite lines of exhaustion around her face. Bee had not expected the convention to be such a party. After the Saturday-night festivities, everybody seemed to be short on sleep, calories, and many of them were hung over. Sam had managed to sneak a few beers when Bee had not been looking -- Bee's concern was for the legalities, the alcohol use didn't bother him much -- and looked a bit subdued himself.

_Need to talk to him about that. Diplomatic immunity covers him, the way we got the legislation written, but he could get someone _else _into trouble for providing him the booze. _

Bee set that thought aside to address later with Sam later, and answered Felicity. Unfortunately, Jazz had a mission to plan, and Bee had visiting dignitaries to deal with on Monday, so they couldn't stay. "I'm sorry. Next time, we'll plan for the whole weekend."

"Next time?" Her eyes lit up.

"We really enjoyed ourselves." Bee glanced over at Sam, who was loading luggage into Jazz's trunk and squinting at the light. "Yeah, assuming our schedules permit, we'll be back next year. -- If you're in Nevada, give me a call, too. We can have you over for dinner or something."

She grinned hugely. "That'd almost be worth an airline ticket just to see the base."

Bee chuckled. "You're welcome any time you want a tour. I think Jazz has invited half the 'con, himself."

"He's so friendly." She glanced at the silver Solstice. Bee realized she was making the common human mistake of mentally assuming that mechs in alt-mode weren't listening or able to respond, and therefore not including them in conversations, but Jazz didn't say anything to change her assumption. She added, "I always thought aliens would be ... alien. You guys are just _people_, and pretty damn cool ones at that. Thank you so much for coming."

Bee nodded, and offered her a hand to shake, then was surprised when she pulled him into a quick hug. "Stay safe, Bee. Thank you for helping to protect Earth."

She was worried about him. Bee hugged her back, touched for reasons he wasn't going to explain to her. He was beginning to think that Sam's quick acceptance of him was no fluke. Again and again, he was finding that many humans _would _accept Autobots once they got to know them.

_Of course, the first trick to making friends is to stop them from going, 'Eeek! Monster!' and running in the opposite direction. Being blond and cute helps. _His blond, cute, alt mode seemed to work very well as a bridge to introduce humans to Cybertronians without making them process the concept of "alien" _plus _"giant robot" at the same time.  
_  
_He bid farewell to a few other people and then claimed Jazz's passenger side. Sam sat down in the driver's seat, and let out a long, slow breath. "... wow. Okay, I'm officially going to need to sleep for a week."

"Yeah, yah weren't doing much sleeping this weekend," Jazz teased. "Yah must need to catch up."

Sam froze, then snorted. "Autobot hearing?"

"Naw, just an educated guess." Jazz rolled smoothly forward into traffic. "You've been acting remarkably pleased with yourself the last few days."

Bee said smugly, "And he has reason to be."

"... God. This is going to be a _long _drive." Sam hunched down in the seat, folded his arms, and pointedly ignored the amused laughter of both Autobots.

_It's good to hear them laugh now. _Bee was worried about the future. They were going to need to address the unknown ship in orbit, and there were so many ways that fight could go wrong._ We cannot risk Earth being another Nebulos by choosing inaction and giving them time to martial their forces or implement a doomsday device. _Yet direct confrontation had its own risks.

_This world is so vulnerable. _

"Something wrong?" Something of his fears must have shown on his face.

"Just ... worried about the future." Bee wanted to talk to Sam about this, if only to share his fears, but he didn't want to do it in front of Jazz. He adored Jazz, and considered the other mech one of his best friends, but they did not have that sort of relationship.

"Things you can't talk about?" Sam guessed.

"Not yet."

"Oh. Okay. Tonight, then."

"... Tonight." It occurred to Bee that he didn't want to express his worries, to be that slagging _honest_, in front of Mikaela. That troubled him. He needed to be able to talk to both of his partners honestly. That was what partners were _for_. "... maybe. I don't know."

* * *

Sidney leaned against the door of her truck and watched in open fascination as giant alien robots came and went. The morning was warm, the sun bright, and the mechs shiny with a rainbow of colors. They moved with startling agility and grace, even the really big ones. It was easy to believe they were truly as alive as they claimed.

"Sidney, the boss said to take you to his office." A voice said behind her, causing her to turn around.

The alien robot was fifteen feet away, on the other side of her truck, and he'd approached with startling silence while her attention had been focused on the Autobot base. A mechanism that big shouldn't be able to move that quietly, she thought, though this robot had a sleek, silent grace to him that seemed downright predator.  
_  
_He said, "Did you hear me?"

"Oh, yes, sorry. I'm just impressed by everything."

"Hnnh." He started walking towards the Decepticon base, and she followed. However, it quickly became evident that his long legs could easily outdistance her. She struggled to keep up for about a hundred feet, nearly forced to run, before concluding it wasn't a fight she could win.

"Hey, you, what's your name?" She stopped, bracing her hands on her knees and struggling for breath. _Really should have stopped smoking ten years before I did, _she thought at herself, in irritation, as she struggled for breath.

"Pounce." He didn't slow at first, then realized she wasn't following him. He turned back, unconcealed irritation on his face.

"Look, Pounce, you're gonna kill me. Slow down and I'll try to keep up." She didn't like the look he was giving her.

"I'm not walking very fast." He sounded like he was pouting. He started moving again.

"Well, you're gonna need to move slower. I ain't up to jogging anywhere."

He frowned at her, but he did slow his pace to a crawl. She still lagged behind, chest burning.

"I just saw you moving faster than that." He scowled at her. "Why are you slowing down?"

"Because I'm old and lazy?" She was irritated by his attitude, and wondered if the money would be worth it if the robots were going to display attitudes like this. Then she remembered the money he'd offered. _Well, shit, I can put up with this kind of crap for a few months. It can't be that bad. _

"Hnnh." And then, suddenly, he spun back to her and grabbed her and hoisted her airborne. His grip was painfully tight, and she was certain it would leave bruises.

"Put me down!" She thrashed.

"Oh, stop whining." He hurried towards the building, each step a hard jolt.

"Put me down! Help! Somebody help!" She kicked, trying to pry herself free. That did not work, and it quickly became clear that his grip was immovable. He squeezed tighter, and it hurt, and his face twisted into a scowl. _God, he could kill me! _When she couldn't shove free of his hands, she grabbed the first thing that looked vulnerable, which was a bundle of wiring visible through a gap in his wrist. She gave it a good hard yank, terror lending her hands strength.

Her captor yowled when the wires tore free.

"Put me DOWN!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, "Somebody HELP!"

He didn't set her down, he flung her down. She hit the earth with a painful _snap _in her wrist.

"Bitch," he snapped. She curled around her wrist as pain so intense it felt like heat and pressure became the whole of her world. She was dimly aware of the mech looming over her, and tried to summon the wherewithal to run, but she wasn't able to get up.

Two seconds later, a furiously growling silver blur shot over her head. She was barely conscious of the motion, but the thunderous crash of armor on armor certainly caught her attention. Shocked, she looked up to see a whirlwind of two cat-shaped mechs tumbling across the ground. She recognized Lord Fangface's sleeker, more organic-looking form, and realized with shock that he was much smaller than the other mech.

However, it rapidly became clear that Pounce was outclassed.

"I should have killed you a few days ago, you slagger!" Lord Fangface shouted, when he finally achieved the upper hand. He slammed Pounce into the ground and his dug claws into his throat.

"Do it!" Pounce yelled back. "I might as well be dead anyway! You took away my life!"

Instead of killing him, Fang pulled his hand back and dealt Pounce a stunning blow that left one of his eyes sparking and an ear crumple into his head. Fang hit him again, shattering his jaw. Then Fang drove his claws into Pounce's chest, ripping a plate of armor clean off.

"If you ever, _ever _harm a human again, I will _kill _you." Fang shouted into Pounce's face. Then he straightened up and turned to a growing crowd of Decepticons. "That goes for any of you. The next mech who willfully harms a human is _dead_. Not reformatted, not punished, not exiled. Dead. I will send his spark to the Unmaker and let _him _mete out an appropriate punishment!"

He turned back to Pounce, who cowered and whimpered at his feet. "I _know _'Regia went over the rules with you. First and foremost is that _no humans _are to be harmed. Period, end of story, no exceptions." Fang kicked him. "You are a worthless _glitch._" He kicked him again, harder, metal ringing on metal. Pounce's armor was dented and scored by the impact of Fang's clawed foot. The blow was hard enough to slide him across the ground several feet. "_Glitch_." Fang pulled back and kicked him in chest with everything he seemed to have. This time, Pounce tried to scramble to his feet and bolt.

Fang grabbed him by the tail as he spun around to run, and yanked him backwards so forcefully he came clear off the ground. With a furious snarl, Fang grabbed the other mech by a back leg and flung him forty feet through the air into the side of the heavily fortified concrete base's wall. Sparks flew as metal hit cement, and Pounce's other optic shattered.

The Decepticon leader sprang after him before he could get up, planted a foot in the middle of Pounce's chest and leaned most of his weight on it. "Yield," he growled.

"Don't kill me! Please!"

"Thought you wanted to die." Fang's clawed toes curled into the mech's armor, talons screeching on metal. "I can oblige, and I won't regret it. Your choice. Either you swear formal allegiance to me, personally, or I rip your spark out right now."

"I swear! I swear! Just don't kill me!"

"Slagging _idiot_." Fang stepped back. He yanked Pounce to his feet by one elbow and shoved him in the general direction of another mech. "Starcatcher, fix his optics. The rest can wait until he's out of the brig. When his optics are functioning, he gets two days solitary, no comm, no visitors."

"No!" Pounce whimpered.

"Gonna be a lot longer than that if you argue," Fang threatened. "My record for keeping someone in solitary as punishment was two months. The glitch wasn't exactly sane when I finally let him out, but he damn well followed my orders after that."

Fang turned to the spectators. "And you thought I was Lord Friendlyfangs. It's real simple, people. Play by my rules, follow my orders, work towards our common goal, and I'll live up to that fragged nickname. Piss me off and you'll find out real fast why I'm the _Decepticon _Prime. I will _not _let some glitch with two functioning circuits in his processor ruin everything for the rest of us. Now, go back to work unless you want to join Pounce!"

They scattered in a hurry. One mech actually transformed and squealed his tires as he fled.

He turned to her, at last, expression softening. The vicious, violent killer faded. With real concern he asked, "Are you okay?"

"Shit no. My arm's broke." She wasn't even sure she could stand up. The pain was not quite blinding anymore, but it was impressive. She felt nauseous.

"That's ..." his eyes flickered and went vague for a moment, "... not good. Will you trust me to pick you up? The Autobots have a physician with some experience treating humans. He can see you first and then we can take you to the hospital if you like. It's thirty minutes to the human hospital, however."

His optics were dilated huge. He was humming with power. She suspected he wasn't as calm as he was trying to appear.

"Fucking expensive hospital visit. I don't fucking have the _money_." She wrapped her hand cautiously sround her wrist. She'd heard the bone snap and could feel the break. It hurt. She was glad, abstractly, that it was her arm and not her hip, however, she was not going to be able to pay for this. She watched as a couple large robots hauled Pounce off bodily, and without much kindness. "Hope you got Workman's comp coverage, buddy."

"I'll pay. Of course. Whatever you need." Things clicked, whooshed, and whirred several times in his body. Then Fang knelt, and repeated, "Do you mind if I pick you up? It's a long walk over to the Autobot base."

She didn't want any giant robots picking her up, no matter how worried they sounded. Fang looked less agitated, but he was still not calm. She could tell it by the way he was alert for any noise, Firmly, she said, "I'll _walk_."

He extended a hand, twice the size of hers, towards her. She realized he was offering her help to her feet, but she ignored that and tried to get up on her own. With only one hand, and legs that were rubbery and weak, she couldn't do it. She slumped back in defeat.

Fang had watched her, ears pinned flat, and looking somehow smaller than she remembered, even though he still towered over her with an easy ten feet of height. He didn't say a word, and did not offer her any additional help. She thought he looked like a kicked puppy, feline build or not.

A mech about his size approached, and said quietly, "I comm'd Doc. He's on his way."

"Thank you, Starcatcher." Fang crouched down next to her. "The Autobot's physician will look at you. I will pay for any fees you have associated with your medical care with human doctors, after he administers some immediate care."

"You'd better."

He knelt beside her. Hesitantly, he touched the shoulder of her good arm. She wanted to flinch away and scream at first, but managed to keep quiet. At first her silent response was simply memory of the way that Pounce had reacted to her terror: by manhandling her, squishing her in his hands, then throwing her to the ground. However, Fang's touch was very different. The same mech who had just turned Pounce to scrap stroked her arm with a gentle touch. His fingers were warmed by the sun, and so very careful. She relaxed, and felt a bit guilty for being afraid of him.

"I'm sorry." His apology was earnest and heartfelt. The last of his anger had faded. "I'm sorry you got hurt. Maybe I was foolish in thinking I could keep a human safe."

"I don't think your soldiers will touch me again," she said. "_Damn_. That idiot had it coming, but _damn_. You kicked ass."

A smirk, brief and fleeting, touched his mouth. It was that expression, smug and pleased by her praise, that made her decide she genuinely liked him. "I'm known for that."

"And you're known for defending the little ones, sir." Starcatcher took a couple steps closer. "Pounce was an idiot."

"To be fair, we took Pounce's memories away. He doesn't have any recall of me, not even rumors. Only the fact that he must feel terribly violated and have very little trust in me kept me from ending his sorry life." Fang's hand started rubbing her back. "Sidney, when I heard you screaming, I was terrified you'd be dead by the time I got here. I am so sorry. It was such a simple task. I ordered Pounce to escort you to my office. I should not have been so foolish. I was careless. This is my fault."

She closed her eyes. "I needed this job. _God_."

It was true. She was so broke, and her shop gone , and now she'd have medical bills -- if he didn't keep his promise to cover her bills, she expected the Medicare deductibles would be enough to tip her over from desperation to destitution. $1100 for a hospital visit alone, and she knew they'd want to keep her overnight, just because she was seventy-five years old and little old ladies were supposed to be fragile.

_Hah, _she thought, _the way he chucked me woulda broke bones on anyone. One long lifetime of hard work -- better for the bones than all the milk in the universe._

She was tough. She prided herself on that. Not even a heart attack ten years ago had changed that. No longer afraid of Fang, but more than a little annoyed at him because he _was _right, he should have been more careful, she demanded, "Help me up."

His hands, sure and steady, aided her to her feet. She dusted dirt off her butt with her good hand, discovering a few bruises as she did. Then she noted that a riderless ATV was headed in their direction, presumably the Doc they'd mentioned, and after a quick glance she said to Fangface, "I'd lay the blame squarely on Pounce. He's the one who decided to see if I would bounce if thrown. _Your _only fault lays in not anticipating the trouble."

He nodded. "And it's my job to anticipate things. I'm _sorry_."

The ATV arrived, and with a complicated whirl of gears and sliding bits of metal, turned into a stocky robot who was only a few inches taller than she did. She took a wary step back anyway. The mech stayed still, hands down at his sides. "My designation is Doc," he said, voice soft and undoubtedly pitched in a way meant to be reassuring. "Starcatcher said you were attacked."

"Something like that," she agreed.

"Pounce." Fangface growled. "He's scrap."

"You offlined him?" Doc quirked an eyebrow at Fangface, glancing briefly from her.

"No." Fang folded his arms. He sounded defensive, now. "Tempted, though. Real tempted."

"I would have." Doc said this while regarding her with level blue eyes. "Ma'am, I'm very sorry this happened. I can see your arm is broken. I can summon an ambulance and have you taken to a human hospital, but it's half an hour away and the wait in the emergency room will be very long. We have a handful of human physicians here who would be willing to treat you, if you would like to take advantage of our medical facilities."

She blinked. "How much?"

Doc shook his head. "No charge. We hired them to assist with the Nebulans. I could treat you myself, but not legally. One of the physicians we hired is an orthopedic surgeon. He would be qualified to examine and treat you, I believe, so that we ensure there are no legal objections later." Grave, glowing blue eyes regarded her. "It is your choice, ma'am."

"I read about the girl whose cancer you cured, on the internet." She gingerly touched her rapidly swelling wrist.

"Kat. Yes. I could not let her die."

She nodded once. "Let's go, then. Last time I had to go to the ER, I spent fourteen hours there before they even called me back."

Fang, who had not removed his hand from her back, asked, "It's a long walk. Would you like me to carry you, or ride with Doc?"

The thought of bouncing along on an ATV when she had no hands to hold on -- she'd need to cradle her injured arm with her good hand -- was unpleasant. She glanced up at Fang who, kneeling, was a foot or two taller than she was. For the first time, she realized he was injured. He had a deep gouge on his faceplate, and one of his legs was dripping some sort of oil.

"You're hurt," she noted.

"It's minor. He got his claws into an oil reservoir." Fang grinned, baring sharp teeth. "Will you trust me to carry you?"

"She could also drive her truck over, Fang," Doc pointed out, when she hesitated.

"It's a stick shift. I won't be driving it for a long time, damnit." That was an unpleasant realization. It was her right arm that was busted. How was she going to get home? And Fang was waiting expectantly for her answer. She _didn't _want Fang to pick her up. The memories of being thrown to the ground by Pounce, who looked very similar -- just larger -- were vivid. "Where are we going?"

Fang pointed at the towering skyscrapers of Fortress Maximus. "There. I could also get one of the Autobots with a car alt mode to drive you."

Sidney said, "Damnit. And no, I don't want to go with a _strange _alien robot. Carrying it is." It was definitely too far to walk, the way she was feeling. She hurt a great deal, and her head was spinning. "But if you drop me, you're in trouble."

"I will not drop you," Fang sounded vaguely offended. Those large, strong hands closed around her, and he neatly scooped her up.

It wasn't the most comfortable ride in the world, but he held her securely and gently as he hurried toward the building. Had she not been in quite so much pain, she might have enjoyed it. His graceful, gliding gait was far less jolting than Pounce's irritated strides, too. She had quite the view of the busy base, with dozens of alien robots in sight, from several feet up in the air.

"I am sorry," he murmured, after a moment. "I will see that you're taken care of until you're healed."

She sighed at him. "I coulda used the job more than paid-for medical bills, you know."

Blue eyes peered down at her. "I would take far greater care to keep you safe, if you wish to continue working with us. Tcha! I was negligent. I should have arranged a safer escort for you."

"So I've still got the job?"

"Of course, if you want it. This was our fault." His tone was earnest.

She wasn't entirely sure she _did _want the job, really. Being assaulted by a giant robot her first day on the job wasn't exactly the greatest of omens. However, she needed the money, and Fang's concern felt genuine. She nodded. "I'll try it. You'd _better _find me a good body guard, though."

"Of course." He flashed her a smile. "This will _never _happen again."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, in the safety of the Autobot med bay in Fort Max, Fang crouched down to be on eye level with the old woman. Apologetically, he explained, "I have meetings I _cannot _miss. I am sorry. Doc is genuinely found of squi.... humans, however, and he'll take good care of you."

Doc wondered if Fang could see the dubious skepticism in the woman's eyes. She didn't trust them, she wasn't very happy with the whole idea, but she also seemed a bit desperate. It wasn't a good position for her to be in, Doc thought. Fang had very little experience with humans, and Doc knew that there was an art to reading human expressions and body language that wasn't completely covered by the translation modules.

"Thank you," the woman said, with a smile at Fang. It amazed Doc that someone who could be that brutal and angry in a fight could turn around and show such gentleness to a human, particularly when he knew Fang had so little experience with organic species. Fang's empathy and urge to protect seemed to extend to all vulnerable beings, not just his own species.

Doc had seen video of the fight, caught by Max's security cameras. It had been a stark reminder that Fang was a 'con.

Fang rose. "I will check on you later, and I will arrange for someone to take you home."

"Thank you," she repeated, tense and nervous and smelling of stress.

After Fang had slunk out -- and to Doc's eyes, the predacon leader looked miserably depressed -- Doc said quietly, "Fang's a good mech, but don't let him tell you he can keep you safe. He can't."

She smiled, surprising him. "I realize that. I also want to give him another chance."

"Why?" It could get her killed.

That earned him a somewhat stiff shrug with one shoulder. "I need the money, and he needs help. I think I like Fang, and I've read a bit about what he's trying to do on Bumblebee's blog."

"Come," he gestured towards the bank of scanners. "Let's find out how bad the damage is to your arm, and then we'll talk with our human doctors about how we're going to fix it. I've also got some pain killers we can give you." He probably wasn't supposed to administer even a simple opiate pain killer to her, but damned if he'd let her suffer until one of the human physicians made it here.

He hoped they'd let him assist with the surgery. He always welcomed practical hands-on experience with humans. Doc was certain that Nebulan bone glue with a nanyte suspension could heal the break in days. It had worked quite well on Sam Witwicky. However, he couldn't -- officially -- use unapproved Cybertronian tech, and he couldn't unofficially use it without very good reason. Kat would have died. Sidney wouldn't.

He hated that. He could tell she hurt, though she was too tough to complain. He hated it, and this sort of situation made him all the more firmly resolved to get the appropriate legal acceptance of Cybertronian technology. They could change so many lives.

* * *

The Ark was not as big as Fortress Maximus, but it wasn't dwarfed by him either. Optimus glanced out his office window at the ship, so recently landed that the solar panels were not yet unfurled, and then turned his attention back on the human woman standing on his desk.

"Thank you for coming to speak with me," he told Megan. "I'm pleased to hear from Doc that your daughter is doing well."

"_Thank _me?" she echoed his words in surprise. "Sir. My daughter was going to die, and now she is healthy and cured, and has the adventure of a lifetime, to boot. Thank _me_? I owe you ... I owe you everything."

Optimus rubbed his cheek with two fingers for a moment, then said, "Doc learned a great deal about human physiology during the trip. Please do not feel that you owe us anything. The research data he collected will allow us to further our goals in regards to human medicine."

She shook her head in apparent disbelief. "When the technology you have becomes available ... _many _people will owe you. Optimus, people are _dying _and you will give them life. My daughter owes my life to your people. We are grateful."

He nodded, and finally said, simply, "I am hopeful that we can arrange for some research studies very soon. Doc is talking to some human physicians about arranging for cancer trials on the Ark if we cannot get FDA clearance to do them here in America. Alternately, I may send Doc to another country with more permissive rules. I will make it happen, Megan. -- As far as Kat goes, however, have you considered her future?"

She frowned. "I've home schooled her for most of her life, or she had tutors when she was hospitalized. She could go to high school now, but I'm not certain she would fit in, and in any case, she's more than mastered a high school curriculum. Honestly, it's something I never really expected to think about. She wasn't supposed to have a future."

Optimus put his hand down on the desk and said, "How difficult would it be for her to get into college, without a high school diploma?"

"There are ways to gain admission, either placement testing or via a community college, and she'd ace a SAT test, no problem. It's feasible. Money will be the bigger issue. I am beyond bankrupt ... the hospital required I stay with her and she was hospitalized for months at a time, I couldn't even leave her _room _because she was under 18, I'm a single parent, I couldn't work, she had Medicaid and SSI but there were still so many expenses ..." she trailed off. "I don't know what sorts of loans or grants or scholarships she could get ... she's _so _intelligent, but I can't imagine she could get financial aid to cover everything and I don't know if she'd qualify for a loan and ..." she trailed off. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to dump on you. The important thing is that I have my daughter. She can work her way through college, I guess. Maybe she can start working now, if she can find a job, though the economy's so bad ... then go in two years when she turns eighteen ..."

Megan groaned. "I'm babbling. Ignore me."

Optimus said firmly, "We will pay all expenses for her to attend any school she wishes."

Megan stared at him. "... What?"

"Your daughter is profoundly gifted. It would be a tragedy if she is not able to develop her potential. We will cover it. All of it." Optimus rested his hand on the desk beside her. "Human schooling is one option, and depending on her career choice, may be the only one. However, she is also very young and she has many possible courses of study to chose from."

Megan regarded him, a bit warily, but with frank curiosity in her eyes. "What are you implying?"

"My people have universities that you would find very similar to your own, for general learning and socialization. Your daughter has mastered, and perhaps gone beyond mere mastery, of many areas of scientific study. I am not certain, having reviewed the information Perceptor and Doc have sent me about her, that she would learn much theoretical knowledge in college. What she does not have is very much experience in practical applications of her math and science gifts."

Optimus fell silent, considering his next words. He truly wanted Kat to stay with them. She was brilliant, and they needed brilliant young human scientists. It would be a good opportunity for her, and she would be a valuable addition to his science team, with a few short years of training. However, she was young -- a minor -- and her mother was legally responsible for her. He knew, by human law and custom, he had to gain her mother's approval first.

He continued, "... She will not be the only human youngling here. Both Sam Witwicky and Mikaela Banes are close to her age. Sam is eighteen, Mikaela nineteen. Mikaela is an orphan, but if you would like to speak to Sam's parents about life with us, you are welcome to do so. Mikaela and Sam could probably give you some opinions of their own, as well. There is also Wheelie, a medical apprentice, who is close to the same developmental age ... and I have children of my own. I suspect that your daughter might find much in common with Ranger. He is emotionally much younger, but he has the same sort of intelligence as she does."

She blinked at him. "What are you saying?"

Optimus met her gaze. "I would offer your daughter a chance to apprentice with our science staff if she is so interested. We will, of course, provide you with an apartment and employment here, for income."

"... come again?"

He smiled. "I am sorry, I did not mean to catch you off guard. If you are interested, we can give you a job, housing, and a chance for your daughter to study advanced physics and chemistry under our science staff. I understand that you have a degree in accounting, yourself, correct?"

She nodded without one word. Her heart was racing so fast he could hear it. He wondered what was causing that emotional reaction, and said soothingly, "We are in need of help with our finances and payroll, and it is a legitimate job. Smokescreen is currently handling the hiring and he will fill you in on the details if you're interested, but ..." he smiled at her, hoping she wasn't about to pass out on him, "... I believe you will find our terms of employment quite acceptable."

"Err." She stared up at him. "My daughter ... with your science staff? And then college later?"

"If she chooses, yes. Also, we do traditionally pay our apprentices, so she will have a salary as well."

"I ... will have to think about this."

"Take your time. If you wish to go home to think about it I will have someone drive you." Optimus watched as she hugged herself and stared all about herself, looking everywhere but up at him. She looked scared and uncertain.

He added, in a as soothing of a tone as he could manage, "I do not wish you to feel obligated."

"Can ... can I talk to the other humans here?"

"Certainly."

"I'll ... I'll think about it. Please understand I want what is best for my daughter."

"I have children of my own. I understand completely."

She glanced up at him. A small fraction of the tension left her stance. "Thank you. For ... everything."

* * *

Wheeljack caught up to Ratchet as the medic walked towards the med bay. "Ratch, wait up."

Ratchet half-turned, and waited somewhat impatiently. "What's up? I'm late."

"Fang keep you up all night?" Wheeljack teased.

"... No." Ratchet scowled down at him. "Are there rumors about us already?"

Wheeljack grinned. "No, but you're slagging obvious when you're with him, and I've known you too long to miss it. Want me to keep my sensors tuned for rumors?"

"... I would prefer not to discuss my love life in a public place," Ratchet finally said, stiffly and very dignified. "Was there something you need, 'Jack?"

He sighed. "Sorry, Ratch. Listen, do you have any free time at all in your schedule?"

"No." Ratchet's response sounded aggrieved. "If I did, I'd be getting more sleep."

Wheeljack wasn't fooled. That was on of Ratchet's patent answers to requests for his time. He said, "Look, it's about Array ..."

Ratchet's expression softened, and he turned his full attention on Wheeljack.

"She's still not talking and I'm beginning to think it's more than just trauma." He filled Ratchet in on the discovery that Array could read, but not communicate very well in writing even when it was clear she wanted to. He concluded, "I'm thinking she might have something going on with her expressive language routines."

Ratchet rubbed his faceplates for a minute. "I'm not a pediatric psych, Wheeljack. I'm not any sort of psych doc."

"We don't have _anyone _qualified." Wheeljack fell into step beside Ratchet. "I could have Smokescreen take a look ... well, Smokescreen's a good mech, but I'm not sure he's the best choice."

Smokescreen was one of those mechs who appeared friendly and social, but Wheeljack had known him long enough to realize it was a veneer. Smokescreen might have more technical knowledge than Ratchet, but he didn't have the compassion to work with a small, scared sparkling. Wheeljack much preferred Ratchet, almost Smokescreen's exact opposite in temper, to do it. Ratchet hid his very real kindness and empathy behind a gruff and cranky protective wall.

"I know what you mean." Ratchet stopped before entering the med bay. He regarded Wheeljack gravely for a bit. "Tell you what -- bring her by on my break. It's scheduled for noon. I'll see what I can do. Bring her brother, too. You believe they're true quantum twins, correct?"

Wheeljack nodded.

"I don't want to do a medical interface with a sparkling that young ..." Ratchet seemed to be thinking aloud now. "But we need to know what we're dealing with as soon as possible, before she forms too much firmcode."

"I'd trust you to do it."

Ratchet said firmly, "No, not without real need. I will try to get her to accept a datapad scan, but she may not like it much, given her history. I'll need to see what's going on in her processor and where the dysfunction is actually happening."

"Yeah." Wheeljack then protested mildly, "Hey, do me a favor, and don't call it a dysfunction in front of her. She's a good kid. I'll love her no matter what we find. I don't want her to think there's something _wrong _with her."

"Wheeljack, I'll try to be sensitive, but if this is a spark trait, she is going to realize she's not like everyone else soon enough." Ratchet rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, bring her by. I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Jazz was three or four hundred feet below them, poking around in a creek below a highway rest stop. The parking lot had a low wall around it, and Sam and Bee sat on the edge, legs dangling down, both watching him.

"Jazz is enjoying Earth," Bee said. "You know, he's always been cheerful, but since he came back ... well, he doesn't talk about it at all, but I wonder what he thinks about what happened. He's _more _cheerful, and he seems to be taking time just to enjoy living."

"Does he remember being dead?"

"He claims he doesn't, but who knows." Bee pulled his foot into his lap and tied a loose shoelace. Sam had noticed that Bee's coordination was improving with every passing day. He tied the bow without any difficulty. "Sam, Mikaela meet me last night."

"... what?"

"She stood me up. We had a date planned." He rubbed his forehead. "I think she's scared to death."

"Why the hell would she be _scared_?" He didn't know if he wanted to be angry or just confused.

"She's never had a stable, long-term relationship with anyone," Bee pointed out, "that wasn't disrupted one way or another. The longer she is with us, the more attached she grows. Yet she fears that we, too, will be torn from her. I believe she's protecting herself from that pain by pulling away before her love for us grows too great."

"That's twisted."

"Yes." Bee agreed, "The question is, what do we want to do?"

"I don't know. Give her time, maybe." At least he had Bee. Bee's warmth, Bee's love, and the passion he was learning to share with Bee, helped ease the pain that thinking of Mikaela brought.

Bee looked down at his hands. "Sam, I won't be a doormat."

"Huh?"

"She promised to meet me for a date, then deliberately stood me up. When she did come home, in the very early morning hours, she pretended she had forgotten. A lie. I let her assume I believed her, or at least I did not argue with her, but I wonder if I should have made my displeasure more clear."

"I would have."

"And then there would have been a fierce argument, and I fear the wrong words from me might cause her to flee us." Bee balled both fists. "And so I allowed her to lie to me, out of fear of losing her. My fear is not just for myself, but even more for you -- and over all that, for _her_."

"Don't worry about me." Sam put his arm around Bee's shoulder. "I don't want to lose Mikaela. I _love _Mikaela. But she's acting like an idiot right now."

Bumblebee leaned against him, eyes closing. "It hurts, Sam. I want to give her the world. We both do. We could be such a team. And she _lied _to me. I understand why, and yet, it hurts so very badly. At a certain point, I will need to tell her that I will not be lied to by my partner, I will not be abused."

"Honesty's a big deal with Cybertronians, isn't it?"

"Very much so." Bee gave him a wan smile. "That's one of the points of interfacing. It leads to trust and understanding and compromise, because you cannot factually or emotionally lie. It's all about intimacy with a partner ... humans pair off for reproductive reasons, with social interaction a component of that, but we form partnerships for emotional support and to satisfy social needs. It helps to have a partner to raise a sparkling, but we live lives that can be measured in millions of years -- traditionally, a child's primary guardian simply saved up enough funds to take twenty or thirty years off work to raise a child, with support coming from friends, family, and a partner if they had one. A partner wasn't ever seen as necessary." He shook his head slowly, back and forth, against Sam's shoulder. "If I could interface with Mikaela, she would know how very much I am hurt, and how very much I love her, and how very far I would go to keep her. She would also know that I have a line I will not allow her to cross. I will not be abused, Sam, nor used."

Sam said softly, "I wish you could 'face with me. Then you'd know how much _I _love you."

His lover snuggled closer, and rested a hand on his knee. Bee's fingers were warm. "I already know. I don't need to interface with you to trust you."

* * *

Ratchet had just settled into his office chair for his afternoon break when the door cycled open. He looked up, expecting Wheeljack and his kids, but Fangface slipped in.

"Ratchet," Fang said, softly, urgently. "Do you have a few minutes?"

"Not really," he replied, candidly. "I've got an appointment with Wheeljack. You're not badly hurt, are you?"

"It's your break time. You have an appointment on your break time? And no, I'm not hurt. It's all minor slag."

Ratchet decided Fang was telling the truth about only having minor injuries. He had plenty of dents and scratches, and a fluid-soaked rag wrapped around his arm, but he seemed completely functional and he wasn't favoring anything. The fluid appeared to be silicon lubricant, and given the location, Ratchet suspected it was just a punctured lube tank. It was easily accessible and easy for any medic, or even one of his staff, to repair. He addressed Fang's comment about his break time without further worry about Fang's medical state. "It was the only free time I had today, until very late, and 'Jack's a friend. He'd do the same for me."

Fangface's voice was even smaller. "Could you ask him, as a friend, to wait? I need to talk to you."

"I heard about what happened with Pounce and you. Saw some video. I also saw the video of what provoked it." Ratchet observed dryly, "If I didn't know you had a hell of a temper before ..."

Fang pinned his ears back, lowered his head, and regarded Ratchet with what looked like contrition and fear. "I'm sorry."

Ratchet sighed, sent a signal to lock the door, and asked, "What's bothering you, Fang? I know it's not regret for what you did to him."

Fang jerked upright in surprise. His expression of shock told Ratchet that he'd scored, accurately. He'd been in Fang's head, and knew for a fact that Fang was psychologically complicated. He was both a vulnerable, grief-stricken hero who truly cared about others, and a near-sociopathic killer who could end lives without any significant regret.

Fang picked and chose who he developed any emotional attachment to. He'd given Pounce a chance, because his ethics told him it was the right thing to do, but Pounce had not lived up to what Fang would have seen as Pounce's end of the bargain. Fang could have killed him without any regret. He hadn't, but Ratchet thought that was only because he was aware that the Autobots, and Optimus in particular, wouldn't approve.

"I ..." the young Decepticon leader stood shifting from foot to foot, tail twitching, eyes searching Ratchet's face. He made an abortive move as if to chew on his claws, then said, "I need to be honest with you. I'm afraid you will not approve of me beating him up to that degree. I lost my temper."

"Fangface, if I was afraid of a temper, I wouldn't be able to live with myself." Ratchet regarded Fang across his desk. He wasn't surprised by Fang's concern, because he got the distinct impression Fang had him up on a pedestal.

"You don't disapprove?"

Ratchet shook his head. "We can talk about some more effective punishments than raw physical violence, but I suspect Pounce learned something important today."

"Learned something?" Fangface asked.

"Don't piss off Lord Friendlyfangs. He's got teeth."

"How would you have dealt with him?" Fang asked, quietly.

"Probably beat the slag out of him." At Fang's incredulous look, Ratchet held both hands out, palm up. "You _are _aware my nickname is The Hatchet, right? As you did, I would put him in isolation for a few days. After that, I would put him to work doing things for Sidney, on his own time, as a logical consequence to harming her. Until her arm's healed, I'd decree he would be shunned by the others, as well."

"I can't trust him around Sidney, though." Fangface shook his head savagely.

"Not alone, no, though I bet he'd be on his best behavior with you in the room." Ratchet met Fang's gaze and quirked one optic ridge up. He looked a little amused. "Sidney's got a whole shop full of items, mostly clothing, in a building that was half collapsed and damaged by fire and water. If she was uninjured, I can guarantee she would be salvaging the contents. She won't be able to do that with one arm in a cast for several weeks, and the roof's going to leak if it rains. I would suggest that you make Pounce's task salvaging the contents of her shop, including cleaning and selling everything for her that she doesn't want to keep."

Fang rubbed his forehead. "He'd hate that."

"That's the point."

"I'll see if Sidney agrees." Fang smiled hesitantly. "You're not ... disapproving of what I did."

"Hnnh. I've known what you can be like for as long as I've known you. I'd have done less damage to him, but I can't say as he didn't have it coming." Ratchet would have risen and hugged Fang, but Wheeljack pinged him at that moment. "Now, scram." He made a shooing gesture instead. "I've got an appointment with Wheeljack."

He saw Fang hesitate, as if he wanted to argue or beg for more time, but then the 'con nodded. Almost shyly, he asked, "Will you have time tonight to see me?"

Ratchet nodded. "Do you want to ask Wheelie to watch Prism after she goes into recharge? I've got procedures scheduled until almost midnight, but we could meet at my place after that." _And not be interrupted._ "You could be back early, before she wakes."  
_  
_Fang's optics lit with anticipation. "I'll talk to him, but he'll probably say yes. He's after all the babysitting time he can get."

"Mmm. See you then ..." Ratchet purred, "Looking forward to it." He unlocked the door and it cycled open with perfect timing for Wheeljack to hear that last comment. Wheeljack and his twins stepped into his office.

Fang gave Wheeljack a startled look. Wheeljack returned it with a bland glance. "Good afternoon, Fang. The medics are scheduled all day, but if you need someone to fix your arm, come see me. I've got the time -- I'm working on Max's repairs with Grapple and we're all fixed. Looks like you ruptured a lube reservoir."

Fang gave him a surprised look. "I was going to fix it myself."

Wheeljack rolled his optics. "Easier if you just see me. Ratch likes you ..."

"Ratchet _loves _me."

"... right." Wheeljack picked Array up. "Humor me. You're partnering with my best friend and I'm trying to be friendly."

Ratchet snorted a laugh at Fang's dumbfounded expression. Then he sobered when Fang frowned briefly. _Oh boy. _Fang's expression changed to something neutral and unoffensive, but Ratchet had already seen a flash of real displeasure. Fang said, without audible emotion, "I'll fix my own arm. Ratchet, I will see you tonight."

After he'd padded out, without further comment, Wheeljack shuddered like a cold, shivering human. _:Brrrr! That was a bit chillier than I expected.:  
_  
_:I'll talk to him, 'Jack.:_ Ratchet stood up from his desk chair. _:He's jealous.:_

_:I know where Prism gets it, now.: _  
_  
:Not funny, 'Jack. Prism has issues for the same reason Fang does. And Fang is trying very, very hard to get past them. He's a good mech. I really appreciate you trying to win his friendship. Please keep trying, even if he blows you off.:_

_:You love him.:_

:Yes.:

:Got time to talk to me later?: Wheeljack sounded worried. _:Maybe after our shifts?:_

:Sorry, already got plans.:

:With him?:

:Yup.:

Wheeljack searched Ratchet's face with concerned blue optics. _:Ratchet, if you need anyone to talk to ...:_

:I'm fine, Wheeljack. Fang's got issues, but who doesn't? There's no requirement for a mech to be as perfect as Primus before he can be a good partner. I love Fang, so stop worrying. You know I won't put up with crap from anyone, including my partner.:

:Heh! I remember!:

:We were a lot _younger.: _Ratchet smiled fondly. They'd known each other since they'd attended university together and had tried, once, to make a relationship between the two of them work. Within a few short weeks, Ratchet's focused organization and barbed wit had met and clashed with Wheeljack's careless and scatterbrained genius, and both of them had ended up frustrated and furious at each other.

Eventually, they'd concluded that they made better friends than enemies. To Ratchet's knowledge, Wheeljack had never had a serious partnership. There were a few mechs he occasionally casually interfaced with, but none who he was serious or even steady with.

Ratchet crouched down before the twins, and turned his attention to them. Array peered at him from behind Wheeljack's leg. Pulsar gave him a cheeky grin. He said, "Hey, kids."  
_  
_"Hi."

Array hid her face. It would be easy to conclude she was simply shy, but Wheeljack seemed certain that there was more going on than mere timidity.

"Array, you know if you can't say hello, you could wave. Can you wave for me?"

She shot her brother a look, then slowly and somewhat awkwardly wiggled her fingers at him. It looked like she was flapping at an insect rather than actually greeting him. It was awkward and clumsy.

She had a complete lexicon of both human gestures and Cybertronian hand signals. She should have had no difficulty waving. Ratchet glanced up at Wheeljack, who had picked up Pulsar, and then sighed. _:I'm going to cancel my next appointment -- it's an elective mod and can wait -- and take a few hours to see if we can get to the bottom of her issues. Something's not right.:_

:Thank you.: Wheeljack petted Pulsar's helm. _:I know something's not right. I just want to know if we can fix it.: _


	97. Chapter 97

Chapter 97

* * *

Author's Note: I'll have an article on Firefox News (firefox dot org) that you guys might be interested in, on this coming Thursday ... :-)

* * *

"Okay, Array." Ratchet scooped her up and set her down on the edge of his desk. "I understand you can read, right?"

She nodded. He was encouraged by that small gesture. She obviously understood the _concept _of communication.

He grabbed two giant-sized index cards from his desk drawer, and a chunky pen, and managed to print "yes" and "no" and 'maybe' on them. "Can you point to 'yes?'"

She did. He proceeded to verify she could read and understand all three words.

"Good." He sat down on the desk next to her. "You get to keep those. Bet they'll come in handy when you need to answer questions."

"I made her a datapad of words," Wheeljack offered, "but she has a hard time getting things in the right order."

"Mmm." Ratchet took that to be a clue about what they were dealing with. He wrote 'cat' and 'runs' and 'the' on cards. "Okay, kiddo, you've got some language rules, right? Which is these is a noun?"

He spread the words out before her.

She hesitated for a long moment, and then pointed, somewhat hesitantly, at 'cat.'

"Good. Can you make me a sentence with those words?"

She shook her head 'no.'

"Use the card he gave you," Wheeljack prompted.

She held up the 'No' card, after a moment's clear thought.

"Can you tell me which is a verb?" Ratchet asked.

She pointed at 'the.'

His spark sank. Had she just been guessing? He wrote out some more words, and established that she couldn't accurately identify parts of a sentence, or even construct two and three word simple sentences. He tried defining 'noun' and 'verb' for her but she didn't seem to understand.

Ratchet ran a hand over his head, and stopped when it became clear that Array was getting upset.

_:Do you think there's a problem with her code?: _Wheeljack fidgeted in place.  
_  
:I'm not sure.: _Ratchet found her problems ominous, however. He'd gone over her code with Wheeljack a few times before. _:Jack, I'd like to watch her thought processes while she answers some questions. Let's see if we can figure out exactly where the problem lies.:_

Casually, he picked a datapad up. As he'd expected, she didn't like that idea much. Array took one look at what he was holding, whimpered, and held her arms out for Wheeljack. He picked her up, held her tight, and said, "Ratchet's not going to hurt you. It's okay, kiddo."

She shuttered her optics and cringed as Ratchet pried her dataport open. He hated doing this, but he needed to watch her process thoughts. Sparklings generally found datapads unpleasantly alien, most likely due to the lack of emotions in the contact.

Pulsar patted Ratchet's knee, getting his attention. "You're scaring my sister! She can't do what you want! She can't!"

"Pulsar, we're trying to help her." Wheeljack bent over and picked him up too, then set him down on Ratchet's desk.

Meanwhile, Ratchet transmitted a quick program to the datapad, and then accessed Array's autonomic functions and took a back door from there to her main processor. She wasn't old enough to have effective firewalls. An older mech would have blocked him out and this would be far more difficult.

The datapad was set to visually display what she was thinking. He should have seen a steady stream of Cybertronian glyphs that reflected language. He did find an input-stream of audio translated to written language that reflected the language she was hearing around her. Mechs had eidetic memories for all sensor input, but language was converted to searchable text for rapid recall. This was done automatically, by hardcode.

"You're doing good, Array," he stroked her back. "So, yesterday when Ranger discovered you could read, what was the comic book about?"

He watched her search for the memory. Much to his dismay, she didn't even try to do a text-search or time stamp search for the memory. She pattern-matched an image of Ranger with the concept of 'yesterday' cross-referenced with a visual of a 'comic-book' and found the memory. The video file flashed on fast-forward on the datapad's display.

It was a very slow, very inefficient, and very abnormal. Almost all mechs would have simply searched for the tags cross-referenced with a date stamp -- keywords words associated with the memory. That was far faster and the process was written into her operational code.

She also wasn't able to answer his question, though he could see she'd understood what he'd asked. He'd yet to see any output language. She was definitely not _thinking _in words. It was all images, emotions, and thoughts.

"It's okay, kiddo." He ran a hand over her head, comfortingly, then made the connection a little deeper. He wanted to follow her thought-processes from beginning to end. She didn't like it -- she whimpered -- but she didn't fight him. He grabbed one of the flash cards and held it up and showed her, "What's this?"

The card said 'cat' in English. He was expecting to see either a glyph indicating taxonomic classification with accents indicating the alien word and its pronunciation, or the actual English word. Ratchet used the English alphabet for English words, but other mechs used Cybertronian glyphs with accent marks. It was a personal choice, and neither way was really wrong.

However, an actual image of the card flashed through her processor. He watched as she pattern-matched the _shape _of the word to her dictionary, which had pictures of felines. She didn't use her linguistic modules at all, she was strictly matching image to image. Essentially, she wasn't processing sound or words right.

_Oh, slag._

When he asked her what 'No' meant he got an image of Wheeljack, scowling, and a hardcode glyph from her processor that indicated displeasure and negative emotions, then the glyph for the verb _stop_. She didn't even -- really -- understand the somewhat abstract concept, only that 'No' meant someone was unhappy with her and she needed to stop what she was doing.

'Run' got pictures of various animals, people, and things 'running' -- including machinery and water. She'd pulled up a number of matches, something that was probably confusing to her.

He switched to showing her Cybertronian glyphs, hoping against hope it was a problem with the translation modules. However, the results were the same. She was not using written language. Spoken language converted to written language by a machine-level code that had nothing to do with her spark traits, but she then compared the _visual _representation of the word to her dictionary, without actually understanding the word itself. She simply wasn't comprehending language the way she should. It was all images.

He checked her operating code, verifying everything was as it should be. It seemed fine. Then he attached a longer cable to the datapad. "I want to see how she processes thoughts when she's playing."

Wheeljack saw the expression on his face and slowly set Array down. He produced a box of Legos. "Go play, kids."  
_  
:It's a spark-deep issue, Wheeljack. I'm sorry.:_

_:I was afraid you would say that.:_

_:Her expressive language is basically zero. She is pattern-matching words to definitions with images in her dictionary, but she has no concept of word order, or even the difference between a noun and a verb. She has very little expressive language. The only reason she understands spoken language is that she's converting the datastream from her auditory sensors into visual images from her dictionary. She thinks in images, emotions, not words.:_

_:No receptive language, either, then?:_

_:Well, technically, she doe have receptive language. It's a bit of a kludge how she's getting there but it's working for her. The problem she'll have is that certain words don't lend themselves well to being translated visually -- articles, pronouns, certain adjectives.:_

_:Can we write code to help her express herself, to translate those images and feelings into words?: _Wheeljack said, earnestly.  
_  
:I doubt we could make it very accurate. You'd almost have to give her an on-board AI that could intuitively translate what she was thinking, and I'm not sure she would have the ability to _command _it. We could contemplate that at some point in the future, but not now. She's too young.:_

_:Ratch ... she's never going to be normal, is she?:_  
_  
:No. This is huge, Wheeljack. I'm sorry.:_

Wheeljack sighed aloud and watched the kids play. Array was putting together some sort of aircraft. Pulsar, next to her, was making a car. He'd found three wheels and rummaged through the Legos, clearly looking for a fourth.

Pulsar peered at what he was doing, then popped a wheel off her plane and handed it wordlessly to him. She then modified her plane so that it had skis, not wheels.

_:Did you see that?: _Wheeljack sounded excited. _:She just voluntarily helped him out.:_

_:Mmm. I've noticed that with her before. She's empathetic to others, and she's very observent. 'Jack, she might not ever be a scientist, but she's not stupid. I won't lie to you -- I'd classify her as profoundly disabled in the area of communication. But she's got some gifts, 'Jack, and Primus made her that way for a reason.: _

_:So how can we help her?:_

Ratchet folded his arms. _:I believe this is spark-deep, which means we can't change it. We can, however, give her lexicon of phrases to work with. She can't put words together in any order because she can't understand the difference between the parts of a sentence, but I bet if we gave her a few hundred useful phrases she could learn when to use them.:_

_:Things like, 'Pick me up' or 'Hello, my name is Array' or 'Thank you' ... yeah, I get you.:_

_:Uh-huh. Let's give her a datapad with speakers and a dozen or so phrases to start with and see if she can handle that. If she can, we can write her some code so she can use her vocalizer.:_

_:If she can master enough phrases ... she really could communicate.: _Wheeljack sounded suddenly hopeful.

_:Long term, the thing to do will be to teach her parts of a sentence by rote memorization. Wheeljack, there's probably also going to be issues with the way she writes to her memory core and the way she processes her sensor feeds. It's all related.: _Ratchet hated this. It wasn't the first time he'd had to give bad news to a mentor, but it was the first time since the war had begun. Long ago, he would have referred Wheeljack to a psych who specialized in issues like Array's. He had a reasonable idea what they were dealing with -- a damaged spark that just wasn't _using _code properly -- but little experience with fixing it.

A thought occurred to him. "Pulsar," he summoned the child over again, and picked him up. "I'm going to ask you something that might be scary. Are you okay with that?"

The child gave him a brave nod. Pulsar really was a well-balanced kid, Ratchet thought. He was calm and even tempered, and seldom upset.

"I think somebody hurt your sister, a long time ago. Has she told you anything about big mechs, adults, hurting her?"

He thought for a moment, then said, "She screamed and she fought them. They hit her. She got away, and hid, for a long time."

"How long?"

He shrugged. "Her chronometer wasn't working."

"Is it working now?" If her chronometer wasn't working, Ratchet suspected that meant she had not had any operational code loaded before she'd escaped.

"She doesn't understand how to see it, but yeah, it's working." He pressed his lips together, looking like a miniature version of an unhappy Wheeljack for a second. "It was years that she hid. She was all alone. She'd come and sit by me, but I was in stasis lock. Our sparks knew each other, though. I think I sorta sensed her."

"_Primus_." Wheeljack growled. "If she didn't have her operational code ... oh, Primus, if she was running on machine language alone for that long, with no mentor, no love, no _language _..."

_:Yeah, that'd be sufficient to cause actual traumatic damage to her spark. We _live _to communicate. If she was unable to communicate, to think in words, to accurately process data, if she was all alone ... her spark would simply stop trying, and that part of her very spark dedicated to communications would atrophy. It takes a lot to damage a spark, Wheeljack, but it can be done. It's emotional damage, and when it reaches this point, it cannot be fixed.:_

Wheeljack met Ratchet's gaze with troubled eyes. _:What about ... us? What does she think of us?:_

"Pulsar," Ratchet asked, "Do you understand what trust is?"

He nodded. "It's when you know someone's going to be good to you, won't hurt you, and will help you if you need it. Always."

"... Pretty good definition. Does your sister trust me?" Wheeljack asked.

He blinked, glanced over at her, then said, "She loves you. I love you. We love you!"

Array rose from the pile off legos, ran over to Wheeljack, and patted his knee. He scooped her up and held her tight.

"I'm sorry, kiddo." Wheeljack rocked back and forth. "I know you love me."

"Me too?" Pulsar asked, hopefully, reaching out for Wheeljack.

"You too." Wheeljack scooped him up. Over Array's head he murmured to Ratchet, "Thanks, Ratch. I'll ... talk to you later about plans. I think I'm going to take these two up to my quarters and just ... enjoy them."

_:See you later, 'Jack. They're both good kids.:_

_:She still has the capacity to love, after all that. That's what matters, Ratch. The rest ... we'll deal with.:_

* * *

Skyfire sat quietly on a rock, listening both to the liquid water burbling over the riverbed and to 'Warp's babbled explanation of the last hundred thousand years. Really, it was all very simple: Cybertronian culture had committed mass mutual suicide, had taken Nebulos with them, and they were now trying to figure out how to accomplish reincarnation of what was long extinguished. The Allspark was destroyed, Cybertron a dead world, and they were dependent on the charity of a species that was uncertain, at best,

It hurt.

"... and Starscream used to take horrible abuse from Megatron, draw his anger, you know? So Megatron wouldn't take it out on us. He kept us safe, but it twisted him so bad. I'm sorry he hurt you, Skyfire. I am sorry. I'm sorry."

Skyfire silenced 'Warp with a hand on his arm. "It's okay."

"It's not okay." 'Warp hunched down, folding his broad frame in upon itself in his grief. "Everything's gone to slag. I love you and I know you won't ever see me the way I was, but I ... am still me, at my core, and I love you. I remember us. I remember the way we used to talk about stuff. Can't do that anymore, but I can remember."

_Science stuff, _'Warp meant. Skyfire sighed, remembering geeky technical discussions of their projects and ideas, with all four of the postulating theories and debating the fine points of various scientific laws. They had been so well matched, four brilliant minds, four young scientists. They'd been so devoted to each other that they had each selected a complimentary field of study so that someday they could serve together in the Galactic Survey.

It was that miserable posture, the defeated look in 'Warp's eyes, the knowledge that Megatron had so badly hurt him, and 'Warp's assumption that Skyfire would not love him anymore, that made him reach out and touch 'Warp's arm. "Skywarp, look at me."

Blood red optics met his own blue. 'Warp's optics had been green, back then. "Skyfire, I've done so many awful things. I didn't want you to talk to anyone else before you talked to me. I don't want you to be an Autobot, either. But now I don't know what to say. I don't want to lose you, I don't, I don't ..."

"I'm certain you've got a lot to regret." Skyfire slid his hand down Skywarp's arm. The armor needed polishing, and when he got to 'Warp's clawed hand he found frank damage. The scientist he'd once known would never have allowed his digits to become so stiff and corroded.

When he slid his fingers under Skywarp's armor he felt weapons, when 'Warp had never born them in his memory.

"I'm glad ... I'm glad you didn't live through it." Skywarp reached out with his free hand and stroked the edge of Skyfire's wing. The touch was so achingly familiar. Wings were sensitive, delicately balanced and full of finely tuned sensors. They'd all spent a lot of time on each other's wing-maintenance, and the quick touch brought back memories of better times. "They'd have tried to break you like they did us. I know Starscream hurt you, but Megatron was way worse, and Shockwave was just evil."

"I would not have joined either side." He didn't plan to now, either. 'Warp's fear that they would end up enemies was unfounded, unless the Decepticons classed neutrals as enemies.

"We believed in Megatron." It was a hushed, quiet admission. "We believed him. And he ... broke us.

He couldn't carry anger against Skywarp. He hurt for everything they had lost, but Skywarp's broken tones told Skyfire everything he needed to know. He unsubspaced a data cable and held it in his hands. 'Warp, seeing it, said in a startled tone of voice, "You want to 'face?"

"Yes." He did. Part of it was a desire to sooth 'Warp's fears, and part was his own terrible, aching loneliness. Starscream had betrayed him, but 'Warp was still 'Warp -- broken, battered, damaged, perhaps but still his partner. He wanted to remind himself that they were both alive, and he wanted to know if 'Warp still loved him.

It was a terrible reality he'd woken into. He didn't want to be utterly alone in it. _Oh, Jetfire ... _he thought, missing the background noise of his brother's presence with fierce, unwavering grief. He'd miss Jetfire until the day he died.

"You may not like what you see." 'Warp fidgeted in place, then reached for the cable. "I wish Thundercracker was here."

"So do I." Skyfire clicked his end of the cable home.

'Warp curled against him, the tips of his fingers sliding under Skyfire's armor, and his own plating clamping flat and tense. Skyfire found himself equally wary, though a habit of dignity kept him from displaying it physically. Regardless of his own fears, he forced himself to initiate the connection. In response, Skywarp dropped several firewalls and met him more than halfway, with nervous eagerness.

That nervousness was unfamiliar, and instead of an intelligence that was bright and fierce, his first impression was of dullness and slow thoughts. 'Warp's processor was lagging, with responses taking astroclicks longer than they should have. Skyfire couldn't help but think he never would have chosen a partner who was so limited, so ....

_:Stupid?: _Skywarp interjected, sending a caricature of himself with unlit optics and slack features. Tartly, hurt, he said, _:Yeah. I wouldn't have chosen me either.:_

_:Primus, I'm sorry, 'Warp.: _He hadn't meant to let that thought leak across, but it was so hard to keep anything from 'Warp.

_:I remember what it was like to be smart, so I'm sorry too. But that was a long time ago. Happy to be me now, mostly.: _Skywarp sounded philosophical. _:Fang ... treats me well. Even when I don't deserve it. He's a good mech._

_:He threw you in the brig!:_

_:I pretty much deserved that.:_

Despite his brave words, Skyfire caught impressions of rage, and fear, and a desperate sense of loss from 'Warp. He had been neither rational nor sane, and a deep level of confusion still resonated across the link between them. Desire was mixed with fear, and pride warred with depressed knowledge of what he had become. It wasn't just that he was stupid, but he was also a killer who had done great evil and exulted in it. The thrill of battle, the rush of power that came with taking a life, the glory of Decepticon victories ... and the death of their species. Skywarp had been at the forefront during the entire war, had survived as his fellow seekers died all around him, and had fought, and won, and fought some more.

He was a killer, and he was good at it.

Once, he'd been a scientist, and good at that, too.

Some small part in Skywarp's spark that remained the bright, clever scientist knew that Skyfire would never approve of what he had become and believed that Skyfire could never love him now. 'Warp was afraid that Skyfire's deep sense of ethics would cause him to repudiate 'Warp, and what 'Warp had become. His reactions -- assaulting a Prime, defying his commanding officer, desperately wishing to be the first person to speak to Skyfire -- were driven by his grief and anger.

_:I ... love you. Still.: _'Warp said, and Skyfire saw a reflection in those thoughts of what 'Warp remembered. Laughter. The four of them had laughed often, and truly. Trust. There had been no doubt that the four of them were very close, very much in love with each other, and very well matched. Skyfire, dignified and calm, talking Starscream down from a towering and irrational rage, while Thundercracker giggled at Skywarp's blackly amused running commentary on the argument ...

He winced. Once, that had been a running joke among them. Only Skyfire could handle an enraged Starscream. It hadn't proven true in the end, however, and he felt Skywarp react with anger and disbelief as more recent memories of Starscream rose in his own core. He had been tortured, and beaten, and betrayed, by a mech he'd once called a lover, friend, confidante, and equal. It hurt, and he wasn't sure if he could trust any of them now, and ....

_:No! You can trust me!: _Skywarp denied that stray thought. With his denial came a rush of love and intense desire for Skyfire. _:I wouldn't ever hurt you. I wouldn't!:_

That desire ... felt the same. 'Warp's very thought patterns were simplistic and child-like, but his desires were adult. Even as Skyfire realized this, 'Warp sent him a somewhat desperate pulse of _love/desire/affection. _He could sense the underlying thought from 'Warp that this might be the last chance he'd ever get to blow Skyfire's circuits, for surely, Skyfire was going to reject him. The pulse as slow and awkward, as if it was taking 'Warp everything he had to formulate it and keep thinking at the same time.

Skyfire responded with a calm transmission of _love/want/trust/belonging _that made Skywarp gasp aloud and tighten his grip on Skyfire's armor. _:We promised each other we would be forever, 'Warp, and I keep my promises.:_

He couldn't keep back a stab of raw, _/grief/ _as well.  
_  
/disbelief/relief/love/desire/love/affection/ _came wordlessly from 'Skywarp in response. There was a sense from 'Warp that he didn't feel worthy, but also a desperate longing that transmuted into giddy elation. _/mine/partner/mine/love/devotion/ _And then, by itself, in reaction to the grief in his spark, a wave of, _/sorrow/sympathy/agreement/ _that spoke of 'Warp's own feelings.  
_  
/sorrow/ _he echoed, then added, _/equal/love/mine/love/calm/ _He didn't want to lose himself to misery. He wanted to make love to Skywarp, as an affirmation that at least one of his partners was still with them. _/love/love/love/love/ _He was pretty sure that 'Warp had stopped most of his higher thought. He wasn't getting anything but raw emotions and simply desires from 'Warp now. That scared him, a bit, because what would 'Warp be like if he was angry? If he couldn't process strong emotions and coherent thought at the same time, how did he function?

It took longer to drive each other up to a climaxing crescendo of union and emotional release than he ever remembered. It was work, for both of them. They'd been apart a long, long time and both of them had changed. He was more suspicious, wary and injured. Skywarp was broken in ways that left Skyfire grief-stricken and despairing, and that nearly-instinctive thread of emotions from 'Warp was tainted with insecurity and a faint hint of generalized anger and grief. It was something of a turnoff, though not so much that he couldn't, eventually, climax. Getting there took considerable effort and focus from both of them.

Eventually, however, they lost themselves in a circuit-tripping flare of joy and trust and love. It was affirmation that they were still partners; it was confirmation that they were still themselves. When he came back to himself, he was laying on his back with 'Warp across his chest.

'Warp said somewhat fuzzily, _:Slag, missed that with you.:_

He moved to disconnect himself, but Skyfire caught his wrist. _:'Warp, wait.:_

_:You want to go again?: _'Warp snickered. _:I knew you were a lover, not a fighter.:_

That was the 'Warp he remembered. He laughed, but pushed himself back to a sitting position. _:We can go again in a bit, if you want. What did Megatron do to you?:_

Silence, from Skywarp, for a long moment. It wasn't just for affect. He could sense 'Warp sorting through tangled thoughts, each command to his memory core taking far too long to generate. He finally gave up on providing a specific memory and said, simply, _:Fragged me up.:_

_:You're processing at a speed slightly slower than the average maintenance drone, and I mean that literally.: _

_:I do okay.: _There was a terrible knowledge that he _wasn't _okay that came with those words.  
_  
:'Warp, can I have a look?:_

'Warp had not lowered all of his firewalls. It hadn't been necessary, and Skyfire hadn't really even noticed. However, for Skyfire to review them now, he needed to drop them all, and 'Warp hesitated longer than could be accounted for by a processing delay.

_/Love/ _Skyfire sent him. _/Trust/_

_:I don't think I know how to be a scientist anymore.:_

_:Do you _want _to be fixed?: _It was a fair question. Skyfire had known plenty of mechs with damaged processors or glitchy code who didn't want their issues corrected. A mech's code and cores defined a large prtion of who they were, for better or worse. Changing that changed their very identity, and some feared that change.

_:I ... need to be.: _Skywarp spoke slowly and methodically, as if coming to a decision. _:I don't want to go on like this.:_

_:Will you trust me to have a look?: _He had a copy of Skywarp's old operational code in his memory, since he'd been their team's medic so long ago. He wasn't officially medically qualified, but he knew a fair amount, and he was -- if he said so himself -- an expert on code.

'Warp nodded slowly against his chest, and began lowering firewalls. Skyfire rested both hands on Skywarp's broad shoulders and reviewed his damaged operating systems. The changes were massive, highly restrictive, and cleverly done. The whole thing was a house of cards. Make one change and his entire operational code would fritz. Worse, he was at very high risk for a catastrophic systems crash if any of his code was damaged, either as a complication from a hardware failure or just accidental errors.

'Warp followed that thought and said, _:It's happened. Thundercracker keeps a clean copy of my code for me.:_

_:Hardly a clean copy. You're pretty scrambled.:_

_:Yes, but it's better than machine language. Or a processor reformat. We tried that once, and I nearly died from loss of spark containment. There's a trap in the code that opens my spark chamber if you try to delete it.:_

_:Hmm, yes.: _Skyfire traced his hand over Skywarp's shoulder, feeling the steady thrum of Skywarp's internals. _:I think I see the trap you're referring to. And I have an older copy of your code, 'Warp, from before you were hacked.: _

_:Primus, I didn't think about you having my code.: _'Warp hesitated, long enough for Skyfire to reflect that 'Warp should have remembered that fact long ago, then met Skyfire's gaze. _:But it's from before the war. I need ... I'm a warrior, not a scientist.:_

He understood what Skywarp was getting at. He couldn't take the time to relearn reflexes, rebuild if/then motor routines, and reconfigure his RAM to a battle-ready state. What was worse? Limited intelligence, or reflexes slowed because he had to think each combat move through?

Skyfire frowned, and he poked aound 'Warp's processor a bit. 'Warp was operating with a very extensive, very complicated command tree of responses. Every motion, every physical reaction, from his weapons to his gyros, even things like his flight routines and his weapons targeting, was all being controlled by a very complicated set of if/then/or statements. That wasn't normal, or at least, it hadn't been during peacetime.

All mechs had some if/then statements operating basic functions. If one's interntal temperature hit "X" degrees then activate coolant pumps "Y" and "Z." Or if imminent impact with one's optics was detected, then close one's optical shutters. _Reflexes_, organic species called them. Skywarp's _reflexes _covered far more of his function than Skyfire had ever seen in any mech -- and before he'd joined the trine of seekers, he'd certainly done his share of berth hopping, nevermind what he'd learned was within the range of normal when taking psych med courses.  
_  
_He felt Skywarp wince, and a flare of uncertainty and a miserable lack of self-confidence rose up.

_:Shhh, shhh, it's okay. You set this command tree up, didn't you?:_

_:Yeah.: _'Warp clung to him. _:I ... tried to automate everything I could.:_

_:Primus, yeah, you did. You even automated some of your basic motions. Weapons targeting ...: _he was in disbelief, _:... hand to hand combat routines ... that's all reflex, just very complicated reflex. You don't have to think about it, you let the command routines take over. Primus, you even automated flying in formation with Thundercracker.:_

'Warp sighed across the bond at him. _:I don't have the processor speed to consciously stay in formation, target an enemy, and follow the comm chatter to listen for orders at the same time.:_

_:Yeah, I get that. I didn't realize you'd been limited that much at first. You're working incredibly well with what you have. You've streamlined so much of your code, automated everything you can ... do I see you've moved your autonomic functions to your memory core?:  
_  
_:Yeah.:_

_:How much of this did you do and how much did Thundercracker do?:_

_:Some him.:_

_:Some was you?:_

_:Yeah. TC says I'm just a slow-motion genius now.:_

Behind that underclocked processor was a ferociously intelligent spark, full of creativity and curiosity and, always, a blisteringly dark sense of humor. 'Warp might respond slowly, and his parallel processing might be severely limited, but his spark was still the spark that Skyfire had known.

_:I'm ... always struggling for RAM.: _'Warp huffed a sigh. _:When TC 'faces with me he lets me use his RAM. I always think better then ...:_

_:Hmm, I think I just realized how we're going to work around that trap in your code.:_

_:How?:_

_:I'm going to switch control of your autonomics over to my processor ...: _He promptly suited action to word_s _with a swift string of code. 'Warp squawked a protest, but there wasn't much he could do about it. _:There.:_

_:Slaggit, Skyfire ... are you insane?:_

_/Trust/ _he sent, soothingly, tightening his grip. _:'Warp, trust me. I'm going to put you into stasis lock for a bit and do a restore of your processor.:_

_:I ... okay.: _He hesitated, then sent back a somewhat shaky and hesitant, _/Trust/love/hope/  
_  
_/love/ _He sent back, and then triggered a shutdown.

_:Will I be able to play Quattra when you're done?: _'Warp asked, making Skyfire laugh aloud, and hug him, even as consciousness faded away. 'Warp had _never _been good at Quattra, which required patience and planning. Skywarp was many things; patient wasn't one of them.

Skyfire, by contrast, was very, very patient. He shifted his weight, arranging himself more comfortably, and began slowly and methodically removing the damaged code. As expected, it tried to kill Skywarp on many occasions ... and he efficiently blocked access to 'Warp's autonomic processes, which were now stored in his own processor, with swift permissions changes.

Then the malignant code tried to open _his _spark chamber. He nearly broke the connection in surprise, then deftly wrote a bypass so that the restrictive code _thought _it had succeeded. It sent the commands, and received a ping back showing the chamber was open, but that response was faked. Fooled into believing he was killed, the code went idle. He promptly firewalled it off, with grim satisfaction.

Hours later, as the sun was setting low in the sky, Skyfire completed his work. Smiling but exhausted, he booted 'Warp from stasis lock into recharge and set his cores to defragging and then a long series of detailed status checks.

A twig snapping made Skyfire scramble to his feet and hastily disconnect from 'Warp's processor. For a moment, he couldn't sense anything, and then a pair of amber optics snapped on in a tree, at Skyfire's head level.

"How long have you been there?" he asked the young Prime.

"Long enough." Fangface balanced on a branch. "How is he?"

"Broken." Skyfire couldn't keep the disapproval from his voice. "I repaired his code. It was _not _that difficult."

"I thought you might. Prime -- Optimus Prime -- gave me your personnel file from when you were a Iacon university student. You've got some real gifts, and you have to understand that we have very few mechs with the abilities that you possess. " Fang set down, legs dangling over the edge of the branch. "Skyfire, I know you wish to remain neutral, and I respect that. Optimus will too. We discussed the matter. We _need _you, however. Cybertronians need you, both factions do. You have a brilliant mind and extensive training in a number of scientific fields. I am aware your certifications are in xenobiology and biochemistry, but I'm also aware that your knowledge extends well beyond that."

He couldn't quite keep a scowl of disapproval from his face. The same Cybertronians that had fought themselves to near-extinction ... needed him.

"You also need repairs. Once you're repaired, you are free to go. You may remain with us, and we will both work together to provide you the resources you need, a wage, and a lab. Or you may ... seek employment elsewhere. We cannot stop you from working for the humans, or for another alien race. You will be capable of interstellar flight once we repair your engines."

"Why would you ... repair me?" He said, suspiciously.

Fang shrugged. "What Starscream did to you wasn't right, and I want to make amends."

"You weren't in charge then."

"No, actually, I believe I was in a brig somewhere at the time. I spent a lot of time in brigs as a youngling." He grinned. Skyfire was surprised by how young and mischievous it made him look. Fang confessed, "Curse of a hot temper and little tolerance for stupidity or hypocrisy."

"... I see."

Fang dropped off the branch, landing lightly on the ground. He made very little noise in doing so, and Skyfire realized he had sonic dampers. That explained how he'd snuck up on them. Now that he was on the ground, Skyfire also noted he'd altered his paint nanytes to a muted, dappled green and brown that blended with the foliage.

One blink of his optic shutters later and Fang's paint had blurred back to silver. He took a couple steps, making more noise than he had when he'd jumped out of the tree. "Do you think you can carry 'Warp? I'll show you where his quarters are. You can recharge there, if you want, or the Autobots will put you up for the night ... your choice. Or there's some hangars on the other side of the runway, just make sure you get the radio protocols, and let the humans know before you cross the runway."

"I'll stay with 'Warp." He crouched and lifted Skywarp up in his arms. 'Warp was heavy, but he managed to somewhat awkwardly hold him with one arm between his legs and the other around one shoulder. He staggered across the uneven ground to the road that bordered the river, where he set 'Warp back down. His long-neglected joints were giving him a cascade of errors and two of his back struts were warning of imminent failure. "Whew, he's heavier than I remember. I think he has more armor."

"Probably," Fang had followed him.

"Err, I don't believe I can _carry _him back to the base." He had overestimated his physical status. He'd been in stasis lock for a long, long time, and not in good repair before then.

"Why didn't you do this in his quarters, or the med bay?" Fangface asked, sounding a little amused.

"I was fairly sure someone would object."

"To fixing his processor?" Fang smirked. "Just let everyone assume you're 'facing for a _really _long time."

"I was fairly sure someone would object to that, too, given I do not belong to your faction."

Fang snickered. "Not me. See: no tolerance for hypocrisy. Especially when I'm the hypocrite. Also, you're both teleporters. How in the Pit am I supposed to _stop _you if you want to melt each other's circuits? And as far as repairing him goes, there aren't any mechs on our side who are qualified. I'm not going to complain that you did it. I assume it was consensual."

"Of course."

"Good. Now, you've got a shuttle form, right?"

He nodded.

"'Warp fit in it?"

"Easily."

"You transform, and I think I can drag him inside. I'm stronger than I look." Fangface smiled. "That is, if you'll trust me within your armor and force shield."

"... Yes. Good idea."

He was dubious about Fang's ability to move 'Warp, but those concerns proved unfounded. The little predacon was built for power, with oversized hydraulics and joints designed for leverage. His apparently slight build was deceptive. He got a good grip on 'Warp's shoulders, heaved, and pulled him right up the ramp. "He needs new paint nanytes anyway," Fang said, "and some other maintenance. You know what? I'll get Starcatcher to do _your _maintenance if you'll do 'Warp's. Getting Skywarp into the med bay is generally difficult ... I think he's had some bad experiences. I suspect if he trusts you enough to let you in his mind, he'll trust you enough to clean his filters."

"His hands are a mess," Skyfire noted.

"Yes, I saw that. I've been meaning to ask him if he wanted me to work on them, but I've been so pit-slagging busy ... you wouldn't _believe _how much _work _there is. I spent most of the day in a meeting with Optimus Prime and Keller -- Keller's the American defense secretary, that's sort've like Megatron's old job, only Keller's actually sane ... and I'm babbling."

Skyfire chuckled. "You're not what I expected."

"I'm not what I expected either, so join the club," Fang said, somewhat cryptically. Skyfire's alt mode had a large hold, big enough to hold all three of his seeker partners with room left over for cargo, plus one seeker-sized chairs in the forward cockpit. Fang dusted his hands off and pushed himself into the chair. Only then did he say, "Figured I'd be a great war leader, taking the Decepticons to a crushing victory against the 'bots. The Order of the Primes thinks I'm key to making peace."

It was the casual way he said, _The Order of the Primes thinks I'm key, _that caught Skyfire's attention. The predacon leader had been babbling like a sparkling, then had abruptly spoken of the Order as if he was personally acquainted with them. He was entirely unsure how to respond to that. Therefore, he didn't say anything as he started to roll towards the base.

"I'll make sure Skywarp knows, but I have no problem with you staying with him in his quarters," Fang said, "You'll have restricted access to the rest of the base, but the seeker quarters have an exterior door."

"I suppose I don't have many other options." That came out a little more depressed than he meant it to sound.

"Well, you could stay with the Autobots, or there's a hangar across the runway that's big enough for you. I'm also sure you could find work with the humans, and you'll have legal standing with them -- you should be able to get a work visa fairly easily, as a refugee." Fang seemed relaxed. "It's up to you."

"If 'Warp doesn't mind, I will stay with him," Skyfire said, "and I would like to know more about this world before I make any decisions about my future."

* * *

Perceptor watched, amused, as the little human youngling -- a teenager, she was called -- practically skipped through the doorway. The door slid shut behind Kat and she spun about, giggled, then headed for the stairs that led up to his work bench. She took the steps two at a time, and then claimed a seat on a box of ore samples. "Percy, guess what?"

"What?" That seemed like an appropriate response.

She grinned, "There's this _really _cute soldier, and he was _totally _checking me out."

He had to consult not only his English language lexicon but his cultural notes as well. "Ah. He found you attractive?"

"Oh, totally!" She ran a hand over her short hair, which she'd styled with gel that morning, patting it gently. "He's completely a perv. He's got to be at least twenty-five. But it's _so _cool. Nobody's ever checked me out before! And that's like the third time in two days!"

"Because you were sick?"

"Uh-huh."

He could understand that. She had been dying. The pain of the inevitable loss would have been a strong deterrent. He didn't think he could ever consider a partner who would die so quickly. However, she was healthy now, and if Doc's work with nanytes panned out, she could expect a lifespan measured in the thousands of years. He commented, somewhat absently, as he peered at the display from a mass spectrometer, "You know there's a few mechs checking you out as well."

"... huh?" she said, dumbfounded.

He tapped his head, indicating a human mind. "Sex appeal for us is more about intelligence, and personality."

"... huh?" she repeated. He realized she was frowning at him when he looked up.

He wondered if she had mistaken that offhanded comment for, what did the humans call it? Hitting on her? "Not me," he said, hastily, "I'm not looking for anyone., and anyway, I'm not exactly partner material." 

"Aw, Percy, why not? You're a nice ... guy. You're, umm, not really my type, but surely, there's another mech out there for you ..."

He frowned, remembering a few disastrous attempts at relationships. "If you haven't noticed, I'm a bit ... well. Personality's a big thing for us, and it's, umm, a big obstacle for me." He didn't want to think about that too much. "You, on the other hand ..."

She giggled. "I'm not sure that alien robots are my thing, Percy, but ... they're really looking at me? _Really_?" She seemed to find this hysterically funny, "_Who_?"

Perceptor leaned forward a little and said conspiratorially, "Smokescreen's got a betting pool about how long it takes Manywinds to ask you to go flying with him."

She snickered. "Robbing the cradle much? He's what, four million years old? I'm sixteen?"

"Only several thousand years of operational time, though. He's practically a youngling, by our standards." He was puzzled by her reaction, truthfully. She was biologically mature, and would be legally so in under two years -- a very, very short time.

"By _y-your _standards," she said, between choked giggles, "Do me a favor, Percy, and make sure that they know I'm not interested in ... no offense, but I like boys, okay?"

He chuckled. "I'll let them know."

"How does that even _work_?" she wondered. "I mean, we humans have _needs_ ..."

"Oh, well, we have needs too, if you're talking about lovemaking. We're intimate by sharing our thoughts, by projecting emotions, and by being utterly truthful with each other, and allowing access to our memories, without firewalls. I understand humans are physically intimate, with enjoyment from touching and stimulation of the genitals ..."

She covered her face with her hands and said, "Percy, check your cultural guidelines, _please_."

He did, them hemmed, "Ah. My apologies for the faux pax. But I'm medically trained as a secondary specialty, and it is seen as appropriate for medical professionals to discuss such matters ..."

"Perceptor ..." she recovered, and grinned at him, "... you're such a _dork, _and I say that with all the affection in the world. Go on, you were saying?"

"Oh. Well, we can get mods to enjoy physical touch -- it's actually not that uncommon, even among mech/mech pairs, because it's fun, it's a trick we picked up from long association with organic species -- and organics can get wetware implants."

"Uh ... yeah. Right. C-can I change the subject now?" She wiped at her eyes, and he realized she was crying ... for a minute, he thought he'd upset her, then he remembered human eyes watered if they laughed hard enough. Her shoulders were shaking and her voice had an odd hitch in it, so he'd evidently amused her deeply.

He'd watched a few of their comedy programs. Some of the humor left him utterly baffled, but he did remember a lot of it centered around sex. He'd have to remember to bring the subject up more, if it made humans that happy to hear about it. "Sure," he said, after trying and failing to determine why she'd want to stop talking about a subject that made her laugh so hard.  
_  
_"Right. Subject change. Percy, I've got a question for you."

"That is?"

"I keep running the numbers on your fuel systems. They don't work if you're _burning _the energon. You guys can run on a tank of energon for decades, at a minimum. There's no way it's got that much energy density." She swung her heels against the box. "So, is it the energy density or the physical composition -- viscosity and density and crap?"

He regarded her with wide optics. There were things they weren't supposed to tell the humans, chiefly weapons tech, but also other examples of Cybertronian science that could prove dangerous. Subspace generators were high on that list, and, near the very top, how Cybertronian power plants worked.

"The only way the math works," she continued, eyes twinkling, "is if you guys are annihilating the energon with antimatter."

He was not surprised she'd come to that conclusion. She wasn't the first human to speculate on it."You're probably not the first human to wonder about that, and I can't confirm or deny it, Kat."

"It's okay. Just answer me this: are your sparks anti-matter?"

"Can't say."

She shook her head. "I've seen the vid of Sam killing Megatron with the Allspark. I think that's, like, required viewing." She paused, then added, "Do you ever ... run out of spark energy?"

He frowned. "No. Our sparks do not power our fuel systems. And I can't discuss this with you, Kat. It's classified."

"Okay." She favored him with a bright smile. "I'll figure it out on my own."

The door slid open behind Perceptor. He turned to see Wheeljack enter, with his kids trotting close on his heels. Wheeljack said, "Hi, Perceptor. Need to talk to you for a second." Wheeljack scooped both sparklings up and set them down next to Kat. "Kat, would you mind doing me a favor and watching these two monsters for a few minutes?"

"Oh, sure." She stood up. "Hi Pulsar, Hi Array."

Array wiggled her fingers shyly. Pulsar said, "Array says hi. Me too. You did something to your hair!"

She grinned. "Yeah, because I've _got _hair now to do things with it."

"Can I touch it? It looks neat!"

She nodded, and bent over so he could pat the gelled hair.

"Crunchy," he observed, even as Array was reaching for it, to feel as well.

"I think I'm going to bleach it blond." Her hair was dark brown, almost black.

"Array thinks it should be purple. She likes purple."

"Oh, my mom would _love _that." Actually, her mother would freak_. _She asked Array, "If you like purple, why don't you make your armor that color?"

The twins exchanged a look. Then Array tilted her head sideways, seemed to think for a moment, and changed her color from a rather neutral silver to a rich metallic purple. She looked at her brother, and her brother looked at her, and Pulsar said, "I think you'd look good with some gold stripes ..." he reached out and traced a line down his sister's chassis, indicating the position.

She added racing stripes to her colors.

Pulsar grinned mischieviously, and made himself her opposite: gold, with purple stripes.

"You two are _so _cute!" Kat draped her arms around their shoulders and hugged them. They'd obviously been around humans enough to know the proper response, because they snuggled back.

Perceptor realized he'd forgotten about Wheeljack's presence when 'Jack commed him softly, _:So, when are you going to get a couple of your own, Percy?:_

His warm response to watching the sparklings interact with Kat must have been obvious in the expression on his face plates. However, he replied softly, _:I'm sort of a failure as a mentor, 'Jack.: _He didn't want to, ever, go through that pain again. Plus a sparkling would be a huge weapon that someone could use against him. He wasn't sure he'd have the strength to walk away a second time, if it came down to a choice between his child and the greater good.

_:A failure?: _Wheeljack seemed shocked.

_:He wasn't even _mine_, not really, but it felt like he was to both of us. He became a _Prime_, and I couldn't even figure out a way to ...: _He was hit with a wave of guilt so extreme it made his comm glitch. After a minute in which Wheeljack simply looked at him in silent disbelief, he continued, _:I'd really rather not talk about it, but suffice to say I failed him. He became a Prime, he became the mech who is key to ending the war, and I _failed _him. He was such a wonderful child, and I _failed _him. I loved him so much. I loved him.:_

_:You know,: _'Jack said, _:There's another way to look at that, and that is that you made a profound difference in his life. You didn't _need _to treat him like a child. He was a research subject. By going beyond the bounds of your job and taking a personal interest in Fang, you changed the course of his life -- and possibly of the war.:_

Perceptor blinked, considering that.

_:I ... found out today that Array will probably never process language normally. She was traumatized so badly that the parts of her spark associated with the ability to communicate atrophied. She is very, very lucky that she has a quantum twin, or she would likely be far more damaged than she is.:_

_:I'm sorry.:_

_:What's done is done. Percy, what I'm getting at is that without your influence, Fang would have been very alone, and very badly maltreated. That's not good for sparklings. You made a difference. I'm sure of it.:_

_:Maybe.:_

_:You said you loved him. I bet you still do.:_

_:I ... yeah.:_

_:How come you haven't seen him? If I hadn't seen those two brats for tens of thousands of years,: _Wheeljack made a loose gesture at his sparklings, who were now playfully wrestling with each other and Kat, _:I'd have moved the Pit itself to see them now.:_

Perceptor shifted uncomfortably. _:He's busy, and he's got a lot of responsibilities, and he knows where I am if he wants to see me. I don't want to impose.:_

_:As the humans would say, bullshit. You're scared.:_

_:I really don't want to talk about it.:_

_:Which is your standard answer to everything and anything you don't want to face up to,: _Wheeljack noted, making Perceptor flinch and glare, _:And yet, you were also strong enough to _walk away _from the sparkling that I'm betting you loved more than your own existence. You've still got that strength inside of you.:_

_:What if he doesn't want to see me? What if he was just being polite when ...: _Perceptor shook his head. _:I couldn't ... I couldn't take the rejection.:_

_:Percy, Fang doesn't carry grudges. He's quick to forgive.: _Wheeljack seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Perceptor sensed a quick flurry of communications between him and Ratchet. _:Tell you what, Percy -- Ratch is working on a pretty complicated rebuild job on one of the sparklings. He likes the idea of having you, me, Doc, First Aid, Optimus _and _Fang over to help with the kid.:_

_:... Optimus?:_

_:Nobody can weld like Optimus can.: _Wheeljack smirked. _:The mech's an artist.: _

_:... I had no idea.:_

_:So, you up for it?:_

_:Uh, yeah, I guess ...: _He wasn't sure about it, but he also knew Wheeljack wouldn't give it a rest. On the other hand, it actually sounded like an appealing project, and he was very curious to see what Fang was like. A group setting sounded a lot less threatening than the private meeting that Fang had seemed to imply several days before.

_:Good. Now, I had some questions about the casing for that gun I mentioned ...:_

* * *

Skywarp didn't stir at all, even when Boomer and Skyfire carried him up the ramp to the Seeker's quarters on the third level. Skyfire arranged him comfortably on the berth and commented, "His cores will be defragging until tomorrow morning, at the earliest. I'm sorry, if you had him scheduled for a shift ..."

Fang shook his head. "I wasn't going to put him on a duty rotation. He was too unstable. I didn't want to risk anyone getting hurt ... anyway. I guess, make yourself at home here, and let me know if you need anything ..."

Soberly, Skyfire said, "'Warp showed me where my brother is buried ..."

His brother. His _twin_. Fang wondered at the level of grief that Skyfire must be feeling. He'd known a few twins. He couldn't imagine losing someone who'd shared a connection to your spark for your entire life.

"... I will ... want time alone at the grave later. For now, however, may I ask where you've interred Starscream?"

Fang shook his head, "We haven't."

"... I see. Are we that hard up for parts?" Skyfire's lipplates pressed together in a show of real disapproval of that.

Fang reacted with a shrug, "Well, we were. Half a million dead sparklings solved _that _problem. It's more that we just haven't had time and I'm not sure how to handle it. I don't want to give them a hero's burial, but I don't want to be disrespectful, either. TC and 'Warp should probably get a say in Starscream's service, but they haven't brought it up yet."

"... I'd like to ... see." Skyfire ground to a halt.

"The body's somewhat damaged." Fang winced. He'd shredded Starscream's chest plates.

"I have seen dead mechs before. I would bid my farewells. If you don't mind."

Skyfire's voice was brittle with emotion. He'd held it together all day, but Fang suspected he was perilously close to losing control now. Fang did _not _want to deal with thirty-five feet of emotionally distraught shuttle. "Okay, okay. Tcha! I didn't say you couldn't see him."

"Thank you," Skyfire said, with carefully controlled grace. "Where?"

"The lowest level of the basement. You'll need to duck a bit." The brig was on the way to the basement morgue, and he needed to check in on Pounce, stupid, slagging little glitch that he was, too. He decided he could send Skyfire on to commune with the scrap that had once been his partner, and take a few moments with Pounce.

* * *

Pounce was huddled on a berth in a cell when Fang entered the hall between cells. He didn't say a word, just met Fang's gaze sullenly.

"I would have executed you if you had killed her."

"Feh. Why am I supposed to care about a stupid meatsack?" Pounce flicked his armor out, then clamped it flat, a gesture that indicated _ick_, as if he'd gotten mud on himself.

"I don't care if you care or not," Fang snapped back, "I care that you follow orders."

"Why should I care what you care?"

"Pounce, I could have ... executed you ... twice over." Fang blew out a short, sharp, angry breath. "Twice, I've given you mercy. Some gratitude would be nice."

"I am not grateful to the mech who ordered my _life _taken away from me. You stole my memories, you stole every bit of knowledge of who I am!" Pounce rolled angrily to his feet and stalked to the bars. "I _hate _you. I HATE you."

"Tcha! You sound like my sparkling."

"Yeah, well, maybe she's on to something."

Fang narrowed his eyes in reaction, temper flaring. "Do you want to die?"

"That would be better than ... this!" Pounce gestured at his chest plates, indicating his cores. "This half life! I don't even know who I _am_. You did this to me, and you expect me to be grateful?"

He scowled. "What do you want, Pounce?"

"I want my _life _back!"

"That's not on the table. Not today. Maybe someday. Maybe not. It's _not _open for negotiation."

"Then kill me."

"Do it yourself," Fang snapped at him. "I doubt many people would miss you. Suicide's the ultimate fuck-the-world and in your case, nobody the slag cares."

Pounce's eyes widened, then grew harder and hostile. "How is that supposed to discourage me from doing it?"

"It's not, it's just an observation that the only person you'll hurt by kacking yourself is you. I certainly don't give a damn one way or another. I recommend a burst of plasma to the spark chamber, by the way. It's fastest and most sure."

"You don't care about me."

"Why should I?" Fang shot back at him. "You're a waste of energy."

Pounce fell silent.

"Either get with the program or delete yourself." Fan flipped his hand casually in the air. "I can use you if you want to work with me, but I don't need a liability. Also, realize that the third option is that _I _deal with you, and I will do so if I have to. You'd make a darling sparkling. Prism could use a sibling."

"I'd rather go to the Pit."

"I'll give you the gun to do it with. Just ask."

"Slag you."

"Oh, and every time you show me a lack of respect? You spend another day down here. I'll see you Tuesday." He turned about on his heel and stalked out, not bothering to disguise his irritation. "I _am _a Prime. Some respect would be lovely."

"Sparkless drone."

"Wednesday, then." The door slid shut.  
_  
_Once he was outside, he leaned against the wall and beat the back of his helm against the concrete. "Slagging glitch."

He had _no _idea how to handle Pounce. He had somehow expected Pounce would be grateful for a second chance. Instead, the mech was bitterly resentful. Perhaps they should have simply reformatted him, or been less honest about the reasons for his memory loss. _You had a virus_, would have been an easy lie to tell, though if Pounce was ever to get his life back, he needed to know the truth.

One thing was clear: Fang could see the seeds of Pounce's madness even now. The teachings of Primus claimed that no mech was created evil, but certain spark traits made it harder for some mechs to stay away from the influence of the Pit. The most frustrating part about Pounce, for Fang, was that Pounce had such an opportunity here ... Fang _would _see that he got the education and care he needed to succeed, if he'd just cooperate.  
_  
_After taking a moment to calm his temper, Fang straightened up and muttered, "I don't need the drama in my life right now ..."

_:It could be so much worse, Decepticon Prime.:_

The Order's comment made him flatten his ears. "Please tell me I didn't just jinx myself."

Laughter, from multiple Primes, made him roll his optics. Their presence was all around him, and the Matrix seemed restless in his chest.

"What are you planning?"

They didn't answer.

He sighed and continued down the hall towards Skyfire. He'd given the scientist ten minutes to say his goodbyes to Starscream's corpse. Surely, he wouldn't need more time than that ...

He stepped through the doorway, and stopped short. Skyfire was seated on the floor. There were several dead Decepticon officers in the basement; Fang didn't want to risk their memory cores ending up in the wrong hands. They had just been laying on the floor, as they were short on proper berths.

Skyfire was seated, leaning against the wall, with Starscream's body cradled in his lap. The scientist's optics were shut off, his head bowed, and soft keens came from his vocalizer. If he was aware that Fang stood in the doorway, he made no reaction.

_:He was once worthy of such love. Primus can spare his spark; he is needed more among the living than the dead.: _One of the ancient Primes spoke quietly in his head.  
_  
_Fang gasped, as the Matrix in his chest suddenly melted into sand and flowed down his arm. The ancient artifact left him bereft and stunned, feeling terribly alone, as it reformed in his hand, no longer connected to his cores.

At the noise, Skyfire clicked his optics on. "Please, Prime, I do not wish to be seen ..."

"Shh," Fang said, turning the artifact over in his hands. The Matrix was warm and felt alive, full of energy and the Order's power.

_:Rarely, when the need is great, we can bring a hero back, Fang. We did it with Sam Witwicky, and with Optimus Prime. He is a hero, but he is also very difficult to lead. Therefore, we give you a choice -- do you _wish _to chose the path of leading the greatest Air Commander Cybertron has ever known, or do you _wish _to take a path which will have more personal safety? We cannot guarantee he will ever be loyal to you.:_

They were giving him a _choice_. Dumbfounded, Fang looked up, as if expecting to actually see the ancient Primes towering over him.

"What's the right answer?" he asked them.

_:Neither. And we give you a choice because you are one of us. We have passed, and you yet walk among the living, but you are _part _of the Order of the Primes by virtue of bearing the Matrix.:_

_:What do you recommend?: _he didn't expect his question to be answered with actual advice, just a snarky comment.

_:Were it me,: _and this was just one mech speaking, he realized, _:I would let Skyfire deal with Starscream, and focus on leading Skyfire.:_

Another Prime muttered, _:Vermillion, leading Skyfire's like leading a cat. I should know.:_

_:Hey, I resemble that comment ... Sentinel, right?: _Fang protested, then made a guess at the identity of the speaker.  
_  
_He could practically see the smirk. _:Nice guess, shrimp.:_

_:What are you going to do, Fang?: _Vermillion asked.

Skyfire was staring at Fang, at the Matrix in his hand, without saying a word. Fangface abruptly decided this wasn't his decision to make, entirely. "Skyfire," he said, gently, "the Order of the Primes has made me an offer, but left the decision up to me. We _need _mechs with scientific and medical training, and Starscream has both. He's also a skilled tactician, and a decent leader. People will follow him who won't follow me. But ... he is also not entirely sane, and twisted by Megatron's savagery. He tortured you, and you are his partner."

"An ... offer?" Skyfire turned haunted optics to Fang.

"They can, if the need is great, restore a spark to a body. I've known them to do it twice before -- one human soul, and Optimus Prime's very spark. They've offered to bring Fang back, if I wish to risk a chance on him."

"What are you going to do?" Skyfire sounded shaken.

"Do you think he should get a second chance?" He was reminded of how much Pounce resented _his _second chance.

"I ..." Skyfire bowed his head. "He kept Thundercracker and Skywarp safe. He never stopped loving them. For that reason alone, yes."

_:Do it,: _he told the Primes.

The Matrix became sand once more, flowed through his fingers, and then it blew and swirled on an unseen wind to the body. It slipped through cracks in his armor, and long cold circuits began to hum. Power rose in the room, setting his sensors to fritzing. There was so much energy coming from the body that his optics glitched to white. He turned away, wincing and the roaring scream of static in his auditory sensors.

And then all was silent.

"You _killed _me!" a high-pitched, angry, betrayed voice snarled behind him. "You fragging little _glitch!_"

The Primes laughed, and then their presence abruptly vanished. Fang realized that Jazz might have come back to life without remembering anything of dying, but Starscream definitely did. And he was pissed off about it.

Fang twisted back towards them in alarm. Starscream was whole, uninjured, armor shiny and optics glittering with rage. The Matrix coalesced from its constituent particles and clattered to the ground as Starscream stood up.

Starscream looked down at the noise.

He saw the Matrix.

His optics widened in recognition.

He lunged for it.

Skyfire grabbed him by the shoulder, yanked him back, and shoved him into a wall. "That's not yours, Starscream."

Fang reclaimed his Matrix, uttering a sigh of relief when it merged again with his systems. He felt so _empty _without it. There was so much he was learning, and so much support he received, from the memories of the other Primes.

"Fang, you glitch!" Starscream snarled around Skyfire's chassis, trying to get past Skyfire.

"That," Skyfire slammed Starscream into the wall again for emphasis, "is the Decepticon Prime. _You _are a sorry-aft glitch who I will take apart with my bare hands if need be."

"Sky ..."

"Don't you 'Sky' me, Starscream." The scientist bent over, putting his face right in front of Starscream's combat mask. "You are alive again because of Fang's generosity and _my _agreement. Show some courtesy, if you still remember how."

Starscream flipped his battle mask up, and said with a sneer, "Courtesy's for weaklings." He tired to shove past the much larger mech. Skyfire stood his ground, and when Starscream pushed him hard, Skyfire reacted by slamming him into the wall.

"Not a weakling," Skyfire growled, putting all of his considerable weight. "Fang gave me a choice. _I _made the call to bring you back. And I can send you back to the Pit, you slagger."

"You don't have the bearings!"

"After what you did?" Skyfire closed a hand around Starscream's throat and yanked him up off the ground, banging him against the wall. "You _gave _me the bearings!"

Fang wondered if he should intercede, then reminded himself he stood a little over ten feet tall, and Starscream was close to thirty and Skyfire pushing thirty-five, with about three times the mass as his height would suggest.

Nah. He'd let them sort it out themselves.

Skyfire spun and flung Starscream to the ground, so that he slid across the floor. Starscream tried to scramble to his feet, but Skyfire moved with every bit of the speed and athletic grace that Fangface had suspected he possessed. He took one neat, carefully controlled stride towards the seeker and planted one very large foot in the middle of his chest, over his spark chamber.

Fangface ran a few calculations through his head and realized that, yes, Skyfire probably _was _heavy enough to put collapse Starscream's spark chamber by stepping on it. Seekers were not very heavily armored, as they were built for speed and not defense.

"Don't kill me!" Starscream begged, voice gone high and scratchy and panicky. "Skyfire, please! Please, you don't understand, I had to do it, I had to, or Megatron would have killed TC and Skywarp! He meant it, I had to get the information from you!"

"I never broke, and they're still living," Skyfire growled down at him.

"Because I got the intelligence another way!" Starscream gripped Skyfire's ankle. "I got creative and I figured it out myself! _You _did it! Why couldn't I? Pleeaaaaaaaaaase! Don't kill me!"

"So you figured out his location and you told Megatron, when I would have _died _to conceal it. When I was willing to take that information to the Well with me. How cheap you have become."

"He'd have killed them!"

"And?" Skyfire said, coldly. "Some things are worth all our lives. The Fallen should have remained lost, Starscream."

"Skyfire, I'm sorry, you're right, you're right, I'll do anything, just don't kill me ..."

"Don't give me an excuse." Skyfire stepped back. He scowled down at Starscream, who was groveling at his feet, and then turned to Fangface. "Prime, will you excuse me? I am going to check on 'Warp and then I believe I could use some recharge."

With dignity, the big mech padded out the door.

Starscream stared at Fang, then lifted shaking fingers to probe at his throat, where Skyfire had grabbed him.

"Are you damaged?" Fang asked.

Starscream frowned. "Why do you care? I should slag you myself."

"Get up," Fang said, not unkindly. "I'm leader of the Decepticons, now ..."

"_You_?" Starscream said, incredulously.

"... and I'm the Decepticon Prime. _You _are a war criminal with a history of insubordination and treachery. There was a reason that I eliminated you months ago. The only reason you're alive now is that the Order of the Primes seems to think I can use you." Fang folded his arms. "Get up. They also didn't think you were indispensable, so if you take _one _step wrong, I _will _slag you. I am not Megatron. I don't get off on power games. Either cooperate or die. It's your choice to make."

Starscream started to say something, then snapped his mouth shut. He didn't rise, however. After a long -- _long -- _moment of intense scrutiny he said, "You really took control?"

"Yes."

"So you planned a coup right under my nose, and I never knew?"

"Yes."

Starscream huffed a sigh. "I knew you were too good to be true. First decent commander I find in years and you stab me in the back. What did I ever do to you, anyway?"

Fang smirked. "Tcha! You really think I forgave you for Wheelie? I can forgive a great deal, but touch my sparklings and _die_."

"I didn't take him!"

"You're a liar, too." Fang couldn't even summon the old anger up now. "Wheelie's an Autobot, now. It's a good place for him. He's apprenticed to Ratchet, he's got friends, he's doing well. No thanks to you, you stupid glitch."

Wary red eyes widened, narrowed, then regarded him with deep, hostile suspicion.

"Get up." Fang didn't have to fake the coldness in his voice. "I'll see that you're assigned a room and get a briefing file. If you so much as _look _wrong at anyone, Starscream, I will terminate you. I have very deep misgivings about this."

Starscream finally stood up, a bit shakily. "Yes ... Prime."

"Move." He pointed towards the door, not wanting to be behind Starscream.

"Yes, Prime."

Fang watched the broad shoulders and powerful form of the Decepticon Air Commander as they headed for the exit. He couldn't help but think, _He's dangerous. He shouldn't be alive. This was a mistake._

_:Fang, Starscream still has the capacity to love.: _The voice was Vermillion Prime's. _:He still cares very deeply about his partners and they, him. We would not have brought him back from the Pit if we did not think him past the point of all possible redemption.:_

_:Mm.:_

_:He also has the capacity for great evil. Be careful, Decepticon Prime.:_

_:Oh, gee, thanks for stating the obvious.:_

_:You're welcome,: _the voice replied, smugly, and then he was alone again.

Fang checked his chronometer and winced. He had a meeting with the medical staff in five minutes. _Oh, Primus. Ratchet. Ratch is going to slagging _kill _me._ He had a feeling that Screamer wasn't the only person who would be smacked around by a lover today ...


	98. Chapter 98

Chapter 98

* * *

Author's note: Array is not intended to be autistic. She processes social cues very well. A better analogy of Array's issues is to compare her to a deaf infant raised without exposure to language (sign or spoken) will have difficulty becoming fluent in any language as an older child or adult. In her case, she escaped from the 'cons before she received an operating system, which meant she didn't have any exposure to language for a fairly extended period of time. (She's not socially challenged as she has her brother to mitigate the isolation -- and she's just plain resilient and friendly. And Pulsar probably goes, "Psst!" and fills her in on anything she just missed because she's basically only grocking the nouns and the verbs and the occasional adjective.)

And re: Kitten/Crucible -- yeah, I oopsed with that. There's a bit of a retcon in this chapter and I'll go back and fix things after I finish the story.

* * *

The med bay was empty aside from First Aid and Ratchet, plus Sidney, who was in a back room for medical observation. Fang was a few minutes late, so he was relieved he wasn't facing the whole crowd from both sides when he arrived.

"Ratch." Fang smiled at him, a nervous expression. "Can we talk for a second?"

"Hnnh?" Ratchet looked up from a microscope. He saw Fang's smile and straightened the rest of the way upright. "What's up?"

"Uh ..." He decided he'd just say it. Trying to soften this news was going to be pointless. "Starscream's back."

Silence from Ratchet made him more nervous than an explosion would have. He shifted uncertainly. "It was the Order's idea."

"... Starscream. Is. Back."

"Yeah. And Skyfire fixed Skywarp's code, I think. We'll have to see what level he's functioning on, but Skyfire seems to think it's a good repair. It'll be a relief if I don't have to worry about him killing anyone because he can't process feelings and logic at the same time and ..."

"Fang." Ratchet's tone made him stop babbling. "Starscream's back."

"Err, yeah, but I'll keep an eye on him. He's slag if he pulls anything stupid."

"In that case, just shoot him now and save us all the grief, because 'stupid' is inevitable when we're talking about Starscream." Ratchet's expression was the coldest Fang ever recalled seeing.

"The Order thinks he'll be useful. They gave me a choice, but they advised I should do it, and Skyfire wanted it, and I think I can keep him under control and he's not _that _crazy, and ..."

"Slaggit. You _know _my feelings on reviving the dead!"

"You can't claim that this isn't Primus's work, the Order suggested it to me!"

"The Order is fallible, Fang!" Ratchet slammed a hand down on the berth. "You can't cheat death! Dead is dead and there should be no coming back from it! You were _stupid _to let them do that, foolish! We've discussed this before!"

He recoiled. First Aid gave Ratchet a wide-optic'd look and then headed for the door, likely in a strategic retreat. He ignored First Aid's departure and said, "Are you calling me stupid?"

"Yes, I am!"

He rocked back on his heels, stung. "Ratchet, that hurts."

"_Good_. It's meant to." Ratchet glared. "You brought back the mech who _dropped the bombs on Nebulos. _Are you insane? He tried to destroy Earth! He's ... Fang, what you did was criminally irresponsible. Where is he now?"

"With Skywarp and Skyfire, presumably. I've got 'Regia watching him."

"He could _kill _Aquaregia. Fang, have you forgotten what he did to Wheelie, your own child?"

"No, I haven't." He started to head for the door, only to find his path blocked by Ratchet. That made him uneasy, for reasons that he knew were directly related to Deathwheels. He reminded himself that this was Ratchet, and that he trusted Ratchet, but he'd trusted Death, too.

"You aren't going anywhere until we talk this out." Ratchet folded his arms.

Fang fought back a very strong impulse to whine and wheedle his way out the door. Whining had worked, somewhat, when Starscream had been _his _commander. It wasn't befitting Lord Fangface, the Decepticon Prime. Besides, whining at Ratchet would probably earn him only scorn from the medic. He drew himself up to his full ten feet of height, and said, "I do _not _appreciate being spoken to in this tone, Ratchet."

Ratchet ran a hand over his own face. "Okay, okay, you're right. I'm being an aft. But so are you. It's _Starscream_. I didn't even like the fragger before the war. Fang, I cannot believe you thought this was a good idea ..."

The not-apology pissed him off more than more screaming would have. Deathwheels had done that a few times. Apologize, but then shift the blame to Fang. "Oh, frag you, Ratch."

"Frag me?" Ratchet was clearly stunned to have the not-apology thrown back at him.

"Frag you." Fang threw his arms in the air. "You're so high and mighty, so perfect, you think you have the right to tell me off whenever you want. I'm not going to put up with it, _particularly _from my partner. Starscream will be fine ..."

"Bullshit," Ratchet snarled out one of his favorite human obscenities. "Starscream will _not _be fine, and you know it. This isn't like Pounce ..."

"Oh, _Pounce. _I swear to Primus, I'm going to slag that fragger if he doesn't do himself in." Fang threw his hands in the air. "It's _exactly _like Pounce. Both of them probably weren't very nice mechs at the beginning of the war, both of them lived through hell, both of them did some terrible things, and I'm supposed to show mercy for Pounce and not Starscream? Explain me the rationality behind that."

"Starscream was a commander. He _made _the decisions, and Pounce was just a soldier!"

"Oh, pu_leeeze, _Ratch. Megatron told Starscream what the objectives were, and expected Starscream to deliver, no matter how impossible those goals were. If he failed, he got beaten, raped, and humiliated. If he succeeded, whatever he did still it wasn't good enough and he got beaten, raped, and humiliated. Then Megatron expected him to get up and go out and do it _again _because, you know what? Starscream's actually not half bad as a commander. Actually, he's slagging _good._"

"Which is why I think it was a horrible idea to revive him! He's good enough to put your position at risk!"

Fang ignored that and continued, "I don't know what Shockwave did to Pounce, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was similar. And as far as not being a commander -- Pounce wasn't an officer, but he had a high degree of autonomy in the field and sometimes led a few others."

"I don't care if they were quantum twins!" Ratchet was surprisingly, to Fang, uncompromising. "Starscream's the mech who bombed Nebulos."

"And Pounce killed a creche full of orphaned sparklings as a scare tactic and _enjoyed _it. I've read Smokescreen's reports."

"Look, Fang, we're not going to see eye to eye on this ..."

"Yeah, kinda difficult when you're looming over me." Which was true. Ratchet, who was normally quick to lower himself to Fang's level, was in Fang's space and was pulled up to his full twenty-two feet of height. He put a hand on Ratchet's abdominal plating and shoved, making his point clear.

Ratchet took one step back. He snapped, "Better?"

Fang realized the fight was _far _from over, and the idea of hashing this out with Ratchet, when Ratchet was in this sort of mood, left him feeling trapped. He just wanted Ratchet to agree that there were good reasons for bringing Starscream back. He wanted Ratchet's support. He wanted Ratchet to wrap his arms around him and tell him it was all going to be okay. He wanted to know that Ratchet would forgive him when he'd done a dumb thing.

Obviously, that was not going to happen.

Savagely, he thought, _If a moment's weakness and optimism blows up my partnership with Ratchet, I swear I'll offline Starscream myself out of pure spite ... _

* * *

"Megan, would you like a lift?" Doc pulled up beside her, voice coming from somewhere in the vicinity of his front suspension.

She found it somewhat confusing to talk to the mechs when they were in their alt modes. She wasn't sure where to _look_. Still, she gratefully settled into his comfortably padded seat, and rested her hands lightly on his handlebars.

The reality that it wasn't an ATV she was riding, it was an alien robot, slightly less giant than the others, was unshakable. Said alien was also the person responsible for saving her daughter's life. She honestly wasn't sure what to say to him. She'd already thanked him, profusely, a few times.

"The last set of Kat's scans came back clean." He set off at a sedate pace towards the med-bay. She'd intended to talk to Mikaela Witwicky there. "I'm working with Kat's oncologist to get a proper controlled research study set up on Earth, and in the meantime, we will be taking twenty to thirty patients with us on each run of the Ark to Nieryl Six, along with a handful of human researchers."

"Wow."

"I'm pleased," he said, "I was worried that we would have more difficulty with red tape."

"So she's officially cured?"

"Mmm. I'd like her to have scans quarterly for at least the next decade, but we'll cover that ..." he sighed. "We could have missed some cells, though if it does reoccur, it can be easily treated."

Doc had subtly increased his speed as he spoke, and she was surprised to realize that they were whizzing along at a good sixty or seventy miles an hour. His ride was far smoother than any human-made ATV she'd ever been on. He reached the end of the great hall in short order after passing the Nebulan camp in a blur, then braked in front of one of the lifts.

She said, for the thousandth time, "I cannot thank you enough."

"Thanks are not needed, though they are appreciated. Hop off, I want to transform."

She scrambled hastily off the seat, and he unfolded and looked her in the eyes. "Have you given any thought to Optimus's offer regarding staying here?"

She frowned. "Yeah. Haven't decided yet."

He put a hand on her arm, smoothly fingers, almost human in their appearance because of his sensitive dermal covering, resting on the sleeve of her shirt. "I'd like you to stay, for what it's worth."

Had he been human, she would have known he was _interested _in her. Uneasily, she pulled back, wondering if she was reading him wrong. He searched her face for a moment, then looked sharply away. "We need friends, Megan. We need people like you, who like us ... who trust us."

Ah. That was what it was implying, and nothing more. She smiled. "It's ... not as easy as that, Doc."

"I know." The lift arrived, and they walked into the elevator, which was roughly the size of a basketball court. He tilted his head sideways, for a second, and asked, "I know you don't have much family. Do you have friends in California?"

"Not really." She leaned against the wall as the lift glided upwards. She was so tired. She'd also spent enough time around the mechs to have picked up on the cultural significance of that question. Cybertronians placed much higher values on friendship than humans did; Doc had explained to her that their social needs were higher. It was entirely possible that if she answered yes, they'd promptly suggest employing her friends and family too. She explained, "I haven't heard from Kat's father in ten years. He skipped town when he found out how much he owed a month in child support ... left the country, I think. His side of the family doesn't acknowledge her. I don't have much living family. I've got some childhood friends in Texas, but ... it's so hard to keep a friendship up when your kid's so sick. Taking care of Kat was so hard, it took up so much of my time."

"You'd have friends here," he noted.

"Friends?"

Doc shrugged, not elaborating. She supposed he meant himself, in the easy way that mechs classed everyone as friends who weren't outright enemies. Megan had tried to explain Cybertronian definitions of 'friends' to her once; they had dozens of modifiers for the noun, covering a range of possibilities.

The elevator doors slid open and they crossed the hall to the med bay entrance. When the doors slid open, they revealed an unexpectedly raging argument between Ratchet and Fang.

"... you stupid _glitch!_" Ratchet loomed over Fang. "Starscream is insane, dangerous, vicious, amoral, he tortured his own partner, he was the one who _delivered _the bombs that destroyed Nebulos! I cannot believe you'd think that bringing him back would be any sort of a good idea!"

Doc took two steps backwards, towing her with him, and the doors slid shut in front of them. "I believe I can visit the med bay later. The meeting appears to be canceled."

"What the hell?" she demanded.

Something heavy hit the wall, making the whole hallway shudder. Doc held up one finger, asking her to wait a second, and his eyes went distant as he spoke to someone else. "Ah. It seems Fangface and the Order of the Primes decided to bring Starscream back to life."

"... so you guys can not only cure cancer, you can cure death?" Vaguely, she remembered Starscream was a Decepticon.

He smirked. "Ocassionally, yes. This would generally be termed a 'miracle'. There have been quite a few of those going around lately, but I suspect my people _need _divine intervention right now."

The door shuddered.

"Are they going to hurt each other?"

"I doubt it, but please wait here a minute." He sounded only mildly concerned. Of course, she was reasonably convinced that Doc would react to his own dismemberment with one lifted eyebrow, and then, a few minutes later, practical plans to rebuild himself. "I have a patient I should probably rescue ..."

Apparently unafraid for his own safety, he stepped forward. The doors opened, giving Megan a somewhat startling glimpse of Fang clinging to Ratchet's chest armor, claws gripping his shoulder plating and feet braced against his bumper. Fang had his face shoved in Ratchet's and was yelling in Cybertronian (and sounding like a rabid modem) while Ratchet interjected the occasional vicious comment.

Doc stopped, eyed them for a moment, then walked onward. The door slid shut. When it opened a minute later he was escorting an older woman out of the chaos.

"... You still sure you want to work for Fang?" Doc asked, sounding like he was teasing her a bit, after the doors cycled shut and cut off the argument.

The woman laughed. "Hon, they weren't threatening me. I was enjoying the show."

Doc shook his head. "Just be _careful_ ... not all of the 'cons are as nice as Fang ..."

"No duh!" She held her arm up, displaying a cast. Megan blinked at the _duh _... the woman looked to be in her seventies, and had just done a passable imitation of an annoyed teenager.

At that moment, Sunstreaker rolled off the lift with Judy Witwicky seated behind the wheel. Doc gestured at the yellow Corvette. "Sidney, Judy and Sunstreaker will take you home tonight, and First Aid will pick you up. My colleague has called some prescriptions for medication into a local pharmacy -- this will cover the cost." He produced several hundred dollar bills from subspace and pressed them into her hand. "I would recommend that you rest tomorrow ..."

"Nah, I'll be here." She frowned at the money. "What'd he call in that costs this much?"

"One of the more effective pain medications, plus refills on your insulin, because the pharmacist said you should be out by now."

Wryly, she said, "I don't need as much insulin if I'm not _eating _much."

Judy, who'd climbed out of the Corvette, overheard that comment and looked briefly startled. Megan winced as well, drawing the obviously conclusion. Sidney's clothes -- she was wearing a woman's pantsuit -- were obviously just a little shabby, and about ten years out of style. She was visibly thin, too. However, Judy merely extended a hand to the old woman, "I'm Judy Witwicky."

Sidney sighed. "Yeah, though Fang's hired me."

"You have _way _more guts than I do." Judy snorted. "The Autobots can be bad enough ... they mean well, but they're so big. Bumblebee nearly killed my son, and Bee _loves _Sam. It was purely by accident. The 'Cons are a lot less nice."

"Depends on the Decepticon, though generally speaking that is true," Doc said, then continued, "Sidney, if the money's an issue, _I _could use an assistant, and I can guarantee you'll be safer with me. I'm going to be doing a lot of traveling -- I'm going to transcan a more road-worthy vehicle in the next few days, and I could use a human to go with me for a variety of reasons. If you don't mind riding a motorcycle ..."

Her eyes lit up in clear appreciation.

"... I'd hire you."

"What are you going to scan, a Harley? You're about the right size." Sidney seemed genuinely curious and unafraid, despite the evidence of a cast that implied she'd been hurt by a mech.

Doc chuckled. "The quad was the first thing at hand that was the right size, and it's served it's purpose, but I need to be more mobile now. I have a date at a Harley Davidson dealership tomorrow afternoon to get the scan -- they're having some sort of PR event for the dealership. Your guess was good."

She snapped the fingers of her good hand together. "Rats. I already promised Fang I'd work for him. If he decided he doesn't need me, though, I'll keep the offer in mind.'Cuz, that'd be _fun_."

Doc sighed. "Just ... be careful. Fang's a good mech ..."

Something hit the wall again, making all three humans jump.

"... but _be careful_."

Sunstreaker asked, "What the pit's going on in there? What fragged off the Hatchet?"

"Oh, Fang brought back Starscream." Doc rolled his optics. "Ratchet has some strong opinions about Starscream."

"So do _I_," Sunstreaker growled.

"Yes, I remember the time you ripped his wings off."

"Unfortunately, I missed his spark chamber." Sunstreaker revved his engine.

Megan was nonplussed by the casual violence that she'd seen, and was also surprised that the other two humans seemed to be accepting it in stride. Judy, in fact, was laughing. "You ripped off his wings? Really, Sunny? Niiiiice. Wish you were with us in Egypt."

The yellow mech said smugly, "I jumped off a cliff onto his back. Sideswipe took down TC in the same fight."

Judy said, "You'll have to show me the video. -- Sidney, Megan, would you like to come to dinner with me? Bee and my son should be home by this evening, and I'm making a roast. Megan, your daughter's invited too. She should meet my boy and Mikaela, if she's going to stay here."

"... I haven't decided yet if we're staying."

"Oh. Really?" Judy said, seeming surprised. "Ah, well, you're invited anyway."

"Isn't anyone worried about the fight?" Megan couldn't tear her eyes away from the door. She could hear shouting even through the wall, and stomping feet.

"Ratchet would win if they were seriously trying to tear each other's plating off," Sunstreaker explained. "And Ratchet isn't going to kill Fang. Much as he _deserves _it, this time, if he did bring back Screamer."

Megan realized that they accepted the sort of screaming argument between the Autobot CMO and the Decepticon leader as _normal_. She understood cultural differences, but ... her eyes fell on Doc's arms. He kept his lightweight laser rifle and a small pulse cannon tucked beneath his armor, but she could see them through the seams. Even their medics went armed, and that worried her. There was a casual element of violence to their world that was utterly inhuman.

"Hey," Sidney said, to Doc. "You're going to sign my cast, right? If I'm going to bust an arm for this job, I want some cool autographs out of it. You think Optimus Prime will sign it?"

"I am reasonably sure that he would." Doc produced a permanent marker. He signed all three letters of his name with a flourish, next to a scrawl that was probably Ratchet's name. Then he patted Sidney on the shoulder. "If you're going to stay for dinner, I've got some pain killers in my office. Why don't you come with me? You've got to be hurting."

Sidney willingly followed Doc down the hall, leaving Megan alone with Judy and Sunstreaker.

Judy leaned against Sunstreaker's quarter panel. He grumbled about her leaving smudges on his paint, and she smacked his hood with the palm of her hand in retaliation. "Be nice. If you're not helping me you're going to be doing manual labor, and we both know it."

"Yes, ma'am."

Megan wasn't sure she'd _ever _have the guts to slap an Autobot, even playfully. Maybe Judy had been around them longer, but still, Sunstreaker was fifteen feet tall.

* * *

"The Primes wanted it!" Fang said, for the umpteenth time in the last thirty minutes.

"I don't care if the Primes wanted him back as a reformatted sparkling!" Ratchet stomped across the room, throwing his arms in the air, and then spinning back to glare at Fang. He'd graduated from looming to dramatic displays of fury, probably out of frustration that Fang wouldn't see things his way. He'd even thrown a few tools at the wall. "I do _NOT _care! It's Starscream! He's the pit-slagging spawn of Unicron!"

"Hyperbole much?" Fang folded his arms, resentfully. He was surprised that he was the calm one, really, but _somebody _had to keep cool. Besides, if he started screaming, the wrenches would start flying at his head. "You question _my _choices with _my _troops!"

"He's not one of your troops, and if you think you can ever trust him, you're deluding yourself!"

"I _don't _think I can ever trust him. I don't trust half my mechs! More than half! At least he's honest about his treachery!"

"Honest? I don't even think he was honest about that! That mech has layers upon layers of malignant personality. He's evil, Fang! He's the mech who delivered the bombs to Nebulos! Ask Silverbolt what Starscream's like; he lost his entire gestalt in battles against Starscream's squads because Starscream doesn't even fight honestly! I've known him since before the war, and trust me, the seeds were there _before _Megatron ever got his claws into him. _And _he can be tactically brilliant when he puts his mind to it!"

"... and that competence in battle is _why _he's back among the living!" Fang decided this was a losing battle, he didn't like losing battles, and it was time to leave. Also, fighting honestly? What war had Ratchet been fighting? As far as Fang was concerned, there was no such thing as a dishonest fight, only a winning or losing one. If he had to go _over _Ratchet's head to get out of the med bay, so be it. "Forget it, Ratch. I'm sorry I told you first, before the rumor mill reached you. I'm sorry you don't trust my judgment -- which might have made me leader of the 'cons, but apparently isn't good enough for you. Just -- forget it."

He had not expected Ratchet to react with this much vigorous fury, and Fang had just had enough. He clearly wasn't going to convince Ratchet to calm down. He was beginning to be more than a little reminded of Deathwheels' attempt to hack him, and every time Ratchet got too close he flinched away.

Ratchet blocked his path for a second longer, then stepped angrily aside and made a sweeping, exaggerated gesture at the door.

He turned to go, intending to comm the other medics, make sure they knew the meeting was canceled (which they probably assumed anyway) and stalk off to his quarters where he might just overclock his processor until he passed out. He'd _had _it. He could virtually guarantee that Optimus et al would want to speak to him about Starscream as soon as word reached them, and he didn't want to deal with it right now. Maybe if he was inebriated to the point of incoherence he could forestall that discussion for a few hours.

No, wait, he had a sparkling to watch. He couldn't even overclock himself. Prism definitely didn't need to see him in _that _state of mind. He was not a happy drunk, which was one of the primary reasons he _didn't _mess with his clock speed very often.

"Fang, wait."

"Why should I?" Fang turned back, letting some of his hurt show on his features. "Ratch ... if you're mad at me, fine, but this is to the point of being abusive. I won't put up with it. Not even from you."

"I'm not ..." Ratchet snapped his mouth shut and slowly put down the wrench he had gripped on one hand. He'd been using the wrench like a conductor's baton for the last few minutes, to punctuate his emotions, but Fang had been expecting it to come whizzing at his head at any moment. Ratchet's expression was suddenly stricken. He bowed his head, and ran a hand over his face, deflating. "I'm sorry. You're right."

"I'm leaving." He was coldly angry enough that Ratchet's genuine apology barely registered, though it did lessen his real fear of the mech. With very little emotion in his voice he said, "Perhaps you should remember that I am known as an _effective _leader, and that I am noted for having good judgment when it comes to soldiers under my command. My judgment with my lovers is obviously not so sharp."

"Fang, wait." Ratchet sounded deflated.

He didn't want to. He turned to stomp off ... just as the door opened and Perceptor stepped through.

"Fangface!" Perceptor said, nervously. His almost-mentor stopped short, and interlaced his fingers nervously, then chewed on one fingertip. "Uh, hi."

Fang blinked at him. A perfectly good raging exit ruined by bad timing of a third party. He couldn't storm out now, not without being rude to Perceptor. "Err, hi, Percy."

Ratchet came up behind him and rested a hand on Fang's shoulder, briefly. Fang flicked his armor plates in a silent expression of disgust at the touch. He was in no mood to be petted by Ratchet. Ratchet withdrew his hand and said, "I'm going up to my quarters, Fang. The meeting's canceled but you're still invited this evening. It's up to you if you want to come."

_As if, _Fang thought savagely, _I'd want to spend any _more _time being abused. _Attending Ratchet's little party would just give them a chance to _all _gang up on him.

The medic left, looking more than a bit subdued. Perceptor twisted to watch him go, and then when he was gone, said, "What's with him?"

"We had a fight." Fangface ran a hand over his face. Though 'fight' didn't even begin to cover it. He was stunned by the sheer level of Ratchet's rage. He'd known Ratchet had a serious temper, and sometimes had difficulty controlling it, but that had never been turned his way before.

Perceptor smirked, which made Fang bristle with irritation until the mech's words registered, "Given the past definition of 'fight' as it pertains to Autobots and Decepticons, I'll take it that this was minor. It's quite encouraging that we can have fights that don't involve more physical violence than a thrown wrench."

Ratchet had thrown objects at the wall, but not at him. Fang could see the humor, though he hurt so bad he just wanted to curl up and cry. Instead of collapsing in a keening fit, however, sighed, and crossed his arms, and leaned against a berth, and forced himself to appear calm. "I'm sure the rumor mill will start soon enough, so I might as well tell you. Ratchet and I ... I love him, and I know he loves me, but I learned the hard way already that just because someone loves you doesn't mean they're good for you. He kinda blew up when he found out I brought Starscream back with the Matrix ..."

"Starscream was dead?" Percy said, looking surprised.

Fang stared at him. Then he started to giggle. He couldn't help it. He'd heard about Perceptor's habit of deliberately avoiding any news for fear of the news being bad from Punch, but ... really? He'd missed that? The absurdity broke him right out of his foul mood and provoked near-hysterical laughter.

"Glad to amuse," Perceptor raised both optic ridges questioningly, clearly conveying he didn't understand what Fang was laughing about with a simple look. That puzzled gaze, tinted with just the slightest bit of censor, was so familiar that Fang stopped laughing. Compass had favored him with that expression on a fairly regular basis.

"I've had a _hell _of a day," Fang said, finally. He covered his optics, then shut them off, and let his shoulder slump. His seizure of amusement disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Kitten?" Perceptor sounded concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Not really." _Kitten. _His code-name had been Crucible, but he had always been _Kitten _to Perceptor. Percy had actually nicknamed him with the word for the young offspring of a feline-like Nebulan pet, but _Kitten _was a fine translation into English. He'd seen kittens. They were cute and harmless and hyperactive.

A gentle hand touched his arm. Percy was a head and shoulders taller than he was, and when he opened his eyes he had to look up at the mech. "You and Ratchet are in a relationship?"

"Yeah."

"He's not very tolerant of what he sees as stupidity, is he?" Perceptor said, softly. "He's yelled at me many times. He does it to everyone. There were times I hated going in his med bay, because I was guaranteed to hear slag from him about _something_."

"My last partner used to treat me like I was stupid too. I'm _not_." Fang abruptly leaned against Perceptor. Memories tens of thousands of years old rushed into his RAM. He had been so small, so vulnerable, so young, and Perceptor had _been there _for him. His first memory was of being held down and a slagging datapad being hooked to his port, and an operating system being coldly forced on him by an emotionless machine. It had terrified him. He'd been _so _scared, and then he'd woken after a forced reboot to find he was warm, safe, and cradled in someone's arms. A gentle voice had murmured apologies, and told him it was going to be okay, and had held him until the fear and anger from his maltreatment had faded.

And then Shockwave had scolded Perceptor for "spoiling" the "test subject" and had set Fang off to his quarters with only a teaching drone for company. He'd been so desperately alone that first night. He'd been confused, frightened, and not consoled at all by the emotionless touch and voice of the drone. But morning had eventually come and Percy had opened the door to his room and held his arms open and he'd desperately launched into the scientist's grasps with cries of relief.

Perceptor had never spent the night with Fang. Every evening, when he was sent to recharge by himself, he'd gone reluctantly, feeling just a little bit betrayed. That feeling of betrayal, of rejection, had increased when Percy had given him some stories videos meant for sparklings and he'd learned most sparklings had mentors who they lived with. Perceptor was the closest thing to a mentor he had, but Percy went home every night, leaving him behind in the lab. Percy only hugged him when no one was looking, and often pulled away too soon. He'd craved Perceptor's touch, longed for kind words and real affection from him, and it had never come.

And above all, _hated _the lonely isolation of his room in the lab. He'd been locked in a small, spartan bedroom every evening with only the slagging teaching drone for company. If he wanted a hug, or a kind word, the drone would give it, but the thing wasn't sparked, and there were no emotions behind its actions. Shockwave seemed to think he should be fooled, but he had never been.

Every morning, however, Perceptor had unlocked the door, and let him out. He made a point of being the first in the lab, and had always greeted Fang with a long hug and, often, a new video or an educational toy. Fang wasn't allowed regular toys. The first time Percy had given him a doll, Shockwave had taken it away with a sneer, stating soldiers didn't play with dolls. However, he was allowed puzzles, paints, science projects, toy weapons, sports equipment, and the like. Perceptor had kept him very well stocked in those, with everything stored on shelves in Percy's office. (He wasn't allowed toys or any mememtos in his quarters, something Shockwave said would "spoil" him.)

Percy crooned softly, gripping him, as memories flooded Fang's RAM. He remembered that noise, too. It had often led to lullabies. Then, abruptly, Perceptor tried to push away. "I don't know why I'm holding you ... I'm sorry, Fang, you're not a child ..."

One day, Perceptor hadn't unlocked his door. It was several hours after the lab had opened, and after he'd spent most of the morning knocking on the door and calling for "Compass", when one of the interns had finally let him out. He'd been escorted to Shockwave's office, where Shockwave had told him Perceptor would not be coming back, ever. Shockwave had told him his almost-mentor had simply taken another job.

He'd run from the office, dodging attempts by the interns to grab him, and calling wildly for Compass. He'd screamed his name until his vocalizer had glitched. There had been no answer, and when he'd reached Perceptor's office, it had been stripped bare of all sign of the mech. Even Fang's toys were gone. He had been left with absolutely nothing but memories to remember him by.

When Perceptor tried to pull away now, wouldn't let go of his armor. He buried his face in Perceptor's shoulder and, instead of commenting on the past -- which was done and gone -- said softly, "I wanted to _talk _to Ratchet about Starscream ... I don't even know that I did the right thing. And he just went off."

Memories kept flooding back, ones he'd kept long archived. From the day that Perceptor had left, he had been allowed out of his barren quarters only when his presence was required for testing. He'd willingly done the usual drills, combat practice, and stress testing, even when painful or damaging, at first. However, without Perceptor to argue ethics and protect him, they'd stepped up the level of intensity. He'd take more damage, more frequently, and his repairs and protoform modifications had been done, not by Percy, but by a brusque older medic who'd smacked him and growled insults if he winced or protested against the work. Perceptor hadn't been there to make sure the sensor blocks were working, to sooth his concerns with a gentle touch, and to distract him with a puzzle or a video during long and tedious changes to his protoform.

"I'd guess it has something to do with the fact that Starscream led the attack on the senate that killed so many of Ratchet's friends, and started the war." Perceptor quirked an optic ridge upwards, and put his arms back around Fang. "And then continued to be a menace for the entire war. Ratchet saw a lot of mechs offline due to him. Even _I _know that."

That touch triggered more memores of the past. He struggled to track the thread of the conversation. Perceptor had said something about Starscream killing Ratchet's friends. He groaned. "I didn't think about that."

"He's done so much evil, and Ratchet carries a grudge a long, long time, Fang." Perceptor tightened his grip on him. "He's got a horrible temper, too."

That touch, so comforting, so wordlessly supportive, had disappeared from his life after Perceptor left. He had done the drills asked of him largely because of Perceptor's approval. Quite often, he'd be sent into a mock fight with drones, or asked to spar against a bigger, better armored mech. He'd take damage. It was hard, it hurt; sometimes, he feared for his life. And at the end, Perceptor had always been waiting with praise for a job well done. Perceptor would drape an arm around his shoulders in a firm hug and then invite him back to the lab to review the data they'd collected.

He'd gotten good enough at compiling data that Percy he'd actually been helpful to Perceptor -- Percy had claimed he was better at analysis than some of the interns -- and he'd started making suggestions for mods, in the months before Perceptor had left. His hips had significantly more mobility than they had in the beginning, because of Fang's own critique of his own protoform. Perceptor had promised to correct some of the issues with his hydraulics that had cropped up, that were related to that modifiction, but he'd left first. The engineers that had taken over had not been interested in his input, had not allowed him to see the data, and had ignored his suggestions that they _really _needed to upgrade his posterior hydraulic seals because he had ruptured them a few times even in practice combat.

"I love him," Fang said, quietly, forcing himself to think of Ratchet and the fight and not the looming memories of the distant past. "I love him and he was _so _mad. I disappointed him, but if I had to make the same decision, I think I would ... I might lose him over this, but slaggit, the Order of the Primes doesn't get involved if there's not a very good reason, and if they think I can do it, I probably can ..."

Perceptor suddenly grew very still, and he let go of Fang -- not to pull away, but to drop down to one knee and really _look _at Fang. "I doubt you'll lose Ratchet, if he loves you back. He's throwing a fit because he's scared for you, and it's easier for him to show anger than fear. He's always got to put on a front ... he has to present himself as the tough CMO, always in charge, always competent."

Fang averted his gaze from Perceptor's keen look. "I don't know if I _want _him, if he's going to be this much of a fucking glitch."

It _hurt. _It hurt in entirely different ways from the loss of Deathwheels. Ratchet was diffferent from Deathwheels.

He'd ... chosen ... to let himself grow attached to Ratchet, rather than having it forced on him as Deathwheels had. That, perhaps, was the essential difference. Again, thoughts of the past rushed into his RAM. After Perceptor had disappeared, he'd tried to find, effectively, a substitute mentor among the engineers, interns, programmers, and various other staff at the lab. He'd been rebuffed at every turn. He had very painful memories of the staff planning a party because one of the science geeks had a pair of sparklings roughly Fang's age and the pair had been accepted to a prestigious primary school. The party would be at the lab, with the two children and several of their friends in attendence, and he had been so excited because he assumed he would be invited, and would get to play with the other children.

Shockwave had locked him in his room early. He'd listened to the laughter, the cheers, the excited giggling of someone else's kids, in the utterly barren surroundings of his room. The teaching drone had uttered sympathetic words to him, and he'd finally pried off a panel and yanked the power plant to shut it down. He had assumed their abandonment of him was a mistake, at first. He'd banged on the door, yelling for someone to let him out. For a long time, nobody had come. Finally, however, Shockwave had opened the door and had coldly told him he wasn't invited and it was rude to try to crash a party. When he'd protested that there were other children, Shockwave had struck him hard enough to dent his cheek arch for 'talking back.'

After that, he'd stopped considering the lab staff his friends. He'd grown sullen and angry, refusing to cooperate. They'd tried forcing him into combat drills regardless of his feelings on the matter, but he'd simply turned away from the drones, or shredded them in seconds, giving them very little useable data. Only forced isolation without even the teaching drone for company had served to convince him to cooperate.

"You love him," Perceptor said softly.

"I love him so much it feels like I'd be losing half my spark if I lost him." Fang couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. He'd _trusted _Ratchet. He, who had gone so very long without trusting anyone, had _trusted _him.

"Yet you would chose your principles over your love." Perceptor pressed his forehead to Fang's suddenly, and hugged Fang close. Fang made a brief meep of surprise, but didn't protest. He had such strong memories of being _held _by Compass, and drawing comfort from that. "I ... had to leave you. For the same reasons. I loved you so much, Fang, and I had to leave. I couldn't help Shockwave anymore. It was wrong. And I couldn't take you with me. I'm so sorry I left you behind, but I'd do it again if I had to."

Fang muttered, "Okay, I've had enough freaking emotional drama from _everyone _today, I cannot take any more." He pushed himself away.

He didn't want to remember the end of the project. The funding had been cancelled. He had still been a minor, in the custody of the military. They had decreed he would be placed with the other military-sparked younglings and trained as a scout and assassin. One day after learning this, he'd found himself delivered to a barracks full of unsocialized, uncivilized, angry, violent sparklings who'd only been onlined a few days before. Most were larger than he was by far.

He had ended up a leader among them, had grown attached to a few, had gotten his "friends" to protect him from other big, violent mechs. However, as the war had grown hotter, most of his "friends" had died. It wasn't long before he learned the trick of leading without growing attached; that he could fake kindness and project authority and win the loyalty of others ... without ever feeling much for them. After all, Compass couldn't have felt that much for _him_, given he'd left without even saying goodbye ... but he'd loved Compass. He took his own reactions to Compass, to the mech who'd become Perceptor, who he had convinced himself had never cared at all, and applied them to his own behavior.

Perceptor let go of him. "I'm sorry. Will I see you at Ratchet's tonight?"

"... No." He didn't want to face Ratchet right now, much less Ratchet and a pack of his friends. He also felt guilty for not acknowledging Perceptor's words about the circumstances behind his departure, but he just couldn't _deal_. He'd probably hurt Perceptor's feelings.

Perceptor frowned. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Probably not," he said, with a laugh that held very little humor. Part of him very much wanted to spill every worry, every concern, every fear he had to this mech. Even now, he loved him as the mentor he'd always wanted, and had never had.

The scientist shifted uneasily. "Do you want me to ... keep you company? I know we haven't seen each other in such a terribly long time, but ... I'd like to see your sparkling again, and we could play Quattra or something. You were good at it, as a sparkling. Never could figure out how, because you had the patience of a glitchmouse, but ... well, I could keep you company."

"Mirage might have a fit." That reality intruded.

The scientist shrugged. "The worst he'll do is yell at me."

"... No. The worst he'll do is become an obstacle for _me_, and I don't have the time right now to deal with that, too. I won't provoke the Autobot command any more than I already have." Fang shook his head. "But I tell you what -- would you like to _watch _Prism for me? I'll be over here tomorrow for more strategy meetings. I'm not sure when your duty shift is, but if we can work it out, and you're interested ..."

Perceptor's eyes lit up. "You'd trust me to do that? Of course I'd take her, and I really don't have a duty schedule, I spend more time in the lab than any two mechs, it's my _life_, so they don't even bother assigning me time ... but you'd trust me with your kid?"

"I have personal, first-hand knowledge of your skill with children." Fangface forced a smile he didn't feel to his face. "I'd be relieved to know she's in your care."

"Are you going to be okay?" Perceptor repeated. He gripped Fang's arm gently.

Fang reached out and hugged Perceptor again. _Primus _the touch of those hands on his back plating made him feel like he was a small sparkling again -- a small, _safe, _sparkling. "I'll survive, Percy. And _thank you_."

_Did he really care for me? _Now, as an adult, he had a very hard time comprehending that any adult could put that much care into a sparkling without growing attached, and deeply so. He didn't think he could fake it with his two.

Perceptor's smile was genuine, and warm. He said firmly, "I'm so proud of you, Fang."

"Even when I revive one of Cybertron's most vicious killers?" Fang couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. It didn't help that he wasn't sure if he had done the right thing, though he'd certainly been motivated to defend his position when challenged by Ratchet. He was afraid Ratchet would have eaten him alive if he'd shown any signs of weakness.

"I'm proud of you for being brave enough to do that which is unpopular," Perceptor clarified, "if you believe it right."

"The thing is," he sighed, "I don't _know _that I did the right thing."

Perceptor looked very hesitant for a moment, then said softly, "I worry about that all the time. I don't even want to know how things turn out after I make a decision. It hurts too much when I make the wrong choice. Easier to let others chose."

"Tell me about it." Fang relaxed a little, then mentally winced. This was a discussion he wished he could have had with Ratchet. He'd expected Ratch to yell at him a bit, but then to follow the yelling with _talk_. Maybe not in the meeting, but he'd really wanted Ratchet's input later -- even while interfacing, for the guaranteed honesty. Well, Ratchet had made his opinion clear, but there'd been very little give and take. To Perceptor he said, "I remember you as being pretty decisive, actually."

Perceptor shook his head slowly. "Maybe. A long time ago." The scientist looked uneasy. "After ... I left you ... I kept asking myself if I'd done the right thing. I convinced myself you'd died because of me, when the war began, but I could never bring myself to verify that. It was easy to just ... to just avoid the subject ... I learned to avoid a lot of things. It's just easier not to know."

There was pain in his voice. Fang knew exactly what he was talking about. After Starscream had taken Wheelie, he'd asked a few times, had received no clear answer, and had eventually concluded it was better to assume he was dead. He very likely was. He'd underestimated the little scamp's resourcefulness and luck by a wide margin.

It was Fang's turn to hug Percy with sympathy, though he had to stretch to do it. "You could have made me taller, you know ..." he groused. He was feeling good enough to tease Perceptor, a little. Sometimes, having lightning quick mood changes was a blessing. He could guarantee that Ratchet was still in a vile temper.

"Sorry," Perceptor sighed at him, "I tried to convince Shockwave that some more height would be advantageous for you, but there were budget concerns. That alloy we made your body from was very expensive and difficult to create."

He sighed. "Can I ask why you didn't just use something _easier_?"

"We had plans for a large-scale foundry to make the alloy if Optimus approved the funding. He obviously didn't, and the project was canceled. By the way, I did everything in my power to try to convince them to let me take you with me when I left, but the argument they used was that your design was classified and that it would be cruel to transfer you into a standard protoform." Perceptor balled his fists. "The real reason was that Shockwave wouldn't allow it was that he was using you as leverage to keep me working for the military. I didn't like the direction the research was going, or the politics, and I ... had to walk away. I didn't want to contribute my knowledge to the Decepticon cause."

Fang rubbed his forehead. "I had no idea."

It made so very much sense. Far more sense than Perceptor walking away. It still hurt, but he could also see himself making the same call.

"I'd have explained it to you, but they didn't even let me say goodbye after I declined a new contract." Perceptor stared at the ground at their feet. "I don't think you would have understood, though."

"Shockwave told me that you'd just taken another assignment, and that taking care of me was just part of your duties. He told me I was too old for anyone to be my sitter after you left. I ... believed him, after a bit. I didn't at first, but that was the story everyone told me." Fang shook his head. "Knowing what I know now Shockwave, and of you, your story's a hell of a lot more plausible."

"You forgive me, then?" Perceptor said, softly. "I thought you'd feel so betrayed, I thought you'd never want to even speak to me ..."

"Primus, no." Fang pressed his forehead against Perceptor's shoulder, then twisted sideways so he could see Perceptor's expression with his primary optics. "I _missed _you. I was angry, yeah, but ... I missed you more than I was angry. It was such a short time that you took care of me, but you were the only person who ever cared about me when I was little."

"They didn't let me ..." Perceptor sighed, and tightened his grip. "Do you know you're a reformat?"

"Ratchet told me, yeah. He said it looked like I was about a week old, and speculated that I'd had a hardware crash."

"No." Perceptor's optics were shut. "I didn't think it was right, the way they forced operating code and updates on sparklings with a datapad. It's so cold, and the sparklings scream and fight it ... I knew I'd be working with you for years, so I ... did your operating system upload myself, the first time. It was stupid, but I couldn't bear the thought that _my _project would have a sparkling brought online in such an abusive manner. Shockwave found out, and when it was clear that you were _really _bonded to me and that you were unhappy working with other researchers, he made them reformat you."

"Oh, _Primus_." Fang blinked. "So I was _really _yours."

Percy balled both fists. "It wasn't _right_. Shockwave made me watch when they did the reformat and used a datapad ... You were so scared. You screamed. At least he let me comfort you afterwards, but he told me I'd better not let you bond to me too much. So there were times I had to push you away, and I'm sorry for that. I couldn't let you get too close, because he would have just reformatted you again, and he might have assigned you to someone else."

Fang nodded slowly. It sounded very typical of what he knew of Shockwave. "I bet the reason he let you continue working with me at all was for control over you."

"Yeah, probably. I was always careful to try to please him, because I didn't want to be reassigned to another project." Perceptor let out a long, slow sigh, almost a proper keen. "You were such a bright sparkling. I wish you could have been mine. You should have gone to the best schools, you should have had a far better processor than we gave you, you should have ... you shouldn't have been a mere soldier. I guess, I guess you _aren't _just a mere soldier now, but I wanted to give you the world. I even put in an application for you at a really good primary school and you were accepted, because I assumed Shockwave would let me take you. I already had a sparkling license, too, so legally I could have adopted you. It didn't matter what spark was in that protoform, and really, a younger sparkling would have been easier to work with, for what they needed. You had so much potential ... it was pure malice that made him deny my request to take you with me. A pure lack of compassion."

Fang butted his head against Percy's shoulder again. "I think I need to update my next-of-kin files."

"Huh?" Perceptor said.

"My spot for 'mentors' is blank. I need to update that." Fang pushed free of Perceptor's suddenly slack grasp. "As long as you don't mind."

Perceptor keened for real this time, and sagged from kneeling to sitting. He covered his face with both hands and started rocking back and forth.

"Woah, woah, I didn't mean to break you!" Fang waved his hands around in dismay.

"I thought ... I thought you were dead ... and then I thought I'd betrayed you so badly you'd never want me ... and ... and ... and ..." Perceptor shuddered. "I can't ... I can't ... thank you, but I need to go now ... yeah, yeah, I don't mind, but I need to go!" he lunged to his feet and bolted out of the room.

Fang chewed on a claw for a moment then observed aloud, to the empty room, "Tcha! Having him for a mentor explains a _lot _about me."

"Living through a war explains a lot about both of you," a voice corrected, gently.

He jumped, startled, then recognized, "Fortress Maximus. You were watching?"

"Watching, and keeping the command apprised of the situation. You, Ratchet, _and _Percy are all too valuable to risk injury. Had it turned physical in any case there are troops waiting just around the corner with orders to break it up with as little injury as possible." Fort Max sounded rather dryly amused.

_:And,: _Optimus said, over a tightly encrypted connection, _:We need to talk, Fang. But not tonight. Go home, make sure Starscream isn't plotting world domination yet, and then get some rest. We'll discuss this in the morning.:_

:... Thanks for your restraint.:

:Ratchet covered all the points I would have made. Do you wish me to reiterate what he said?:

:Did you declare today 'Everybody Beat On Fang Day' and forget to tell me?:

:Are you going to be okay?: Optimus gave Fang's comment all the reaction it probably deserved, which was none.  
_  
:Why does everyone keep asking me that?:_

:Because we care about you. Go home, Fang. The medical staff needs their med bay back.:

* * *

As a perfect cap to an exhausting day, Prism greeted him with a hiss when he finally slunk through the door to his quarters. "You said you'd be back by five PM! It's almost nine!"

Wheelie, seated crosslegged on Fang's lab bench with Prism in his lap and a puzzle half completed in front of them, rolled his optics. "I told you, Fang had work to do, kiddo."

"Hate Fang. He's never here." Prism launched herself off the bench, scattering the puzzle in the process. She zipped around the corner, and Fang could guess that she'd taken herself off to sulk on her miniature berth.

"Sorry," Wheelie said, "I tried to tell her you had something going on ... whatever it is has the base in an uproar, I'd note. I've been laying low in here, because, still squishable, y'know?"

"I brought Starscream back."

Wheelie narrowed his optics. "You ... what?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. If you're going to yell at me, can you save it for tomorrow? I've reached my quota of drama for one day."

"... why?"

"Because the Order of the Primes thought it was a good idea."

"... why?"

"Because he's a brilliant military strategist, and we need an air commander, most likely. I don't know. I don't have a quantum link with the minds of the Order." That was possibly more sarcasm than Wheelie deserved, but slaggit, _everyone _was chewing chunks off his aft armor. Or having fits of angst and running away from him with far more drama than he felt the situation deserved.

Wheelie scowled at him. "I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow ... assuming Starscream doesn't slag us all in our sleep and laugh over our corpses."

After Wheelie had left, Fang padded into his bedroom. Prism greeted him with another hiss. He ignored that, grabbed her off the berth, and proceeded to disregard her attempts to bite and scratch him.

"C'mere, you," he said, pinning her to his chest with one hand. "I've had a really, _really _bad day and I've missed you all day and I'm _sorry _I wasn't back when I said I'd be."

He thought, _And Starscream could be a threat to both of my children, and all those I consider friends. Damnit, why did I agree to that? I should have told the Order to go jack themselves into a high tension line. _

Prism stopped struggling. Perhaps she'd heard the truth in his words. After a moment, she did a systems check that he clearly heard; she powered up several motors and charged a bunch of capacitors, and then let them die back down. When had she learned that trick to calm herself, he wondered?

"I missed you, and I didn't think you were coming back," she said, softly.

"I'm sorry. But I'll always come back."

She relaxed slowly, and he lay back on the berth and powered off his optics. After a moment, Prism went still and limp he removed his hand. She was sprawled across his chest, very quiet, and he thought she was offline. However, she finally said, "You didn't come back once. You gave me away to Ratchet."

"I won't do that again." He'd hurt her. Suddenly, with acute pain of his own, he realized just how badly he'd hurt her. _But at least she had people who loved on her while I didn't, _he thought, though that didn't make him feel better about it.

"You said you'd be back by five. You _lied_. You lie all the time!"

_I thought Compass would come every morning at dawn. One day he just didn't. It felt like he'd betrayed every trust I ever put in him. _He vowed he'd make more of a effort to _be _there for her, when he said he would.

"Shh." He stroked her armor again. "Being late isn't a lie, Prism. I'm sorry. I'm sorry you're not happy, but I had things come up. Shhh. Go to sleep, kiddo."

She didn't answer him. He continued to stroke her armor. Finally, she really did slip into recharge. He was about to follow her when Starscream pinged him.

_:What do you want?: _He snapped, all patience with the entire universe exhausted.  
_  
:Oh great and holy Decepticon Prime, when do I get quarters befitting my status?:_

Fang considered the question for two nanoclicks before comming Aquaregia, Boomer, Crowbar, three Constructicons, and, as an afterthought, sending a brief warning to Red Alert about the nature of any subsequent combat at the base. Then he responded to Starscream, in a deceptively polite tone of voice,_ :I've arranged suitable hospitality. I believe you'll find Pounce a pleasant roommate, and he'll appreciate the company.:_

Then he lay back on his berth, hand cradled protectively over Prism, and listened to the comm chatter as his mechs kept up a running commentary for him.

_:Ooh, Boss Kitty, he's not happy.: _He wasn't sure he'd ever heard Boomer quite so darkly gleeful.

_:Thanks for the mood lifter,: _Aquaregia said, _:I was a bit worried you'd expect me to bow to the slagger.:_

:Between this and you slagging up Pounce? Perfect _day.: _Crowbar, apparently, approved of his treatment of both mechs. He transmitted a video of Starscream being carried bodily, thrashing and swearing, down a hall. Mechs peered out of the doorways of their quarters, and laughter trailed behind.

_:Fang, you slagger!: _Starscream screeched at him over the comm, unencrypted, on a bandwidth that would be audible for the listening pleasure of every Autobot and Decepticon line of sight all the way to the horizon. He proceeded to describe Fang's likely parentage in wholly inaccurate terms, given Fang's mentor was a mild-mannered scientist with high ethical standards, and _not _the Unmaker himself.

_:Enjoy your new quarters,: _he told Starscream, with evil and unmitigated glee, when Starscream paused. Fang reminded himself that he was a Decepticon and he told himself it was perfectly okay within the context of _being a Decepticon_ to take this much unholy delight in Starscream's sheer outrage. Screamer didn't stop screaming, and Fang didn't stop grinning, until someone forcibly cut his comm.


	99. Chapter 99

Chapter 99

* * *

Author's notes: This is a little late because I was wrapped up in the annual April Fools project for Firefox News. (You guys did read my Transformers article, right?) However, I'll have chapter 100 up in the very near future to make up for it -- my goal is at least one chapter a week, though lately I've managed two.

This chapter gets a big fat warning for smut.

* * *

"You want a lift up to your quarters?" Jazz asked, as the pulled through Max's main gate and into the expanse of the great hall. The lift was at the far end, and since they had luggage, it would be a long walk on foot.

At this hour, close to seven PM, the hall was was nearly empty. The Nebulan camp, at the midpoint, was dark and still, with the Nebulans huddled under blankets on their cots and the mechs folded into their alt modes. Nebulans traditionally went to bed with the sun, and rose before dawn, in direct opposite of human behavior. Bee glanced through Jazz's windshield, then said, "Where'd they put your quarters?"

"Under Optimus's. Opposite tower from you. But I've got someone I want to see tonight before I recharge. I haven't even _been _in my quarters yet. I hope there's a berth."

Bee smirked. "Not like you haven't slept on the ground for half the war. Don't get spoiled, now."

"I am _totally _going to get spoiled." Jazz laughed.

"And yeah, sure, a lift to the elevators is good. My other half's in Las Vegas right now -- I have an appointment at seven AM tomorrow with the mayor. I'm sleeping in a parking garage at city hall."

"Convenient," Jazz observed.

"Yeah. They're providing good security, too." Bee reached over poked Sam, waking him up. Sam sleepily straightened up and said, "We're there?"

"Almost."

"Guh." Sam rubbed at his eyes.

"Your mom's about to serve dinner, so we're just in time," he'd heard that from Sunstreaker, who'd been told to pass the message along. It still amazed Bee that Judy and Sunstreaker got along so well. It had been pure genius on Optimus's part to pair them up, Bee thought. Optimus had somehow known they would click.

At the lift, Sam climbed out of the Solstice and retrieved their luggage. Bee let him do the work, as he found several hours in the car had left him surprisingly sore and stiff. Once they'd liberated their gear, Jazz transformed with swift efficiency, then crouched to be on their eye level. He said softly, "I had fun with you two. It's been a long time since I didn't have to be a soldier."

Sam reached a hand out and rested in on Jazz's arm. "Glad you had fun."

Bee smiled, because he was pleased that Sam and Jazz were on such good terms. However, he couldn't resist teasing Jazz. "Glad you made some friends, Jazz-man. Just how many e-mail addresses did you get?"

"Forty-three."

"That's our Jazz." Bee casually wrapped an arm around Sam's waist. "See you tomorrow, boss."

"Later, 'Bee." Jazz stood up, smiled at him, then transferred his attention to the lift on the other side of the great hall. It was the one that led to his quarters. The elevator door opened and Ranger stepped out; Optimus's quarters were a level above Jazz's.

"Hi, Ranger," Jazz said, even as Sam and Bee echoed the greeting.

The sparkling returned their greeting with a small smile of his own. "Hello."

Bee asked, "Are you supposed to be down here alone?"

Ranger's smile grew a trace strained. "I'm never alone, but yes, it is allowed. Optimus has set my boundaries as the entire Autobot Operational Area, excluding hazardous areas and the rec rooms."

It was a lot of liberty for such a young child. However, Bee reflected that Ranger was correct: he was never alone. Also, Ranger had impressed him by being remarkably well behaved and very likely to follow rules.

"Eh, he's a good kid," Jazz said, smiling at him. "I'm sure he's fine."

Ranger chuckled. "And if I misbehave, my mentors will restrict my liberty. As I do not wish this, I do as I am told."

"Point," Jazz allowed. "You don't want to get grounded. That would be no fun at all."

"By the way," Ranger informed them, "Prowl is awake. I've offered to let him take over early, but he says it's my time still."

"Hey, Prowler." Jazz said, cheerfully. "Ranger, if it's okay with your folks, you can come out and hang with me until it's Prowl's turn."

"Sure!" Ranger said, enthusiastically, suddenly looking and sounding his very young age. "Cool!"

After the two had departed, Sam said quietly, "It must be hell for both of them, to be stuck together like that."

Bee nodded. "I would not be able to cope. Prowl's strength is remarkable."

* * *

Jazz chose to walk, rather than drive, outside. It gave him a better chance to assess Ranger. The young mech who shared Prowl's spark also shared his very subtle body language, which to Jazz's experienced eyes seemed to be a little defensive. His wings were pinned up high, at a very precise angle, and his optics kept a sharp lookout.

_:Prowl,: _Jazz comm'd him, a little amused because if it weren't for the paint color he couldn't tell them apart at the moment, _:is the kid picking nerves up from you?:_

_:No. I calculate the odds of an unexpected and immediately dangerous threat occurring inside Fort Max to be quite low. You know I do not expend unnecessary energy watching for threats that will not occur without sufficient warning to boot my battle routines.:_

_:Is he worried about something?:_

_:He's uneasy. I am not sure why. It is not you -- I react with pleasure when I see you, so unless that pleasure itself is making him uneasy, I don't know what it could be.:_

_:Oh, man. I didn't think about that. If you're both awake you know what the other is feeling. That could be ... awkward.:_

_:Yes.: __  
_

Ranger offered again, "I really can go into recharge early if you two want to talk."

Prowl said, _:Don't accept, please. He may be offering, but he resents it just a little. He likes you and he wants to hang out. I can feel that in his spark. I don't want him to grow jealous of the time I spend with you.:_

"Nah, kid. Prowl and I have plans for later. It's still your time. Would your folks mind if I gave you a couple of lessons with that gun you've got?"

"Prowl's been coaching me ..."

"Yeah, but you can't shoot at Prowl."

"I'm not supposed to target-lock on anyone with it," Ranger said, eyes wide.

"Normally, no." Jazz draped an arm around his shoulders, careful of the wings, with companionable intent. Ranger was such a cute sparkling, like a Prowl-lite. "But you can't kill me with that thing, or even do any significant damage. It'll be good for you to build the safe reflexes you need to handle bigger weapons."  
_  
:Jazz, don't do that.: _Prowl's sharp rebuke was unexpected. Simultaneously, Ranger stepped swiftly back and away.

"Sorry!" Jazz held both hands up, demonstrating his lack of hand-held weapons -- and his lack of aggressive intent -- in an instinctive display of apology. "Sorry, kid. I didn't mean to overstep. Guess you're outgrowing the whole sparkling touchy-feely thing."

"I don't mind being touched." Ranger rubbed the armor on his upper arms with both hands, clearly discomfited. Obviously, he _did _object. "Prowl ... really likes you."

_:And he feels everything I feel,: _Prowl added, testily, _:including my desire for you.:_

"Primus, I _am _sorry," Jazz said, shocked and mortified. He had _not _meant it that way. He'd been touching Ranger, the sparkling, forgetting how such contact would likely affect Prowl.

The smirk on Ranger's face was very Prowl-like. "No problem. Just wait until I'm asleep."

"Oh, hell no." Jazz held both hands up defensively. "Not even then. Sorry. Sorry to _both _of you."

He was horribly embarrassed. To make it worse, Ranger was now openly grinning. He said, "Prowl is not happy with that _hell no_, Jazz. He loooooooves you."

_:Ranger, this is very, very inappropriate.: _Prowl's rebuke was broadcast to both of them. _:I really apologize for letting my emotions escape my control.:_

Ranger chuckled, and started walking towards the exit again. "I know how it works. All the knowledge about interfacing is in my data files. I may be a minor, but Prowl's not ... and _boy _does he want you, Jazz."

"Ranger, drop it!" Jazz wanted to crawl off and die of humiliation. He managed to put some authority and firm rebuke into his voice, however. "It really is not appropriate to even discuss this with you." Optimus would have his bolts. Elita would have his bolts and _smelt them._

The youngling arched one optic ridge at Jazz. "It would cause me absolutely no harm were you and Prowl to interface while I recharged. Prowl clearly wants it very much."

_:DROP it.: _That order came from Prowl. _:And it would cause harm. I have enough trouble controlling my feelings towards Jazz. Were we to interface, it would become that much more difficult. When we are both conscious, you feel my feelings as if they were your own. _Every _time we saw Jazz, every time his name came up, you would be subject to my feelings ... as if they were your own. You do not need to be dealing with adult desires. You are not developmentally ready for that.:_

Ranger was not easily swayed. _:There's worse mechs to be attracted to. I'm going to make it real clear right now that I have no objection to feeling those sorts of emotional responses to Jazz.:_

_:Ranger, _no_.: _Jazz stopped short. _:I believe that you interacting with me may be a bad idea, if you are _even _entertaining thoughts like that. You are far, far too young. Very likely, Prowl's feelings for me have affected your own emotions. We cannot let this continue.:_

Ranger might have no problems with the feelings, but Jazz had absolutely zero desire to reciprocate with a sparkling. _Primus! The thought that Ranger might be forced into feeling the same longings that Prowl did left him with a serious case of the raving heebie-jeebies. He was completely and totally in agreement with Prowl here. It was a bad idea, for countless, uncountable, reason!_

_:But ... but I don't mind.: _Ranger, of course, didn't get it. Jazz was attracted to experience, to wisdom, to deeply grounded stability. In his estimation, about the only mechs who would be interested in sparklings would be those who got off on sick power trips. The point of interfacing was to share life experiences and build a deep bond with one's equal. By definition, a sparkling was not an equal, and had nothing to appeal to him. At all. Period. Any healthy mech would react the same way. _  
_

_:I don't _care _if you mind or not.: _Jazz folded his arms, deciding to nip this issue in the bud NOW. _:You're too young. I'm calling this evening off.:_

Shocked blue eyes met his. Ranger looked hurt, stunned, and utterly confused.

_:Thank you,: _Prowl murmured at Jazz alone. _:I agree with you completely.:_

It hurt like the Pit. He wanted to draw Prowl into his arms, to try to give comfort in reaction to the very real pain he heard in Prowl's comm'd voice. He wanted to offer him the solace of interface. Prowl had been through _hell_. Jazz knew this. He could only imagine how bad it must have been for Prowl to have watched the world through Barricade's eyes, alone, isolated, his very survival a secret, unable to communicate with anyone. His imagination was probably not even close to the reality. Prowl most likely would benefit greatly from being able to share his feelings, to know that he was truly loved and cherished, to be able to _talk _to his closest friend with the intimacy of interface.

And yet ... there was Ranger. Who was _so _not-even-on-the-map as a partner, but if he tried to comfort Prowl in any fashion, even with just a gentle touch or casual conversation, he risked Prowl's emotional reactions to him causing real damage to Ranger's developing psyche. Sparklings shouldn't even be thinking about having intimate partners. Prowl's adult urges could, and almost certainly would, give Ranger ideas he was a long way from being ready for.

_:I'll send you an e-mail, Prowler,: _Jazz, who was generally more touchy-feely than most mechs, made a hastily aborted move with one hand. He wanted to touch Ranger, to sooth away the confused hurt in his eyes, to tell him he was a good kid and this wasn't personal. He wanted to draw Prowl into his arms and comfort him in entirely different ways. Because he couldn't do either, he said aloud, "I believe Bluestreak's off duty. You ought to ask him to do some combat drills with you. He's a better shot than I am. Sideswipe'll be here tomorrow, too, if you want to practice some hand-to-hand."

"... I wanted to train with _you_." Ranger sounded very young, and very hurt in that moment.

"I'm sorry. It's ... it's _definitely _not a good idea." Jazz balled both fists in a physical reminder to keep his hands to himself. Awkwardly, he added, "I'll see you both around."

_:Jazz, thank you.: _Prowl said, as he turned away. Ranger didn't say anything at all.

_:This is killing me, Prowl, to do this. I want you to know that.: _Jazz kept his back straight as he walked away. _:I wish ... I wish I'd been around to tell them not to give up on you so easily.:_

_:Then Ranger wouldn't exist, and I like Ranger enough to not regret him.: _There was soft rebuke in Prowl's voice. _:Jazz ... I love you. I want you to know that. No matter what happens, I love you.:_

_:Yeah. Love ya too. This sucks.:_

_:It could be worse. Two of us are supposed to be dead.: _The wry humor in Prowl's voice made Jazz look back with the better vision from his primary optics. His eyes met Ranger's gaze, which was full of pain. Prowl added, _:And one of us was never supposed to have existed at all.:_

He couldn't look at either of them after that, and he shut his secondary dorsal optics off as he walked away.

Ranger called after him, "You're hurting him, Jazz!"

_:Ignore him,: Prowl snapped._

Jazz did. Prowl was right. But he wondered just how bad Prowl's pain was, and he wished, so very much, that he could share the burden with him.

* * *

The elevator stopped midway up to Bee's quarters, and Wheeljack stepped into the car with them. He had Pulsar riding on one of his shoulders, and Array at his feet.

"Hi, 'Jack, kids." Bee greeted them cheerfully.

"Bee!" Pulsar threw his arms around Bee's waist in a hug. 'Jack set Array down and Bee watched in amusement as the other twin tackled Sam.

"Hi, kiddo." Sam rubbed her helm. "How's it going?"

She didn't answer, but Pulsar said excitedly, "We're going down to the river! Wheeljack says we can play hide and seek!"

"In the dark?" Sam said, surprised.

"We see better than humans in the dark," Bee reminded him, "And our children do not require as much sleep as human children."

"Ah. But we're going up." Sam pointed skyward with one finger.

"We wanted to go up to the roof and see the stars!" Pulsar bounced in place. "And the city! We can see Las Vegas from the roof!"

"Ah," Sam said, with comprehension. "Pretty cool, isn't it?"

"It's _so _cool!" Pulsar agreed. "It makes me happy to go up there. I want wings! I want to _fly_."

Wheeljack chuckled. "That can wait for several years, I believe."

Pulsar suddenly snorted a laugh that seemed to have nothing to do with their amusement. He turned to his sister and said, "I would _not _crash."

She folded her arms. Whatever it was she communicated to him made him choke with amusement. He turned back to them and explained, "She just sent me this picture of me crashing into the ground. It was really _really _funny. I broke into a million pieces and blew up!"

"Must run in the family," Bee observed to Wheeljack, grinning hugely. The elevator reached his apartment at that moment, and he darted through the doors in an attempt to get in the last word. "See ya later, guys!"

_:I could tell them all about the times _you _have been blown up in combat,: _'Jack said, laughing, as the doors shut behind Bee and Sam. _:When was the last time ... just two years ago? It's been over a thousand, for me.:_

So much for getting the final say. Bee shook his head, grinning. The rather pleasant scent of cooking meat filled the apartment, and Sam took the lead, following the odor across the main living quarters and into the bedroom that Ron and Judy were remodelling into a home.

"Wow," Sam said, in surprise, as he entered. Work was well under way. A second floor loft was framed in, and the downstairs kitchen was more-or-less finished. "I can't believe it's only been a week."

Bee was impressed too, as he took in the kitchen. He hadn't looked in here for a few days. It had marble counter tops, an island, a sink, stove, refrigerator, and beautiful wood laminate on the floor -- all expertly installed. The wood laminate had been laid throughout the first floor.

"Bunch of the guys that Optimus hired to tend the sparklings are construction workers. He loaned 'em to me to help install stuff. They work quick, and the mechs have been helping too. Good guys." Ron patted the kitchen counter. "I got plans drawn up for you and Mikaela's quarters. Bee said give him some headroom so he can come in with his tall half, so only a third will be loft. Still gives you over three thousand square feet."

Bee had approved the plans, and added, "There's going to be five bedrooms in our quarters, Sam."

Sam, confused, asked, "Why so many bedrooms?"

His mother giggled. "Because someday you and Mikaela might have kids."

"And me, too," Bee pointed out, and watched with amusement as Sam processed that idea.

"... okay," Sam said, after a moment's eyebrow-raising thought. "Someday that is _not _now."

Bee smirked. "There's this really cute little sparkling I've had my eye on ..."

"Sparklings I don't mind," Sam snorted. "They're born walking and talking, they don't poop, they don't eat, and you can't break them by dropping them. I am _so _not ready for a human baby."

"Aww, you'll change your mind, dear." His mother patted him on the cheek as she walked past, on her way to the table. Ron just grunted something, rolled his eyes, and walked off in the direction of the balcony door.

He heard the elevator door open in the foyer, and then the entrance to his quarters slid open. The footsteps that followed told him it was Kat and Megan, along with an older woman. Mikaela trailed after them.

Sam said, "'Kaela!" and glomped her with an enthusiastic hug. "God, I've missed you!"

She smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. This was the first time that Bee had seen Mikaela since Saturday afternoon. She looked tired, which wasn't surprising given that she'd pulled a double shift, but her exhaustion seemed to be more than that. Her face was drawn, and she had deep, dark circles under her eyes. She wasn't wearing any makeup, either.

Sam noticed, and gave Mikaela a sharp look, but he turned his attention to Kat and Megan. "Kat, you look awesome."

"You mean I have hair." Kat laughed, taking the compliment with easy amusement. "You know, I think that's the first time that a hot guy's ever told me I look awesome."

"We'll have to mark the date down for posterity," Megan chuckled, hugging her daughter with one arm around her shoulders.

Sam, meanwhile, was blushing. "I d-didn't mean it that like, err, like that!"

"Just how did you mean it?" Mikaela's tart response made Bee shoot her a worried look. Sam frowned. Kat, meanwhile, looked from Mikaela, to Sam, and then to Bee, and back, also frowning. Megan had been fairly innocently flirting, yes, but Bee thought Mikaela should be more confident in Sam's loyalty to her.

Mikaela blew out a sharp, angry sounding sigh. "Guys, I've got a horrendous headache. I think I'm going to beg off dinner tonight."

Sam's mother chirped, "Okay, honey. Do you want to bring me a plate of food?"

"No." Mikaela, not looking at anyone, hurried out.

Sam watched her go, expression a bit hurt and a lot puzzled. Bee, who'd detected _no _hormones indicating pain, said lightly, "Sam, I think I'm going to see if she needs anything."

He walked slowly, giving Mikaela a chance to make it all the way into their quarters well ahead of him. When he stepped through the door he had to search for a second to find her. The room had scattered furniture throughout it: she'd found an enormous bed somewhere that was big enough for three people, plus a couple couches and dressers. That, and a kitchen table, chairs, a refrigerator didn't even begin to fill the room. After a quick scan, he found she'd sat down by the bank of windows and had her knees drawn to her chest. Against the comparative vastness of the room -- it was fifty feet across -- she was a tiny figure, lost in the shadows between the table and couch. She had not turned the lights on, and he didn't either.

Wordlessly, he sent a command to the door behind them to lock. He didn't want to be disturbed by anyone but, perhaps, Sam.

"Headache or heartache?" he asked, lightly.

She said softly, "I just want to be alone, Bee. Okay? Is that so hard to understand?"

He sighed, and sat down behind her, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He didn't say a word, he just hugged her from behind. She was stiff, resisting the comfort he wanted to give her.

"Mikaela," he said softly, "I know what pain is."

"I just want you to leave me alone!" she tried to push him away.

He wanted to hold her close, to protect her, to cherish her. This was the woman who had once strapped him to a tow truck and driven him into battle. This was the woman whose laughing smile, whose tender touch, had become such a part of his life. She was smart, and caring, and he knew she loved them.

And she was hurting.

He wanted to help her.

"Let go of me!"

He did. She turned around and dealt him a slap to the face as hard as she could.

He recoiled, stunned by the pain. It was the first time he'd been struck in his humanoid form. The level of pain was startling. He stumbled backwards and covered his cheek in shock. His eyes watered reflexively, and he couldn't quite process what had happened. She'd _hit _him. He'd only been trying to give her comfort, and she'd struck him hard enough to cause real pain.

"Oh, God, Bee ..." she sounded as stunned as he was. "I'm sorry."

_The amount of anger she must be feeling ... _he knew it wasn't about him. Nothing he had done had provoked that blow. He'd simply been in the way when her rage, her anger, had finally boiled over. She had so much to be angry about.

"'S okay." He held his arms wide again, in invitation. "Come here."

"I can't." She stumbled to her feet. "I can't do this ... I can't hurt you."

"It'll heal." He didn't stand up, hoping to remain non-threatening in appearance. "Mikaela, I am not mad at you."

"I _hurt _you." She wrapped her arms around herself and couldn't look at him. "I don't deserve you."

He wanted to bring her back to him, as she was one step from bolting out the door. He was afraid if she did, they'd never see her again. He held his hand out to her, feigning more injury than he'd actually received. "Can you give me a hand up?"

When she grasped his hand, her fingers were cold and clammy. She was shaking. Stress hormones were coming off her in waves. She covered her mouth with both hands, closed her eyes, and started to rock back and forth.

"Mikaela, come with me," he said, gently, putting his arm around her shoulders. He guided her to the bed. She stiffened when she realized where he was headed, but he murmured, "When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?"

"I don't know."

"How much last night?"

"Maybe two hours," she confessed, as he turned back the covers.

"We'll talk about this in the morning, over coffee. I can bring you something to eat if you're hungry. I'm betting you _don't _want to face everyone else right now."

She shook her head, and then, with obvious reluctance, kicked her jeans off and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. She wouldn't look at him, and when he started to undress she flinched a little.

"Mikaela, what's wrong?"

"How can you love me? I've been awful to you."

"You have not been awful to me. You ate lunch with a friend," he said, "and I believe you stood me up deliberately, rather than simply telling me you couldn't deal with a date. Next time, _tell me _if you want some time apart. It's not a crime. And as for hitting me ... well, you've certainly had finer moments, but next time, if you want to strike me, please hit my other half. This one is too easily damaged."

She ignored all of that. "What if I wanted to be alone right now?"

"If you insisted, I would leave."

"It's your home."

Bee lifted an optic ridge. "And I could sleep in the third room."

"Oh." She sighed. "You should go back to the party ..."

"I am not going back to a party. I am going to stay right here with you."

"Oh."

He could tell by her vital signs that she was relaxing. Her heart rate had dropped under a hundred beats a minute, and her respiration was calmer.

"Why aren't you angry?" she asked, finally. "I was sure you'd be angry."

"I'm hurt," he murmured, as he slipped into bed beside her. "I'm not angry anymore. Sam's probably angry."

"Why'd you tell Sam?" she demanded, defensively.

He replied softly, "We are a trio. What one of us knows, all should know." Which, he could have added, would make it very hard for her to triangulate him against Sam. He loved her, he loved the woman who was boldly courageous and loving and kind, but he was realistic about her behavior when she was under stress.

She reached out, and trailed a hand along his side. "Sam's probably going to break up with me. Who will you chose, then?"

_Sam_, he thought, a silent answer inside his own mind that shook him to his core. Had he already decided, in his spark? He closed his eyes and said, "If you force me into choosing, you might not like my choice. Sam ... has given me far more reason to trust him."

He hated to tell her that, but it was the truth. She had asked. Partners were honest with each other, and he would never lie to her. He wished he could interface with her, though, simply so he could convey the nuances to her. He tried with words, not sure this was adequate, "... I love both of you, Mikaela, very much. However, at some point, I must also think of my own future, out of respect for myself. If you ... chose to leave us ... it speaks of your inability to commit. Also, I know you have difficulty believing this, but Sam will not break up with you, nor will I, unless you give us very good reason to do so. It is, ultimately, your decision to stay or go.

She was silent, for a moment, then she rolled over to press up against him. Her fingers slid beneath his shirt, and she murmured, "You've lost weight."

"I know. I've been busy." He brushed her long hair away from her eyes, and said, "I love you. I don't want to lose you. However, you are an adult, and you are responsible for your own actions."

"It hurts," she said, finally.

He kissed her forehead. "I know."

"I'm scared."

"I know." He kissed one eyebrow.

"I don't want to hurt either of you."

"I know." He kissed the other.

He had been kissing her face after each sentence, but then she arched upwards and slid a hand behind his neck and pulled him down to her mouth. He tried to keep it chaste, for a minute, wondering if Sam should be there, and wondering if sex was a good idea with her in this mood. He wasn't sure what she needed, or how to help her, though his Cybertronian instincts screamed that he needed to do something. Had she been a mech, he would have already been connected to her, offering comfort and listening to her grievances.

Her tongue joined his in an intimate dance, and she moaned a little. She wanted sex, clearly, and a plan began to form in his mind even as certain functions, cleverly tied right into the same autonomic circuits that caused pleasure during spark-deep interfacing, fired off. He was hard in an instant. He wanted her. He wanted to comfort away the pain in her eyes, to show her just how much he loved her.

_He can join us later, _Bee thought, of Sam. He shifted to nuzzling her neck, and simultaneously he slid one hand down her body, fingers skimming over the mound of one breast, down her toned stomach, down the outside of one thigh as far as he could reach, and then up the inside. She spread her legs in clear invitation, but he ignored that. _Not yet, _he thought, wanting more of an emotional connection before they moved to a physical one.

She squirmed a little to get out from under his weight, then sat up and pulled her shirt off. He tried to unclip the clasp on the front of her bra, but his fingers were still a little clumsy, fine motor control a work in progress, and she impatiently took over. The bra was black, so were her panties, and she pulled her underwear off and tossed them over the edge of the bed.

He slid out of his jeans, his boxers, his t-shirt, aware that she was watching him with keen eyes. When she saw his dick she made a throaty noise, and waited only until his shirt was off to lay back on the bed with her knees bent and her legs spread. Clearly, she expected him to get right to the act. He suspected that was her only experience with intimacy, and it didn't strike him as all that intimate. He'd had sex with her once before, they had pretty much jumped right into it, and while there had certainly been an emotional connection and utterly awesome, he thought it could be so much better.

It was the _emotional _connection he craved. It was also an emotional connection he thought she needed. With that in mind, he sat down on the bed next to her, then leaned over to kiss her. "I want you to make love to _me _tonight, 'Kaela."

She opened her eyes -- she'd closed them as he approached -- and looked at him in confusion. Puzzled, Mikaela said, "Isn't that what we're doing?"

He kissed her for a moment longer, reassuring her with his touch, then rose. She'd moved their dressers from the trailer up here, and he knew she kept lotion in one of her drawers. He could smell it faintly, a fruity scent which became stronger when he retrieved the bottle. She was now sitting up, watching him, and she guessed, "You're going to give me a massage?"

"No," he corrected, pushing the bottle into her hands. He knelt on the bed, and said, very seriously, "Would you give _me _the massage? I know that you love me. I think it would be good for both of us if you were to put those feelings into touching me."

That was far more direct of a statement than any human would have made, and he knew it. He also knew he wasn't human, could never fake being human, and despite his physical appearance he didn't _want _to fake it. He took the Cybertronian approach, which was to be very direct and to the point with one's partner, because he wanted her to be completely aware of what he was asking her to do.

"I'm not sure that 'strawberry' is really your scent," she said, hesitantly.

"I think it smells nice," he said, stretching out on the bed on his back, naked and comfortable with his nakedness. "And I'm not a male human. If I want to wear strawberry scents, I've got sixteen feet of giant alien robot backing me up who will be able to change the mind of anyone who thinks it's inappropriate."

She snickered. "I see your point." Then, hesitantly, she squirted a little bit of the lotion onto her hand and rubbed it tentatively onto his chest with her palm. He closed his eyes, concentrating on her touch. She was scared, and likely feeling very self conscious.

He murmured encouragingly, "That feels good, Mikaela."

Tentatively, she worked the creamy pink liquid into his skin, fingers following the lines of his muscles, and his collar bones, which he knew were too prominent under his flawless, pale skin. He forced himself to relax, to breath evenly, as she transferred her attention to his legs.

"Mmm," it felt _very _good when she pressed her thumbs into the ball of his foot. "Mmmm ... my feet get so sore. That feels good."

"Sore?"

"I'm ... not sure if I still need to get into better shape, or if they need to tweak my biochemistry a bit, but yeah, my muscles are often quite tender."

"Where?" She sounded concerned.

_Where don't I hurt? _"Feet. Knees. My back. Everywhere."

"You're too skinny," she said, sounding vaguely worried. Then she worked her way up his leg, hands firmer and more confident, now. He groaned to let her know just how much he appreciate the touch. He was so tired, too ... his processor wanted to cycle down into recharge. She wasn't the only one who needed a full night's sleep. He melted under her touch, his emotional hurt fading away as much as the physical pain lessened. Mikaela's hands, every bit as skilled as he thought they would be, found some knots in his thigh muscles and gently, firmly, worked them out. Then she probed at his knees, locating points that made him wince, and applying gentle pressure. He groaned, his hands grabbing at the sheets. He had lost his erection when he'd retrieved the lotion but given the context his autonomic systems interpreted her touch now as intimate, and it sprang back to life. The room's air was cool against his skin, her hands warm, and he wanted her to touch him _there _... but wanted, even more, for her to take the time to love him with her touch.

"Roll over," she said, a bit teasingly, with a significant glance at his pointy bits, "if you can do it without breaking yourself."

He chuckled at her tone, which full of amusement. He was certain they'd finish this with sex, but for now, he sent an impatient override to his autonomics that made some blood drain away, then he slowly shifted onto his stomach. They had all night. If Sam showed up, Bee figured that this would be just that much better. Maybe he and Sam could give Mikaela a massage together later ...

"You're really enjoying this," she said, sounding surprised. Her fingers worked his calf muscles, which were painful enough that he winced. "Sorry."

"Keep ... keep kneading them. Lactic acid build up. Needs to be worked out." He gasped the words out, not because of the pain, but because he was suddenly, horribly, aroused. It was the position ... he was on his stomach, unable to see her because this form did not have secondary optics. He was vulnerable, helpless, at her mercy. And he trusted her. It was an utterly amazing feeling to have _that _much trust in someone, and to be able to demonstrate it.

She worked her way higher, but started to skip his buttocks.

He said softly, "You ... can touch me on my aft. It feels pretty good."

It felt _better _than good. The touch was a reminder of what he had done with Sam. At one point last night, Sam had bent him over a pile of pillows and thrust into him, deeply and thoroughly. Touch, there, was a physical reminder of how good it had felt to let Sam simply take over and bring both of them to a shattering climax.

In response to his words, she dripped cool lotion onto his butt cheeks. After a brief startle of surprise, that felt rather good. His systems reacted with enthusiasm that he couldn't quite override. His groan this time was very aroused, as she started working those sore muscles. Not only had he done quite a bit of walking at the con, but he'd had his legs in unusual and muscle-stretching positions for two nights running. _Yoga with Sam. Guaranteed to leave me sore later._

She moved higher, somewhat to his regret, but then he arched into her touch with a sigh of relief as she found tense muscles along his low back. "Harder," he murmured, and she leaned more of her weight onto her fingers.

Mikaela finally reached his shoulders, then brushed his long hair aside and rubbed the tension from his neck. He sighed with contentment. Her heart had slowed to its normal resting rate. She was calm, relaxed herself, and probably feeling a good bit better about herself.

He rolled over, spreading himself out on the bed. "Make love to me?" he asked, softly.

She blinked at him, then looked down at his erection. He reached out and traced his hand down her arm, but made no suggestion, physical or spoken, about what he wanted her to do. He wanted her to decide. It would be good for her to take the initiative.

After a moment, hesitantly, she bent over him and closed her mouth around him.

Sam had told him that, in Sedona, she'd sucked him to climax as fast as she could, then had retreated, leaving him feeling rather confused and alone, unsure if he'd just been used or had somehow used her. This was incredibly different than what Sam described. There was love in the way she touched him, in the way she was sensitive to his reactions. He stroked her hair and she smiled around his dick, then she cupped his balls and sucked harder. He could have come right then and there, but he fought back the desire to just let go. She bobbed up and down, one hand stroking the inside of his thighs, and the other sliding over his shaft, around his testicle. When he lifted his head up to watch he could tell by the expression on her face that she was _enjoying _this.

When she lifted her mouth away and the cold air hit wet skin, he murmured a protest, but then she straddled him. He couldn't help but thrust his hips upwards when she reached down to guide him inside of her; it felt so very good. He lifted his head and watched, fascinated by the way they fit together.

She rocked against his motion, sinking fully down onto him, and her hands tightened to an almost painful degree on his shoulders. They came together twice more, and then he looked up at her face and saw that she was crying.

He tried to stop. He wanted her to be happy, not cry! "Mikaela, no, no, stop now, don't cry ..."

She thrust against him harder, driving him deeper into herself, and shook her head fiercely. "I'm sorry, Bee," she thrust, "I'm sorry," thrust, "I'm sorry," ... over and over she repeated the words as she rode him. Her cheeks were wet, and finally she stopped apologizing and started sobbing. He'd never wished for the ability to interface with his partners more than in this instant. He didn't understand her tears.

And then she cried out, going stiff against him. He felt her contract around his shaft, and she shook. He came as well, flooding her with warmth. He was stunned that she had come, and even more surprised by his own climax.

Mikaela slumped forward onto his chest, shaking. "I'm sorry ... I'm so sorry, Bee ..."

He rolled over onto his side so he could tuck her close to him, and then reached down to pull the covers over both of them. "Shhh ..." he inched a bit higher, so he could tuck her head under his chin. "Shh, I love you."

"I'm sorry, Bee."

"Just lie here." He ran his hands through her hair. "Just lie here, with me. It will be okay."

"I don't deserve you."

"I want you," he countered, softly. "I want you in my life. I want you to make love to me. I want you to share your feelings, your thoughts, your entire world with me. That is what partnership is, for my people. It is being loved, it is being wanted, it is sharing and taking delight in one another. I want to spend a lifetime with you, and with Sam. I _want _you Mikaela."

"It hurts so bad."

"I know." He tightened his arms around her. He'd try to find out why she had cried so hard later. For now, he just held her. "I know it does."

He held her until her sobs quieted. Finally, she slept, clinging to him, breath warm against his shoulder. He didn't want to let her go. He feared she'd break if he did.


	100. Chapter 100

Author's notes:

I hope this chapter doesn't have an unacceptably high number of typos. I've been fighting stomach flu since last nigh. Now I just have a horrendous headache.

* * *

Array ran through the bushes, silent, but by her expression and body language, clearly full of glee. It was dark and moonless, but Wheeljack could see her easily in infrared. Her brother had bolted ahead of them, and Array was seeking him with enthusiastic amusement. She stopped to scrutinize tracks by the river, head tilted to the side in thought.

It appeared that her brother had crossed the river. Wheeljack wasn't worried; both of them had mods to protect their internals from liquids. Array had never been in water, however, but Pulsar was always more adventurous. He'd splashed boldly into the river the first time he'd seen it.

Wheeljack scanned the far bank with a small frown. No Pulsar, and thermal imagining showed no tracks. The kid had probably found a place to hide after having headed up or down stream a bit.

"Array, can he block himself from you?"

She glanced up at him.

"Did you understand me?"

She continued to just _look_.

_Need to teach her to signal when she doesn't understand_, he realized. There were so many synonyms to the word 'block' that she was probably still trying to get through the nouns. He'd used it as a verb. And 'understand' wasn't a concept that could easily lend itself to an _image_.

He crouched down to look at her, and gave her simpler instructions, "Point to Pulsar."

She returned his gaze blankly for a second, then, slowly, shook her head 'no'. He wasn't sure if 'no' meant she couldn't, or 'no' meant she didn't understand.

That probably established that Pulsar _could _block her, however, because if she could sense him he would have translated _and _she would have pointed in his direction. She didn't seem distressed, however, so he reached out and stroked her arm briefly, then stood up. "It's okay," he said, not sure she'd understand his words. "Go find your brother."

Tentatively, she put a foot in the water, then bent over and trailed her fingers through it. After a second, she waded hesitantly into it. He followed. The water was waist deep to her -- and ankle deep to him -- and he was worried if she lost her footing she might be scared. However, when she did go under, it was so swift he didn't have time to grab her. She popped back up with an outraged, inarticulate shout, only the second noise he'd ever heard her make. She was _pissed_, he recognized, when she proceeded to whack a second little mech in the head as he surfaced next to her. Pulsar ducked, laughed, and splashed her. Wheeljack realized he'd snuck up on her and yanked her feet out from underneath her.

She pounced on him, silent again, smacking him furiously. He giggled, and flopped backwards, taking both of them below the level of the water. They thrashed for a moment, then both stood up and she proceeded to splash him thoroughly, then follow the water with a handful of muck scooped from the river bottom. The mud splashed into Pulsar's optics and across his face and he retaliated by tackling her again.

Wheeljack, seeing she was grinning now, sat down in the water and then splashed _both _of them.

They retaliated with enthusiasm. The water fight that followed left them all grinning; Pulsar's giggles were matched by his sister's delighted expression. He finally let them chase him to shore, where he flopped down on the rocky bank and declared a truce. "Come here, both of you."

They scrambled into his lap, each claiming a leg to sit on. He wrapped his arms around them both and held them, head bowed over them. He murmured, "I love both of you."

Pulsar said softly, "My sister didn't understand you earlier. I'm sorry. I didn't know you were talking to her. I did have her blocked out so I could ambush her."

"You keep the quantum link between you open most of the time, don't you?" He had no idea how a normal sets of twins handled it. Perhaps it was as individual as the twins themselves.

"Yeah. Otherwise, she doesn't understand stuff. She sends words to me and I send back feelings and pictures 'n stuff, until she gets it. She's not stupid, she just ..." he trailed off, before trying to explain, "... she just thinks differently than I do."

He twisted a little so he could see down to Pulsar's face, then decided he wanted to have good optic contact for this discussion with Pulsar. "C'mere, kid." He picked Pulsar up off his leg and set him down on the ground. "I've got some questions for you. There aren't any right answers. I just want your input, because I want to work with you to help your sister. Okay?"

The kid nodded. Array scrambled out of his lap and ran to join him and sat down at his feet, casually draping an arm around his legs. He stroked her helm as he looked up at Wheeljack.

"Kiddo, are you in quantum contact with her most of the time?"

"Always, unless I have a reason not to be. Like I'm hiding from her. Or like I'm mad at her and I don't want her to know, because she'll get mad back." He grinned. "But I think she's figured that out and she gets mad anyway."

"Do you get mad at her a lot?" That worried him.

Pulsar giggled. "Sometimes. She teases. She sends images at me to tease me."

"Images?"

"Things like -- well, we were alone in our room last night, and Wheelie'd watched a movie with us earlier, and I was a little nervous, and she shot this image of a reaaaaally scary monster from the movie across the bond at me and made me even more scared. And she thought it was funny. I shut her out because I was pissed off, but then she crawled in my berth with me and hugged me and I could sense she was sorry. She didn't mean to make me mad."

He wondered just what movie Wheelie had watched with the kids.

"... I _hate _car crushers. _Bad _scary monster."

"Err. The car crusher was your monster? Like a car crusher from a junk yard?

Pulsar shuddered. "What if it turned into a transformer and it came after us and tried to crush us?"

Wheeljack chuckled. "To the best of my knowledge, there are no car crushing transformers left alive." Scarily, there had been at least one Decepticon who had turned into a device like that. And he had been used on Autobot prisoners, as a method of torture, similar in concept to a human rack. Bluestreak, who'd seen him in action, had said his shrieks of glee had been louder than the prisoner's screams of pain. Sunstreaker, who had survived the same prison camp, wouldn't talk about it at all.

He was _not _going to tell Pulsar about that!

However, the kid could not be deterred. "But someone could make one! They could make a drone and ..."

Array pressed both hands together in apparent imitation of a car-compactor. Then she poked her brother in the chest.

"Oh, she's laughing at me. She thinks it's funny." Pulsar rested his elbow on the top of her head. She shoved at him, toppling him over. "Stop it!" he protested at her. "Array, I'm trying to talk to 'Jack!"

She folded her arms and turned her head away, chin jerking upwards in apparent irritation, but Wheeljack could see the glint of amusement -- not anger -- in her optics. He adored her sense of humor.

Pulsar huffed in annoyance, then said, "I think my imagination's a little better than hers. Sometimes I imagine things that are scary. She thinks I'm being silly."

Wheeljack regarded Pulsar thoughtfully. The sparkling was _very _well spoken for his age, and obviously very intelligent. _Thank goodness I don't have one like Prism. I'd kill Prism if she was mine. _Pulsar was brilliant, really. He wasn't Ranger-level smart, but Wheeljack saw a lot of himself in the young mech. Wheeljack was no Prowl, but he knew his own intelligence was on the genius end of the spectrum, and Pulsar might very well be similar.

Array, on the other hand ...

His spark contracted painfully in his chest at the thought of her future. She was so funny, so vibrant, and yet she might never be able to communicate easily, and she would probably always be reliant on Pulsar for help. He wondered if she'd ever be able to have sparklings of her own, or an occupation, or be able to live independently? Some twins lived their entire lives together, but others didn't. He was very well aware of how much Sunstreaker had held Sideswipe back, and when they'd forcibly separated them, how much Sideswipe had flourished. Sunstreaker had benefited as well, though perhaps not so much.

Sunstreaker could function on his own. Splitting them up had been the right call.

Array ... would probably never function on her own.

He was well aware that some twins grew up to be partners, never seeking or needing another person as a confidante and intimate lover. Skids and Mudflap were like that, Primus help them. Wheeljack couldn't help but think that those two sometimes reinforced their own somewhat skewed perceptions of reality. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, by contrast, _were _partners ... but there was occasional speculation that Sideswipe might be interested in another lover besides Sunstreaker. Sunny clearly benefited from his brother's viewpoints and support, but Wheeljack had never been sure how much Sideswipe got out of the deal. Sideswipe would probably enjoy an intimate partner with a more ... balanced ... world view.

Wheeljack had a sneaking suspicion that Sunny wouldn't react very well to his brother finding another lover. Part of Sunstreaker's dysfunction (and all of the officers had been made well aware of this) was that he was _not _aware of just how impaired he was and seemed to lack the ability to comprehend this. If anyone tried to convey to him that Sideswipe needed something from a lover that Sunny simply couldn't give, Sunstreaker would probably react with frank anger, denial, and disbelief.

_Primus. That could be Pulsar, someday. What if _he _wants a partner ... and yet he's tied to Array?_ He just had a hard time conceiving of Array being anyone's partner but Pulsar. The lack of language would be a huge turnoff. The point of having a partner was to have someone you communicated with on a truly intimate fashion. Someone you could share your secrets with. Interface was not like a quantum link; it wasn't as spark deep. He seriously doubted that anyone would find much appeal in a relationship with a mech who could only 'talk' with images and feelings.

_Primus_.

Something of his emotions must have shown on his face, because Pulsar said softly, "Are you okay, 'Jack?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just worried about your sister."

"So am I." Pulsar's words surprised Jack. He looked away from both of them, and bit his lip plate for a moment. "Can we talk ... later? When she's not around? She understands some speech, just not everything."

He was _so _young. Wheeljack wondered if it was fair to saddle Pulsar with Array's problems. However, the kid was involved. He had to be. He was her twin, he was right in the thick of dealing with her problems. It would be an injustice to both of them to not include him. Wheeljack sighed, and said, "You want to talk to me without her overhearing?"

"Yeah. And she didn't understand any of this. You have to be really concrete and literal for her to understand speech." He grimaced. "But now she's pinging me across the bond because she wants to know what we said. I don't want to lie to her ..."

"Tell her it was private. You have a _right _to privacy."

"How do I put _that _in pictures?" Pulsar complained. "I just let my emotions tell her I didn't want her to know. Now she's upset at me."

Array was pouting. Pulsar was right. He'd pissed her off. Well, Wheeljack thought, _tough_. "She needs to learn that she doesn't have a right to know everything you do, Pulsar. I don't want you to be mean to her, but you _can _chose not to tell her about everything you're feeling or everything you do. Privacy's important, even for twins. Plus she's growing up among soldiers. She needs to learn _now _that there's things people, even you, can't tell her because it's the rules."

_I should probably have him talk to Sideswipe about this. Sides has dealt with the same issue with Sunny. His security clearance is so much higher. And -- Silverbolt, and First Aid, too. Both were quantum bonded to their gestalts. It's the same sort of connection._

Pulsar, surprisingly, said, "I get that. I don't like telling her everything, and it's my thoughts. They're _mine_. She doesn't like when I don't tell her everything, though, and plus sometimes it's something really minor, too, and the effort to put it into images is just too hard and takes forever and then she's like, 'why did you tell me that?' because it was stupid and she didn't need to know it. It's _hard _to explain things like that to her. I don't know how." He reached out and rubbed her helm. "And she always wants to be _with _me. I love her, she's my sister, but sometimes I'm really jealous of Paladin and Ranger. Paladin gets all sorts of time to herself. I see her with Elita all the time, and Ranger's usually with Optimus, though sometimes they swap."

Wheeljack rubbed his forehead for a moment. He was so used to seeing Skids-and-Mudflap as almost one unit that he hadn't thought to consider Pulsar might not want constant contact with his sibling. He said, "I'll make sure you both get time apart from each other. You're right. You didn't say anything, and I thought you were okay with it. You need to tell me these things. She'll get used to it ... she's got to. Tell you what, starting tomorrow, I'll see if I can't figue out a way to split you two up for a few hours a day."

"Thank you," Pulsar sounded relieved. Then he added, "She's completely lost the conversation and now she's blocked me out of the bond on her end. She's ticked at me."

"She'll get over it." Wheeljack shook his head. Pulsar didn't seem particularly distressed by Array's fit of pique at being excluded from the conversation. Still, there was a better way to handle discussions that they didn't want Array to know about. He _would _need to talk to Pulsar privately. "Kiddo, you need your comms activated. It's really early ..."

"She won't ever be able to use her comms, will she?" Pulsar interrupted.

"Not for speech. We'll probably be able to give her internet access eventually, and she could send video files to people. I'll have to write her a custom interface, though, because it's normally text based. And _you'll _get to train her to use it."

Array, still seated on the ground, banged on his leg with her fist, and made a scowling face at him. Clearly, she wanted to know what was going on and he still wasn't translating for her. Pulsar grimaced. "She's going to get really, really ticked. She's opened the link back up and she's really getting mad."

"Just tell her you love her, then ignore it. She needs to learn she's not the center of the universe all the time." Wheeljack unsubspaced a datalink cable, and picked Pulsar up. Pulsar connected his end willingly, and snuggled trustingly into Wheeljack's arms.

His sparkling's mind was more mature than he expected. Wheeljack had last uploaded some drivers to the kids a week before. Even in that time, Pulsar's thoughts had become more organized. A lively sense of humor met his thoughts as he connected and reset some permissions so Pulsar could use his comm hardware.

He did a check of Pulsar's operating code, and reviewed the kid's error logs while he was at it. Pulsar's code was fairly clean, though he found a few errors generated by Pulsar's optics. The driver wasn't quite configured right. He poked at that a bit, changed a few lines, and then looked over Pulsar's autonomics.

"Pulsar," he said, with annoyance, "you need to _sleep _when I send you to bed." The kid was getting perhaps six hours of recharge a night, according to his logs. "What are you doing to keep yourself up so late?"

"Thinking."

"Yeah, I get the appeal of _thinking_. But you need to recharge!" He disconnected the cable, having finished the fairly routine maintenance session. He was due to check Array over too, but not today -- he was certain that Ratchet would have mentioned if she had any major errors in her logs. "You're too young to be shorting yourself on recharge."

He heard the faint click as Pulsar powered his comm hardware on for the first time. Pulsar's head tilted to one side, and his optics went unfocused for a second, as he undoubtedly scanned through the comm's instruction manual. Then he said, _:Is this working?:_

:You got it, kiddo. Here's an encryption key.: He transmitted the key to Pulsar.

Pulsar said, _:Am I encrypted now?:_

:Yep.:

:I think about Array. A lot. It's hard to cycle into recharge when she's on my mind.:

:Ah.: Well, he couldn't blame him for that. Array's problems kept _him _up at night a lot, too. _:Kiddo, we'll both take good care of her. I love her very much, and you do too, and between us, she'll be okay. We'll make sure of that.:_

:I ... was worried you wouldn't want her.:

:Primus, what gave you that idea?: He was shocked that Pulsar might think that.__

:She's ... going to be a lot of trouble, and you haven't had us very long, and ...: Pulsar abruptly buried his face in Wheeljack's chest and started keening. _:I remember when they brought us online. It was awful. It was so scary. It hurt. I screamed and screamed for them to stop. I could feel Array, and she was scared even more. She must have already gotten away from them. She was terrified. She screamed for me across our bond because she knew I was so scared. And they wouldn't stop. They wouldn't _stop_. People were awful. People can be awful.:_

:Shhh.: He rocked Pulsar back and forth. Array jittered in place on the ground, upset by her brother's emotions.

_:You're wonderful, Wheeljack. Then you came along and you loved me right from the beginning. I'm scared. What if something happens to you? What if you die? What if you decide you don't love us? Array's ... broken. What if she's not good enough for you? I'd have to decide between her and you and I can't make that decision. I can't.:_

:Kiddo, you'll never have to.:

Array had climbed into his lap in reaction to her brother's visible distress. He scooped her up too and held both of them in his arms.

He told Pulsar softly, _:If you're scared about things like this, I want you to come to me. And I'm going to make a promise to you, right now -- I love Array and I always will. There is nothing in this universe that could make me give either of you up. You are _both _wonderful childen and I'm lucky to have you.:_

He felt Pulsar relax. His child asked hesitantly, however, _:Do you want her ... to be better? Not damaged?:_

He shut off his optics. Suddenly, the sight of Pulsar's face, staring up at him from his arms, was too much. _:I wish she had not been hurt, yes. She was _hurt_, Pulsar. If I could go back in time to change things ... if I could scoop her up from wherever she was hiding and hold her close and tell her I loved her, and install her operating system with kindness and love ... I'd do it without hesitation. If we could change the past, believe me, that wouldn't be the only thing I'd change ... but we can't change what has already happened. We can't. And I am very lucky to have two beautiful, funny, wonderful children who love me back.:_

Pulsar snuggled closer, both to him and to his sister. _:I don't know what she'd be like if she could talk. It wouldn't be the same. Maybe we wouldn't be so close. I get mad at her but she's my sister and I love her so much.:_

Wheeljack was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Pulsar was probably _brilliantly _gifted in the area of empathy. Perhaps his early exposure to his sister had enhanced talents he had been created with. The kid had a real ability to analyze both his own feelings and those of others. He wasn't always coming up with the right answers -- Wheeljack was still shocked the kid had thought he might not _want _Array -- but he definitely had promise.

He thought, _we could use a few more people talented in psychology. He could be a counselor, perhaps, or a xenoscientist. I should probably make sure he gets lots of exposure to the humans. We're going to need people to bridge the gap between our species. He might have what it takes to be good at that. Or he could chose a career like Bee's -- he might have the skill set to be a scout who specializes in analysis and pre-contact study of alien worlds. He's so articulate, too. He would probably score very high if we tested his linguistic abilities.  
_  
Pulsar had so much promise.

Array ... well, time would tell where Array's gifts were.

He finally said, _:I love both of you as you are. Neither of you need to change for me. Make sure your sister knows I said that.:_

:Big concept to explain. I'll try.:

:Don't try to do it all at once,: Wheeljack said, _:Just ... reinforce it for me, will you? Make sure she knows she can trust me and that I love her.:_

:She loves you. She trusts you already.:

That she did trust him surprised him, though he'd sensed it when he'd done the last few sparkling code uploads with her. How could she trust anyone, except perhaps her brother, after what she had been through? Her resilience amazed him.

Pulsar added thoughtfully, "She gets frustrated, though. She doesn't understand much, and she doesn't know how to tell you that."

_:Kiddo, do you think we can teach Array a way to signal that she doesn't understand? Sometimes it's really hard to tell if I'm getting through to her.:_

Pulsar tilted his head sideways, considering. _:What do you want her to do, 'Jack?:_

:Can you explain to her that she should ... I dunno, maybe tap her head and make a big shrug? The humans will get that too, I think.:

:Okay, hold on ... I'll try. It'll take some repetition and examples before she gets the general _concept. She's so much better at specifics.: _Pulsar was silent, but he was clearly sending something to Array across their bond. She turned to face him, eyes keen, head tilting over to one side.

Pulsar, Wheeljack observed, had a huge vocabulary. What would Array have been like, had she not been hurt? Spark twins often shared similar gifts.

Pulsar suddenly laughed, and reached out and tapped his sister on the nasal ridge. She grinned and slapped at his hands. The two of them playfully pushed at each other for a second, then she stopped and tilted her head again, watching him and obviously thinking very hard.

_:How are you communicating the idea?: _Wheeljack was genuinely curious.  
_  
:I'm bringing up memories of a bunch of times when she's been confused in the past, and showing her a picture of herself shrugging. The 'nose' bit is because she keeps hearing 'nose' instead of 'knows' in English. She can't figure out words from context like we do.: _Pulsar transmitted the _spelling _of the homonyms along with an audio file to make his point, which caused Wheeljack to smile. The kid was sharp.

Pulsar nodded with satisfaction. "I think she's made the association ... say something you know she won't understand."

Wheeljack spit out a random string of nonsense syllables. Array looked up at him, but didn't shrug like he wanted her to. Pulsar clicked loudly to get her to look at him, then tapped his own forehead and shrugged. She mimicked that.

Wheeljack said, "Mimsy were the borogroves." Array looked from her brother to 'Jack and back, clearly seeking an explanation. Pulsar grabbed her hand and made her touch her own forehead. He mimed shrugging.

Suddenly, she went still, and then grinned a huge, delighted grin. Wheeljack knew before she pointed at his mouth that she'd grasped the concept. She tapped herself on the forehead and shrugged, twice, pointing at his lips too. It was clear she was telling him, _I don't understand your words_.

He laughed and hugged her, and told her brother, "Tell her I said good job!"

_:I communicated you're pleased, but I think she got that from you anyway. She understands laughing and smiling and all the emotional stuff. She reads body language better than _I _do.:_

:Kid, you're really unusually smart.:

:Gotta be,: he replied, confirming Wheeljack's guess that he was pushing his natural abilities to their max out of love for his sister. _:But I'm not like Ranger. He's scary smart.:_

:Trust me, this isn't the sort of thing Ranger would be good at anyway.: Wheeljack set both of them down on the ground, and then laid down on his stomach, putting his optics at just below their level. _:Let's teach her to sign that she _did _understand. Can you communicate to her that I want her to give a thumb's up if she understood what I said?:_

:Sure.: Pulsar sat down crosslegged on the ground.

Now that she knew that they were trying to teach her something, Array paid much closer attention. She mastered the thumb's-up sign in moments. When Wheeljack tested her comprehension with a few simple commands like, "Touch your finger to your nose," or "Run to the river," and then, "Run to Pulsar," she gave a thumb's up each time before doing the action, though she tried to touch her finger to _his _nose for the first command. 'Your' was clearly too abstract of a modifier for her, at least for now. However, it was clear she had the general idea of what the hand sign meant.

_:Hah. She's really, really interested in this. Wheeljack, she doesn't process sound into language, but she's using images to think with. We could probably teach her lots of signs for things.:_

:You're right, kiddo.: This gave him hope. It might be a slow process, compared to the usual process of simply downloading a new lexicon, but perhaps they could teach her with examples.

His chronometer suddenly pinged him with a reminder that Ratchet had invited him over for a get-together. He had absolutely _no _desire to stop now, however, and quickly comm'd Ratchet. Ratchet didn't answer, so he sent him a quick text message explaining he was on a roll with Pulsar and Array and didn't want to stop.

_:She could talk to other people besides me. It'd be awesome for her!:_

Wheeljack grinned. Pulsar returned the expression with a broad smile. Array, seeing the looks on their faces, gave them a big thumb's up and a huge beaming grin, then pointed at Wheeljack. _I understand! I understand! I understand you!_

Excited, Wheeljack transmitted to Ratchet, _:I really think we made a breakthrough with Array!:_

Ratchet didn't answer. Wheeljack shot him a quick e-mail with an attached video of Array and her thumb's up, then turned his attention back to his kids. _If she can learn to speak in hand signs, _he thought, _she can have a much brighter future. We can really communicate with her. _

That would change _everything_. Even if her vocabulary remained small, the difference between no words and a few dozen words and concepts would mean a huge improvement on her quality of life. It would give her a _future_.

-

* * *

Bee didn't come back to dinner, and neither did Mikaela. His mother optimistically set places for them at the table, but they did not return. Sam wondered how they were doing, but was unsure if interrupting whatever Bee was doing with Mikaela was a good idea. Bee was a good bit better at defusing an upset Mikaela than he was. If Mikaela was in a mood, it always seemed like he made it worse, not better, when he tried to calm her down. His presence might escalate the situation if he went looking for them.

He slipped away from dinner, halfway through, on the pretext of needing to use the bathroom. From the brand new bathroom up in the loft (the downstairs bathroom wasn't done yet) he sent a quick text message to Bee: "Evrything ok?"

Bee responded almost immediately: "Mikaela just fell asleep. Talk later."

He couldn't resist teasing Bee a bit: "U hav sex?"

The reply was about what he expected: "Sorry you weren't here. Join us l8r."

He was a little annoyed by that, not at Bee, but at the general circumstances. Bumblebee being Bumblebee, he'd probably not only calmed her down but made passionate love to her. The Autobot was definitely not inhibited about the idea of sex with either of them, which seemed pretty funny to Sam given he'd only had human-male 'equipment' for a few weeks. Meanwhile, rather than an orgy with his boyfriend and girlfriend, Sam was stuck eating dinner with his folks and some people he barely knew.

Life was _really _unfair.

_You owe me, buddy, _he thought, though he was certain Bee would make it up to him later, in all sorts of interesting ways. A brief fantasy of taking Bee from behind while Mikaela gave him some *ahem* frontal attention crossed his mind. His cock twitched at the mere thought.

_Mikaela's so nervous about sex ... she's worse than I am. _He doubted that fantasy would happen, but it was fun to think about. Bee would _love _it if they both tackled him at the same time.

Then he reminded himself that he had to return to dinner. With parents. With teenage-girl-who-was-not-his-girlfriend, and who seemed quite willing to tease him, so he'd better not go out there with a stiffy. She might notice, and might just be obnoxious enough to do something like _stare _at it. She seemed like that sort of girl. Plus Kat's mother, who had been vaguely frowning the whole time, would then disapprove. And then there was Sidney, who he didn't quite understand, but definitely seemed like a _scary _old lady. Anyone willing to work for the 'cons _after _being smacked flat by one of them had to be loose a few screws.

On the other hand, he still had pins in his arm from being smacked flat by an Autobot, and he'd stuck around. Who was he to criticize?

He took a deep breath, adjusted himself, thought of unsexy things, washed his hands, splashed water on his face, then stepped back and looked in the mirror to verify there was nothing prominent showing below the waist because he still felt like he was at least still semi-hard. He had set his phone down on the counter, and he checked it briefly for messages when he picked it up, on the off chance Bee had said anything else. He hadn't.

_Thank god for thick blue jeans, _he thought, as he tugged at the waist band again.

Unsexy. Unsexy. _Sidney's reaction if she realized we're doing the threesome thing. Old woman would probably have a heart attack on us. _

That did it. Certain now that nothing was, err, likely to show, he picked the phone back up and padded back to the dinner table.

"How's Bee doing?" His mother asked, brightly.

For a moment, he stared at her blankly, then realized he still had his phone in one hand. So much for discretely checking on them. He blushed to the roots of his curly hair and stammered, "F-f-fine. He got Mikaela calmed down."

Still mortified, but at least not _aroused _now, he claimed a seat. His father shook his head darkly. Sam flashed Ron a nervous grin, then stabbed a piece of roast savagely. His father cleared his throat, probably objecting to the lack of table manners.

Kat said, "So, Sam, TMZ showed some video from that convention you were at ... guess you and Bee are an item."

"Uh, yeah." He hoped she wasn't going to ask any personal questions. He wasn't surprised there was video, given the number of fans with high tech cell phones. He'd pretty much accepted that would happen. "We are."

Megan said, to his parents, "You two must have a very unique perspective on the aliens."

"Oh, we do." His mother said, with bright good cheer. "Bee and Sam have been friends since Sam was a junior in High School. He lived in our garage for over a year. I used to borrow him to run errands, and he's just all sorts of fun. He's got great taste in music and a great sense of humor."

"I see." Megan murmured. "You'd say that Bee has been a good influence on your son?"

"Mom!" Kat protested, while Sam was left speechless. Her tone of voice, more than the actual words, was _rude_.

His mother simply stared silently at the other woman, with a patented mom-look of disbelief that he'd never actually seen her turn on another adult. It was the same one she'd used when he was five years old and had just done something unspeakably ill mannered in public. However, his father responded with firmness that surprised Sam, "I have no problems with the influence Bee has had on Sam."

He blinked at his father. His father, meanwhile, didn't even notice Sam's gaze. He was frowning at Megan.

"Mooooommm!" Kat rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Sam. My mom likes the Autobots, she's just not sure about them being people with, you know, urges."

"Kat!" Megan hissed.

Sidney cackled. "Given that pretty boy-robot Sam's dating, I'm betting the Autobot isn't the only one who has, you know, urges."

Sam stammered something that even he didn't understand, then pushed his plate forward and hid his face in his arms. He wondered if it was _possible _to die of embarrassment. Little old ladies were _not _supposed to say things like that, his mother wasn't supposed to laugh that hard when they did, and his father wasn't supposed to chuckle at all.

Kat added brightly, "But here's what I don't get -- Mikaela says she's got a boyfriend, and when I asked Percy who she's dating, he said it's Sam."

Sam looked up, suddenly not amused at all. _Oh crap._

His father had gone very quiet.

His mother smiled brightly. "Anyone want more potatoes?"

Sidney raised both eyebrows and studied him intently for a moment. He reached for his plate and tried to hide his discomfort by eating a bite of his meal, and pretending he was completely interested in his food. He'd let his mom handle this. He had no idea what to say. _We really need to come up with a better cover story ..._

Sidney finally observed, "Daaaamn. Mikaela is one lucky, lucky girl."

Sam nearly choked on the food in his mouth. His mother laughed outright. His father said, "Hell, that girl probably _needs _two men."

"Dad!" Sam stood up, not liking his father's words, and grasping at the excuse to make an exit -- even if it was a flouncy offended snit fit. "I am _not _going to listen to you insult my girlfriend!"

Ron's words gave him the excuse to retreat that he had been looking for. He was so furious he made it halfway to the door, deliberately stomping, before he heard Kat snap at his father, "That was really, _really _rude. I've met Mikaela and she's nice!"

"Listen here, young lady, in my house ..." his father started to scold her.

"You will _not _talk to my daughter in that tone of voice!" Megan stood up too. "I don't know how you've raised _your _son, but my child knows right from wrong."

He stopped, and turned back to look. It occurred to him that this argument was something like a train wreck. He was horrible, it made him sick to his stomach to contemplate it, and the consequences might be huge, but he couldn't not watch with morbid fascination.

Sidney said, in a normal speaking tone, "Kid's saved the world twice. I'd say he knows right from wrong, Megan."

"He's in a relationship with two people ..." Megan protested, a bit weakly.

"I can count." Sidney sipped at a can of diet coke. Sam gaped at her, openly surprised. He had definitely not been expecting her to defend his choices. "Don't figure it's any of our business what he's doing to whom. They're all adults."

Sam, desperate for an out again, and realizing he was standing in the middle of the room while they all stared at him and that he'd lost the momentum behind his previous departure, stammered out, "M-mom, d-dad, may I be excused?"

"Go," his mom said, rolling her eyes (probably not at him) as she said it.

"Have fun!" Sidney called after him.

He said a bad four-letter word in reaction to her teasing that would, under ordinary circumstances, have been highly rude to say in front of an elderly woman. Sidney merely laughed, however, and called after him, "'Fuck' _was_ pretty much what I meant when I said have fun!"

He could hear his mother's giggles as he hurried through the closing door. He didn't think he'd ever be able to look Sidney in the eyes again. _The Decepticons deserve her!_

-

* * *

Ratchet poked irritably at one of the sparkling's joints. Wheeljack's excited messages had served to put him in an even fouler mood, something he couldn't completely explain. He was glad for Wheeljack and for Array, and suspected that 'Jack was on to something, but he just couldn't deal with Wheeljack's happiness. He'd hoped to have most of his friends over to work on the sparkling, and nearly every single one had cancelled at the last minute.

He was resolutely not thinking about why Fang wouldn't be there. The rest all had a variety of perfectly plausible excuses. He'd rather looked forward to having them work on the project with him, and it had all gone foul. He had _really _wanted Fang -- and Perceptor -- to come, and he'd wanted the joy of watching Perceptor discover just how very bright his sparkling had become. Perceptor had a lot to be proud of, and he probably didn't even know it.

Optimus -- the one mech who hadn't cancelled -- pinged him from outside his door. He opened the door with a quick burst of code, and Optimus walked in. Optimus wasn't smiling. Usually, he greeted Ratchet with a friendlier expression.

"How's your kids?" Ratchet asked, trying for small talk. He didn't feel very social, but it had been a long, long time since he'd had an opportunity to simply be _social _with Optimus. They were friends, had been since long before the war, and there had been times during the war when it felt like they had never been anything but Prime and CMO. He tried to remember what that had been like.

Optimus walked over to look at the sparkling on the table for a moment before answering, "Paladin's fine. Ranger ... had some sort of incident with Jazz. I'm not sure what, but Prowl said he wanted to talk to me after Ranger went into recharge, and Jazz asked for a meeting in the morning."

So Optimus would not be staying either, Ratchet realized, with perhaps less disappointment than he expected. Ranger's schedule was very nearly set in stone. Prowl had control of their shared body from nine at night until six in the morning. The rest of the time belonged to Ranger. It was a quarter to nine now, so Optimus would likely leave in a few minutes.

"Hnnh. Let me if I can help with anything."

Optimus nodded. "I'm worried about Ranger. And Prowl." He rubbed his forehead with one hand. "Smokescreen has expressed some fairly grave concerns to me about Prowl's likely mental state. Short of having someone interface with him, we can't know for sure, but ... Ratchet, he spent four thousand years sharing the spark of an insane mech who enjoyed torture and killing. _Enjoyed _it. He felt that joy, the thrill of having power over another, as if it was his own."

"And now he's sharing a body with a youngling." Ratchet ran a hand over his optics. "Prime, it's Prowl. Smokescreen may be making conjectures, but they're based on an average mech's psychology. I've talked to him almost every night and I've yet to see him show signs of _any _mental illness. He comes by my quarters a lot, before I power down for the night -- officially, it's social. Unofficially, I _am _keeping tabs on him, and I know him much better than Smokescreen does."

Optimus smiled, fondly, "He is resilient. So is Ranger."

"Hnnh. Well, don't tell him this, but Wheeljack suggested a possible solution to give both of them a little more autonomy. Wheeljack is working with Smokescreen on a way to give one consciousness a drone to command remotely. There's some technical issues related to the way that Prowl set up his partition."

"The catch is," Optimus mused slowly, "that they still only share one spark. There's the emotional aspect."

"Yes. Which isn't something I'd ever want to deal with, personally." He could only imagine the level of distraction that would come from feeling emotions that weren't your own as if they belonged to you. He could easily see himself calmly working on a patient when _rage _struck, without even knowing the source. Or, perhaps, feeling a burst of arousal, or hysterical amusement, in the middle of a sober meeting with dignitaries. It would be enough to drive one insane from the instability and unpredictability alone.

"Neither would I," Optimus said. "And they've got to be already feeling some of that."

Ratchet chipped at a melted bit of metal with the tip of a screwdriver. "The other option, as you're aware, is to split their spark and completely sever the bond between the halves. This would be no different than a spark-split mech like Bee losing one half. It hurts. It's horribly traumatic. We've both seen mechs who've lived through that. The depression afterwards ... is one reason why I'd never consider being spark-split myself. It's horrendous to watch them suffer, afterwards, and I can't imagine what it's like to _be _that mech. I'd personally rather die than _be _that mech surviving with half a spark ... but they generally do live, and seem to have some quality of life eventually, with time."

Optimus shook his head. "I've seen it too."

"The younger Ranger is, the easier that splitting would be for him," Ratchet pointed out quietly. "It's an option to consider. It'll be hard on Prowl. Easier on Ranger, for certain values of 'easy.' _You _need to make that call, with Prowl's input. Ranger's too young to be allowed to make the decision. He doesn't have a frame of reference, and he's got that slagging self-sacrificing attitude. I've never met a sparkling who is _less _selfish than that one."

"Or we leave them as they are." Optimus sat down in a chair, suddenly. "It's the option I've been defaulting to. I'm concerned that the drone idea may cause actual emotional instability and unpredictable behavior, simply because they won't _know _why they're feeling a certain way, and they could end up in outright conflict on a regular basis."

"Yes. They'd need to communicate with each other very well." Ratchet scraped some carbon deposits off a sensor mount -- the tactile sensors in his sparkling's legs were completely burnt away.

"Ratch," Optimus said, causing Ratchet to look up. Once upon a time, Optimus had used his nickname far more often. Now, it was rare to hear it. "Ratch, are you ... okay?"

"No. I had a fight with Fang." Ratchet figured that Optimus already knew, given the fact that the med bay was monitored by security, but it didn't hurt to say it. Surely, he didn't need to elaborate.

"I am aware of that." Optimus's tone was dry. "A spectacular one."

"You saw."

"I saw. I agreed with much of what you said, but I would not have been so harsh to Fang in saying it."

"He brought _Starscream_ back." Ratchet slapped a hand down on the table, anger raging to the surface. "I'm not even sure I can forgive that! I'm not even sure I want to be _with _a mech who is so _stupid _as to bring Starscream back to life!"

"I will not second guess him," Optimus said softly, "Everyone has a right to life, Ratchet. If the Order offers to restore a life, would not be following the teachings of Primus to accept that offer?"

"Even Starscream." Ratchet could not _believe _Optimus would defend Fangface in this.

"Even Starscream."

"Starscream's denied a lot of other mechs that precious right to life. Plus a whole planet of Nebulans." Ratchet folded his arms, unmoved by Primus's ideals. There were the teachings of Primus, and then there was reality. He'd side with reality, thanks. Primus's ideals only worked when both sides adhered to them, and demonstrably, Starscream didn't.

"I am aware of that." Optimus rose. "I trust Fang to bear Starscream's history in mind and treat him appropriately." He unsubspaced a data cube and small holoemitter. "You should watch this."

"What is it?"

"One of the greatest gifts in this world is love." Optimus set both small items down on the table with a click. "It can also be a source of great joy, or great pain."

"Don't I know it. I trusted the little fragger ..." Ratchet flopped in a chair and reached for the cube. "Hurts like the pit. I love him, Optimus, but sometimes I'd like to _kill _him."

"If you need to talk later, let me know." Optimus let himself out.

He seriously contemplated ignoring the video, but respect for Optimus compelled him to click it on. He set it back down, unsure what to expect. He'd known Optimus for so slagging long that Optimus's cryptic reply had made perfect sense. He figured Optimus was not pleased with him in regards to his fight with Fang (and this didn't surprise Ratchet at all), but rather than get in a direct argument with him, he was taking some sort of oblique approach to the problem.

The holographic image that played at Ratchet's touch had the sound stripped away, to his surprise. It was a totally silent capture of the argument with Fang, from the vantage of a security cameras behind Ratchet during the fight. For a moment, he bristled in irritation. What was Optimus's point?

Then saw Fang's face, as his holographic image loomed over him. Fang's emotions were clear. He wasn't trying to conceal his feelings at all.

Anger.

But also, fear.

He had not noticed Fang's fear during the fight. Ratchet would be the first to admit that he was not the most empathetic mech. He had been caught up in the need to make his point. He had felt betrayed and hurt, having trusted Fang to make the right decisions. Fang had made a choice he felt was very dangerous, that threatened all of them plus their nascent peace with the humans and any hope of coming to an agreement with the Nebulans. He still maintained it was stupid, foolish, and arrogant for Fang to have brought Starscream back. Ratchet had not been paying much attention to Fang's mood other than to react, badly, to Fang's refusal to admit his errors.

Now, in the privacy of his own quarters, viewing a soundless hologram, he could see how Fang was flinching from him. Fang's body language was defensive, and he kept looking past Ratchet towards the door.

He tapped the image, zooming in, disturbed enough to want to see closer. Perhaps he was wrong?

No, Fang's optics were dilated, and not with anger. Oh, he was pissed, but it was a desperate sort of fury, not a righteous rage.

_Oh, slag._

Fang had, very recently, been attacked by a trusted partner, who had tried to violate his mind and had physically assaulted him.

Fang found trust very difficult, and he had _trusted _Ratchet.

Ratchet backed the recording up and watched again. Ashamed, horrified, he observed the silent recording as he bullied and terrified his own partner. He'd scared Fang, badly. Fang looked cornered, distraught, and, as the argument progressed, more and more defiant. It was probably a defiance born of desperation, of wounded pride and betrayed trust.

_What have I done? _he thought, stunned. _Oh, Primus, what have I done?_

Ratchet snatched the holoemitter up and threw it against the wall as hard as he could. It shattered into a pieces with a satisfying crunch.

_What have I done?_


	101. Chapter 101

Chapter 101

* * *

Author's Notes: Sorry this took update so long to get up. I had work drama, cat drama, and household appliance fail drama last week. Anyone want a kitten?

* * *

Prowl was standing in Ranger's bedroom when Optimus returned to his quarters. Optimus quietly joined him, smiling a bit. He'd made sure Prowl knew that he, too, should make himself at home in Optimus's quarters.

Prowl studied Ranger's collection of human books. Elita had ordered him a whole box of novels and they had arrived yesterday afternoon. "He's fortunate." Prowl carefully picked up one of the books between two fingers and looked at the cover art. "Optimus, Ranger is going to be an amazing adult."

"I always knew he would be. He shares your spark. He has your gifts." Optimus sat down on the berth, trying to signal he wanted to be informal. He folded his hands between his knees and looked up at Prowl. He confessed, "I ... didn't want anyone else raising him. You were, are, one of my best friends. I wanted to make sure he had every chance in the universe to succeed."

"He is fortunate." Prowl set the book down, and turned to face Optimus. "He will be raised with love, with understanding, with encouragement."

"Prowl ..." Optimus hated hearing the depressed tone in Prowl's voice. Prowl's emotions were subtle and sometimes hard to read by those who didn't know him so well, but Optimus had called him a friend for so long he didn't find it at all difficult. "I am sorry we didn't investigate further. As much as I love Ranger, we ..."

"Don't say it." Prowl interrupted and folded his arms. "Don't regret it."

Optimus smiled faintly. "You have always made me proud, old friend."

"i am not proud of myself. There are times when I wonder if I should even exist anymore."

"... What?" He stared in disbelief. "Prowl, no. We are still looking for a solution."

"There is no solution which won't hurt both of us." Prowl shook his head slowly.

"Ratchet has suggested that Ranger would survive a spark splitting ..."

"I have _no _desire to go through that." Prowl's words were sharp. "Nor would I put a child through that kind of torment. No, Optimus, _no_."

"Wheeljack suggested one of you could be given a drone ..."

"_No_. I don't need to explain the problems with that." Prowl quirked one optic ridge upwards.

Optimus sighed. "Prowl, I know it's hard, but both of you have a right to live. We will figure something out."

Prowl's words were soft, "I love Jazz."

He had no idea why Prowl was bringing this up. He'd been well aware that Prowl loved Jazz for many millenia, possibly before Prowl had even admitted it to himself, but he'd never acted on those feelings. Prowl said, "I believe the feeling's mutual."

"... And I _cannot _stop my emotions. Your sparkling just got a very adult dose of desire today, Optimus, when I saw Jazz. It's not good for him. It's _bad _for him. I am horrified, mortified, and _I can't help it._" Prowl slammed a hand down on the desk. "Also, Ranger was holding Array yesterday and I remembered all the little ones I'd hurt, tortured, killed as Barricade ..."

"That wasn't you."

"... I felt it as if it were me. I _felt _Barricade's joy at the power trip as if it were my own. I remember that. I know it is wrong, I know it is evil, but a part of me wants to take Array, or Prism, or Scanner, or any of the little ones ... and do terrible things to them."

"Prowl, we willl solve this."

"How, Optimus?" Prowl uttered a small, bitter laugh. "I never want to be around the little ones. Not _ever_. Nor around the humans, nor anyone vulnerable."

"I trust you," Optimus said, quietly, feeling like he wanted to keen in grief for everything this war had taken from Prowl, and, indeed, stolen from all of them.

"I don't trust me." Prowl quirked an eyebrow up at Optimus.

"I trust you with my own sparkling." He said this emphatically. It was the absolute truth.

Prowl snorted. "I can't hurt Ranger. It would be counterproductive. I'd feel his pain as if it were my own."

"There are ways you can hurt him which wouldn't involve pain." Optimus smiled faintly. "Your horror at your reaction to Jazz speaks volumes about your judgement. I am also willing to bet that Ranger didn't object ..."

"No. He likes Jazz." Prowl frowned.

"... but he is too young, and I imagine Jazz was less than thrilled by this, as well." The incident explained why both Prowl and Jazz had comm'd him to request meetings within a few moments of each other. Jazz might cheerfully berth hop with multiple partners, but that didn't mean he wasn't impeccably ethical about who he chose to find comfort with. To Optimus's knowledge, Jazz had casually interfaced with everyone from Ratchet to Grimlock to Perceptor. He'd never once taken advantage of anyone, and it had always been about finding comfort among friends, and expressing the close bonds that developed between mechs who'd worked together for tens of thousands of years. He knew that Jazz's reaction would have bordered on horror (probably quickly followed by fury) if anyone thought he might harm a child.

"To say the least, he is too young." Prowl sighed. "And when Jazz realized what had happened, he made it clear it was an unacceptable state of affairs. Ranger felt horribly rejected, which meant _I _felt horribly rejected, even though I knew that Jazz's denial was not aimed at me. It is impossible to separate my feelings from his. He felt my desire, and I felt as if that desire was denied."

That confession troubled Optimus, in ways that he couldn't completely pinpoint. He said softly, "I'm sorry, Prowl."

"Jazz thinks I told him to stay away out of concern for Ranger. That's true, but I _cannot _bear his rejection. It will happen again. Jazz and I agreed to ... not see each other again. Ever. Even as friends. I would prefer not to even see him for professional reasons, should I get clearance to work again."

"I'm sorry, Prowl." It simply didn't feel fair. Prowl loved Jazz, and Optimus wished the two could have some solace in each other. Apparently, even that was denied Prowl, who had been through so much already. "You won't be seeing him at all?"

"No." Prowl shook his head slowly. "Jazz will find another -- he always does -- and I don't _need _a partner." He shook his head firmly. "Optimus, we will want to watch Ranger's development. The connection I have with him is very like an interface, and it's constant. I make a point of not observing his thoughts, but he so frequently talks to me, and with such complete honesty, that I'm not sure that it matters that I'm not _truly _'facing with him. I feel his emotions, because they are like my own, and he feels mine. I have made a point of not engaging him in excessive conversation, because I want him to develop on his own, but ... _Primus. _When he realized what I wanted with Jazz ... he didn't react as a normal sparkling would. He said he didn't mind the feeling. I suspect that is because he's not developing normally, because I am affecting his emotional growth."

"Most sparklings would react with dismay at the thought of adult interfacing," Optimus sighed.

"At that age? I'd have been horrified." Prowl sounded absolutely miserable.

"On the other hand, he's _far _more advanced than he should be," Optimus added this observation a bit reluctantly. While Ranger's bright intelligence delighted him, he was also worried by the stages of development that Ranger seemed to be skipping.

"My influence, again. There's a certain amount of bleed-through of my thought processes from our spark that I can't control. My point is that I'm harming him simply by existing."

"Is it harm?" Optimus challenged. "Is he happy?"

"... more or less."

"No sparkling has a perfect upbringing, Prowl." Optimus sighed. "The important thing is that he know that he is loved, that he is taught to be empathetic, to have morals, to have a connection to his community. The rest will balance out. You are right that you might be influencing his interest in having a romantic partner. I would also note that you will be a very effective chaperone."

Prowl groaned. "... Primus. I am not looking forward to him dating."

"Even when he becomes emotionally ready, he will still need to wait until the other sparklings are old enough. There's too much age difference between his generation and our adults for him to find a partner among them." Optimus would have the _bolts _of any soldier belonging to either faction who acted improperly towards any of the sparklings. He could see Prowl's point, but he figured the need to worry about Ranger and potential partners was years away.

"He's attracted to Wheelie." Prowl's response was very, very dry.

"... I see." Optimus considered that. He'd overlooked Wheelie in his assessment of the potential for Ranger to find a date. Maybe the issue of Ranger and romance wasn't as far off as he had assumed. Wheelie would be very unlikely to take advantage of Ranger deliberately, but Wheelie didn't have any experience himself, and was also so young that none of the older mechs would, or at least should, be interested in him. It was, potentially, a situation he'd need to watch. If they were the only potential partners for each other, and they hit the beginnings of maturity and started to feel the drive to share themselves with another at around the same time ... well, Optimus might be a few hundred thousand years old, but he still had keen memories of being very young and very lonely, and very eager to find out what all the fuss was about.

"... I, most definitely, am not attracted to the youngling." Prowl quirked one optic ridge upwards. His tone was even dryer. "He's barely an adult himself. I've irritated Ranger a few times by responding with rather strong negative emotions to the idea of Wheelie as a partner, when Ranger's going, _hmmm, interesting, _and it upsets him rather a lot. For now, I have been putting myself into recharge when he interacts with Wheelie, simply to prevent a disagreement with Ranger."

Optimus wasn't entirely sure he liked that Prowl was shutting down to avoid a conflict of emotional responses. Also, it meant Ranger was not being chaperoned around Wheelie. For the near future, that probably wasn't a problem,as Ranger undoubtedly registered as a _sparkling _to Wheelie. But if they built a bond up, Ranger could very easily hit maturity far in advance of a normal timeline, and if they were friends, things could progress from there ... well, he wouldn't forbid them from experimenting if they were both ready, but he'd make very sure they knew what they were getting into, that they had the knowledge to do it safely, and that they _were _ready. Also, he needed to make sure Ranger did factor Prowl's feelings into any choices he made.

None of this required immediate worry, however. For the near term, they simply needed to prevent misunderstandings between the two -- Optimus didn't want Ranger to misinterpret friendliness from Wheelie as something more.

Optimus considered all of this, then simply said, "It would probably be prudent to clue Wheelie into Ranger's interest, and give him some good options for handling it if Ranger brings it up."

"As far as I can tell, Wheelie's oblivious to Ranger's interest, and Ranger is careful not to let on. I have no idea how Wheelie would react, though he will certainly consider Ranger too young. Ranger _is _too young, as you're aware, no matter how curious he is. By contrast, Wheelie's done a lot of living for thirteen years." Prowl frowned. "I didn't realize he was so young until Ratchet told me. I knew him as Barricade, though he took pains to avoid me -- him -- Barricade -- as much as possible."

"You are not Barricade," Optimus said, quietly, resting a hand on Prowl's shoulder. "You are not responsible for what he did. You are a friend I would trust with my very spark, who bravely, and with integrity, survived one of the worst experiences I can ever imagine anyone enduring. That your sanity is intact is a testament to your strength; that your morals are intact is a testament to your strength of character."

Prowl looked up at him. "I'm not so sure I'm as ... sound of mind ... as you think," he said, and then crumpled into Optimus's arms with a soft keen. "Would I ever have done this, before?"

Optimus held him. He was glad that Prowl was willing, however reluctantly, to seek comfort from him. He'd assumed Jazz would be there for Prowl, but now he could not be. He said reassuringly, "You are my friend, one of my oldest friends, and you are more than that now. You are _family_, Prowl."

"Family," Prowl whispered. "You know I had a brother? He envied me my accomplishments. I envied him his normal life, growing up with our mentors. We were not friends."

"Family, Prowl," Optimus said.

The mech was silent for a moment, then said softly, "Thank you," and straightened up, and stepped away, finding his natural dignity once more.

"Prowl, is there anything I can do to help you?" Optimus summoned his own reserve. He didn't feel awkward about hugging Prowl, but he did not want Prowl to feel embarrassed. Resuming a safe emotional distance between them seemed called for now.

"The only thing I really want, I cannot have."

"Jazz."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I." Prowl smiled. "I'm glad he was able to resume the role of your second. He's resilient."

Optimus sighed, only partially agreeing with that assessment. Jazz wasn't as tough as most people assumed, but Jazz would get the job done. That was what mattered most in a war for their very survival.

"He's the heir to your Matrix, isn't he?"

Optimus started to answer that question, out of habit, with an affirmative. Once, Prowl had been his heir. He caught himself before he said anything, however, and responded simply, "That information is classified, Prowl. I'm sorry."

"I ... forgot." Prowl seemed at a loss for a moment. He finally admitted, "Part of me still remembers having the highest of security clearances, and being able to discuss such matters freely with you. I apologize for forgetting I am not your SIC anymore."

Optimus frowned, unhappy with the need to keep classified information from him. "Old habits, as the humans say, die hard." He sat down again, not wishing to loom over Prowl.

"Mmm. I doubt I'll ever be part of your inner circle of officers again. I should resign myself to a medical retirement. It's for the best, but I do miss being your tactician."

Prowl was probably right. He'd certainly earned the retirement. However, Optimus knew that Prowl had lived for their cause and he missed Prowl's steady personality as much as Prowl probably missed the job. "Prowl, I would encourage you to give yourself, and Ranger, some time. It is not an ideal situation that you find yourself in, and you will both need to make some core-deep compromises, but you have my support and my trust."

Prowl slanted a look sideways at him. "Trust. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to hear you, Optimus Prime, say you have faith in me. I ... will not fail you. No matter what."

"You have yet to fail my expectations of you," Optimus glanced down at his folded hands, then back up at Prowl. "Do you want work? I know the medical staff have been reluctant to clear you for any sort of duty."

"... I would appreciate the distraction. Their concerns are justified, Optimus. I am _not _the mech I was. I would not trust myself in a position of responsibility. However, I would like to feel that I am making a contribution to the Autobot cause again."

"Very well. If Ratchet can't come up with a _medical _reason, I'll have you put on the duty roster for four hours a night, five nights a week. Any preference for what you'd like to do?" That abbreviated schedule gave Prowl some free time, Optimus thought. He was keenly aware that Prowl's time was limited to nine hours out of twenty-four.

Prowl lifted his hands up, showing Optimus his nimble fingers. "I learned to do ship maintenance when I worked for the 'cons. That should not be too different from the routine work needed for Fort Max's operational needs."

"Mmm." Optimus nodded. "Very well. I'll have you assigned to one of the night work crews."

"Thank you, sir." Prowl shuttered his optics briefly. "It will be good to feel useful."

Optimus regarded his one-time SIC and security chief for a long, long moment. He wanted to tell him, again, how sorry he was. It didn't seem right that Prowl, once the second most powerful mech in the army, and the most intelligent mech Optimus had ever known, would be working as a _janitor_. However, he knew that Prowl didn't want apologies and would, truly, appreciate the work. However, he also knew a way to build Prowl's confidence up. He said, with a smile touching his lip plates, "If you want something else to do, keep your sensors open for me. You've always been good at spotting trouble before it happens."

Prowl tilted is head sideways, considering. "Yes sir. You're thinking that others might see my position as a demotion, and perhaps assume I might be ... resentful."

"Perhaps. You know who the usual suspects are for trouble. See if they will assume you to be disgruntled with the position, and will talk to you, and then tell me if you learn anything of any concern." Optimus was under no illusions that peace would be easy. There would be trouble from within the ranks. It was inevitable.

"Yes sir." Prowl looked a bit happier at having a proper assignment better suited to his skills than changing light bulbs and repairing damaged fixtures. "Thank you, sir."

* * *

"Up, up, up!" Prism woke Fang at a few minutes before seven AM by bouncing up and down on his chest. "Fang, get up!"

He blinked awake, aware that he'd had unpleasant dreams about both Deathwheels and Ratchet as his mind had insisted on making the obvious comparisons. "Bwah? What's up, kiddo?"

"It's almost seven! You always get up before seven!"

"I was going to recharge later," he said, fuzzily.

"But you always get up before seven."

"And apparently, today won't break that trend." He sat up, cupping his hand under her as he did, and sent a quick ping out to his troops as a general 'good morning, I'm awake' announcement. It was a habit he'd picked up long ago, working as a field commander. He just had more people to CC now that he was Lord Fangface.

_:Morning, boss. I just got up myself.: _'Regia said to him, amid a chorus of greetings from the rest of the soldiers. _:Skywarp's not up yet.: _Aquaregia, at least, wasn't damning him to the Pit. His greeting was friendly.

_:He's doing a medical defrag. He won't be up until about eight AM. How's Starscream?:_

_:Pissed. Loud about it.: _Aquaregia's response was almost amused.

Fang checked his schedule. His first appointment was at nine, though Optimus had e-mailed him to request a meeting at 8:30 and Ratchet had simply requested 'as soon as you're up.' He sent a quick acceptance to Optimus, responded to Ratchet with a white lie that he was tied up, then told 'Regia, _:Can you meet me at 8:00 for twenty minutes?:_

_:I'm scheduled to meet with Grapple, Tranquility's city planners, and our Constructicons from 7:00 to 9:00.:_

_:Slag. When's your next opening?:_

_:Noon, and I'm free this afternoon except for enough paperwork to make me go insane.:_

_:We've got a meeting with the Autobots and the humans to discuss tactics for taking out that ship, from 11:00 AM to late evening. You're in it ... Optimus will probably call an intermission around 5:00 to allow the humans to eat. Should give us an hour.:_

_:Yes sir.:_

It wasn't ideal, but it did seem like the first time he had to talk to 'Regia and assure Aquaregia that he hadn't completely lost his mind.

Ratchet, who had not been included in Fang's good-morning ping, comm'd him, _:Fang, can we talk?:_

_:I'm slagging busy.: _He responded with irritation. Ratchet was probably contacting him because he'd read the e-mail.

_:Join the club. We still need to talk.: _Ratchet sounded ... odd.

_:At the moment, Ratch, I have no desire to speak to you.: _He was coldly, furiously, angry. He didn't even want to _think _about Ratchet.  
_  
:I'm not surprised.: _Ratchet sighed. _:Look, I've been sitting outside your door for hours. You can tell me to slag off if you want, and I'll go.:_

_:Outside my door? You've got the code to come in.: _Why was Ratchet sitting outside? Other than the obvious fact that he wasn't welcome in Fang's quarters at the moment. _Deathwheels would have entered anyway._  
_  
:I do.:_

_:Just ... slag off.: _He didn't want to talk to Ratchet.  
_  
:I understand.: _Ratchet sounded disappointed, and subdued. _:Look, if you want to talk to me later, my comm's always open to you. I won't push. I was an idiot and I know it.:_

He blinked. It wasn't an apology, exactly, but it was not the attack he'd been anticipating. As angry as Ratchet had been, he'd assumed seeing him would lead to round two of the fight. After a moment's additional confusion he decided that if Ratchet was going to be polite, perhaps he should respond with an equal measure of manners. Even so, it took him several moments to summon the nerve to walk to the door and look out. Apparently having assumed that he wasn't going to let him in, Ratchet was halfway to the end of the hall.

"Ratch, wait." He was so _tired._

"Ratchet!" Prism squealed and darted past Fang, catching him by surprise.

The medic turned around to face him, then caught Prism as she jumped into his arms. "Hello, scraplet."

"Come on in, Ratch," he said, quietly, standing in the doorway so the door wouldn't slid shut.

Ratchet searched his expression for a moment, then said, "Are you sure?"

"Not really." But he stepped aside, and Ratchet entered. He put Prism down on a table, then produced a sketch book and a new box of art pencils.

"Pencils!"

"What do you say, Prism?" Fang prompted out of sheer habit.

"Prismacolor!"

"Prism ..." He put a lot of warning in his voice. She was supposed to thank Ratchet, and she knew it. He swore sometimes that she was contrary just for contrary's sake. He couldn't imagine Optimus's children or Scanner or even the seeker sparkling being this stubborn over something so simple.

"It has my name on them! Prism! Prism-ma-color!" She insisted, playing dumb. Prism then gave him an alarmed look when he reached for the box with full intention of taking it away. His tolerance for her attitude was minimal at best this early in the morning. However, she correctly read his mood, realized she'd reached his limit, and promptly said in a very polite tone of voice, "Thank you, Ratchet."

"You're welcome." Ratchet rumbled in approval. "Will you draw me something?" He added, _:Nicely handled.:_

He started to flash Ratchet a smile before he remembered he was angry at him. The compliment was honestly meant, but he refused to let Ratchet coax him into a better mood with anything resembling flattery.  
_  
_Prism responded to Ratchet, "Sure! You want a picture of Wheelie?"

"I'd love a picture of Wheelie."

Thus having guaranteed she would be occupied for at least a few minutes, Ratchet turned his attention to Fang -- who was moderately impressed that Ratchet had come prepared with Prism-distracting goodies. Still, the argument last night had left a foul aftertaste, and he met Ratchet's gaze with a dark look. He gestured towards his sitting room, not wanting Prism to witness any hostility between them. He warned Ratchet, "Keep your voice down, but no comms. I can't put on the privacy shield without making it impossible to keep an eye on her."

"I understand," Ratchet said, quietly. "I'm not going to argue with you again, Fang. I'll walk away first."

He blinked at that statement. It was completely unexpected. Then it occurred to him what Ratchet probably meant. _Walk away. Leave me. He doesn't want to argue with me anymore, he'll just end it between us._

As soon as they were in the next room, Ratchet said added, "I stand by what I said, Fang, but I could have said it better. I was rude, and overbearing, and I let my temper get the best of me. I'm sorry."

He stared up at Ratchet, for a moment, then bit back an obscenity that he didn't want to risk Prism overhearing. In a low tone of voice he growled, "So you're coming to break up with me, but you're sorry for being mean about it. Fine. I get it. Goodbye."

"... break up with you?" Ratchet sounded dumbfounded.

"I screwed up. I'm not good enough. I _get _it." He couldn't look at Ratchet. He shut off all his optics, wrapped his arms around himself, and tried not to cry. He didn't want Prism to hear him lose his cool, because that would upset her. The pain that came with the anticipated rejection was almost unbearable. "Go away, Ratchet. I have to be in a civilized mood for meetings today. I don't have time nor the emotional energy to deal with you, too."

He heard Ratchet kneel, and the noise of creaking joints and whining hydraulics silenced his rant before it really begun. Still, he wasn't expecting the hesitant touch on his arm. When he snapped his optics back on Ratchet was seated on the ground before him. "I don't agree with your decision," Ratchet said, "but I'd like to understand why you made it, and how you think you can control him."

Fang looked down at the large hand that was still touching his arm. Ratchet started to remove it, but Fang reached across his chest and rested his smaller palm on Ratchet's fingers. "You're not breaking up with me?"

"I was an aft last night, Fang. I'd be surprised if you didn't call it off with _me_."

"Tempting." Fang had to admit that. It was honesty, not sarcasm, that fueled his words now. "You scared me."

"I know." Ratchet sighed. "I ... have used fear as a tactic for inspiring obedience among our troops for a long, long time."

"I'm not an Autobot, and I resent the assumption that I should be _obedient _to you." He took a step back. He didn't want to process this right now. "And I do not feel like I should _ever _fear my partner."

Ratchet frowned. "I ... was wrong. For more than half of my life, however, either as CMO or as a Senator, I have answered to few others. I realize I cannot demand you obey me, but being a commanding officer is an ingrained habit, burned into my routines so strongly it might as well be hardcode."

Fang blinked at Ratchet, wondering if the apology, such as it was, was truly sincere. There was a tiny curl of fear in his spark still. He complained, "You know, I _wasn't _sure I was right about bringing Starscream back. It was stupid, it was impulsive, and the Primes asked me to make a choice and I did, and now I don't know if it was the right one. I wanted to talk to you about it. Instead, you went off on me. You weren't telling me anything I didn't already know, including that I can be a real impulsive idiot."

"You're right." Ratchet sighed.

He smiled hesitantly, no longer mad. "I don't know if I will be able to control Starscream. I may have to slag him again. However, sometimes I have to use tools I don't like to run this army. I'm a Decepticon, Ratch. I have to do Decepticon things. Bringing back Starscream falls under that heading"

Ratchet reached a hand out, as if to touch him, but stopped halfway, and looked for permission to continue.

"Ratch, I ... I thought I could trust you." It hurt to say that, because now he wasn't sure he could. He'd always known that Ratchet had a temper, but he'd never been on the receiving end of it to this degree. It was awful and terrifying and not at all something he wanted to put up with in a partner. He was too sensitive. He could take amazing amounts of criticism from his enemies without blinking, but a simple frown from someone whose opinion he valued was enough to make him second guess his behavior. Being screamed at by his partner was one of the worst things he could imagine.

He'd _never _imagined Ratchet would turn his temper on him. He had thought Ratchet understood.

Very gently, Ratchet rested his hand on Fang's arm. "You know, I haven't had a partner in a long, long time. My last one ... left me ... because of angry outbursts. I won't apologize for my temper. It's kept a lot of mechs alive. It keeps me going in the med bay. I'd rather be angry than crazy, and sometimes it's come down to a choice between the two. I _will _apologize for not being sensitive to your reaction to it."

He realized, in that instant, that there was something worse in the universe than being screamed by Ratchet, and that was _losing _Ratchet. He sighed. "Ratch, I get my fill of fighting as the leader of the Decepticons. Believe me, I can hold my own in an argument if I have to. However, I was so scared you were going to hit me that I very nearly attacked you first. Only the thought that we would end up tearing each other to pieces kept me from striking you."

"I wouldn't hit you." Ratchet's assertation seemed at odds with his known habit of throwing things at people who annoyed him.

"I've certainly seen you beat up enough other mechs. Don't tell me that's different. I've seen you throw wrenches at your best friends when you're in a mood. You've hit _Doc _and he's about as low key as they get." Fang shook his head slowly from side to side. "I don't _want _to know which of us would win if we ever got into a serious fight. I don't want to lose to you, and I don't want you to lose to me."

Ratchet didn't say a word.

"Ratchet, I wish I could undo yesterday." He snorted. "I wish I could do yesterday all over from the beginning. I can't. However, maybe we both learned something."

"What, that I'm an aft when I'm pissed? I already knew that." Ratchet sounded subdued. "I'm pretty sure the whole army knows that."

Fang pressed the palm of his hand to Ratchet's cheek plates, drawing Ratchet's attention back to him. "I learned that I love you enough to give you a second chance. I won't be abused like this again. You know you were wrong. I was not completely innocent. Perhaps I should have discussed Starscream's fate with the other Primes. The order didn't give me a time limit on accepting. My choice was impulsive. I need to learn when to _wait._"

Ratchet sighed.

Fang sighed back. "I'm not being impulsive now. This is a measured decision. I'll take a second chance on you, if you'll grant me the same. There will not be a third chance from me."

Hesitantly, Ratchet wrapped his arms around Fang. With all of his bulky armor in place, it was an awkward hug, but Fang leaned into it. He wondered why he didn't feel relieved, however. Instead, he only felt anxiety and unease.

Aquaregia pinged him.

_:'Regia, I'm busy.:_

_:I don't doubt it. I saw Ratchet headed down. However, Sidney's here.:_

_:Oh, thanks.:_

"Duty calls?" Ratchet asked.

"Sidney's here. I should go get her settled in to work, and I need to check in on Skywarp, and see how Starscream likes his new, ah, quarters, and then I've got a meeting with Prime, and ..."

Ratchet nodded knowingly. "I know you'll be in that strategy meeting until late. I'm only signed up for the first half of it, for medical support planning. Do you want me to watch Prism this evening?"

"Percy agreed to look after her today, but she might be more comfortable going into recharge with someone she knows watching her. I can tell her to expect you to pick her up at, say, seven and that I'll be there when she wakes up in the morning." Fang leaned against Ratchet, wondering why his touch felt so alien. It was Ratchet. He wanted to forgive him and to give him a second chance, but he still felt uneasy. "I'm planning on seeing her for two hours around noon, and again for an hour between six and seven. I've got a meeting planned with 'Regia at five, when we let the humans out to take time to eat and confer with their staff."

"Want me to meet you at six too?" Ratchet asked.

"No. That's time I'm setting aside for Prism and me. She's having a tough time of it, Ratch. I don't want her to have to compete for my attention with anyone, even you." He nudged Ratchet's arm with his forehead, hoping Ratchet wouldn't be jealous.

Ratchet stroked the back of his helm. "I get it. That's wise of you. If she can reliably expect a some consistent attention from you every day, it will help her."

"That's my plan."

"Do you want to ... maybe stay over, at my place, after the meeting?" Ratchet offered, hesitantly. "My berth's big enough for two ..."

Earlier, before the fight, he would have accepted with frank eagerness. Now, however, he hesitated for a very long moment before nodding acceptance.

_What if he loses his temper like that while we're interfacing? What if he sees something in my mind that he doesn't like and reacts with fury?_

The source of his discomfort suddenly became clear. Abruptly, he was terrified. He didn't want to interface with Ratchet. He was so scared that he didn't even want to continue the relationship. He _knew _he wouldn't be able to bear that sort of anger from Ratchet, if it was aimed in his direction during 'facing. It would destroy him. It would be a rejection of his very identity.

It was, however, too late to back out of spending the night at Ratchet's. He'd already agreed.

"You okay?"

"No." _Partners need to be honest with each other. I will tell him what I'm afraid of and see how he responds. _He told Ratchet, "We'll talk tonight, after the kid's asleep." He wasn't really looking forward to that discussion, but a warm wave of approval from the semi-sentient presence of his Matrix told him he'd made the right call. "Listen, I need to get going. Got ten billion things to do. I will see you later."

"Want me to watch Prism now? My shift doesn't start ..."

"Nah, I want to take her to see Sidney. The more humans she knows, the better."

"Okay." Ratchet cupped his hand to one side of Fang's face. "Fang, I'm sorry."

"I know you are." He just wasn't sure if an apology was enough. He would give him a chance, because he _wanted _it to work out, but he had been betrayed so many times in his life, not to mention assaulted by his superiors. Ratchet's behavior had left a profoundly unpleasant impression.

* * *

"Hi!" Prism stretched up to her full height of eighteen inches and asked, "Does your arm still hurt?

Sidney snorted. "When I was a little kid? I got bucked off a horse and broke my tailbone. _That _hurt. This is just annoying. It itches already."

Prism cocked her head to one side, studying the cast. "Ratchet and Doc signed it."

"Can you write?" Sidney asked, crouching down.

"Of course I can," Prism frowned, puzzled by the question.

Fang explained, "Our children are brought online with an operating system that contains basic communications information, including written language. Being _patient _enough, and having a mature attention span, can take some time, but they can read and write from the beginning."

"Handy." Sidney rummaged one-handed in her purse and found a hot pink metallic gel pen. "Here, kid. Want to sign my cast?"

"Can I draw you a picture?"

"You draw?" Sidney seemed surprised by this.

"Obsessively," Fang put in, "and with some skill. She has a spark gift for art."

"What do you want to draw?" Sidney asked her.

Prism inspected the surface of the cast for a second before deciding, "A kitty!"

"I have no idea why that's her favorite subject. None at all." Fang chuckled.

After Prism had drawn a fluffy cartoon kitten, she held the pen up to Fang. With absolutely impeccable manners she asked, "Could you get me some of these, please? I really like this type of pen."

Fang nodded. "Sidney, will you send me an e-mail for a site where I could order her some of those pens, in different colors if possible?"

"Sure." Sidney grinned. "You know, she's pretty good!"

* * *

Starscream was awake and leaning against a back wall when Fang walked through the brig door. Pounce's cell was directly facing Starscream's, and he wondered if they'd talked during the night. He would need to review the security tapes to find out if anything of any significant interest had been said.

"So, the great and mighty Lord Fangface has come to free me from my prison at last," Starscream said, with a sneer. "And _what _is that thing? A parasite?"

Prism hissed and then disappeared under Fang's armor.

"Her name is Prism. She is my child." Fang looked up at the seeker, who stood only inches from the energized bars. "As you're well aware, there were close to a million sparklings on Mars."

"Feh. Dead, now." Something undefinable crossed Starscream's face. "We don't have the energon for them, and they were going to die. The Fallen said to let them die, to focus our resources on the living. What good is living if we don't have a future, is what I want to know? Feh. Not _my _idea to let them go, but even if I'd wanted to save them, I couldn't have. You've got to believe that!"

"Yes, they were going to die." Fangface had so many questions for Starscream. He settled on, "Why didn't you ... seek help?"

"What good would it have done?" Starscream's face twisted into a rictus of anger. "There aren't enough ships left in this quadrant of space to move enough energon, even providing we can take Nieryl Six without the Autobots blowing the refineries to slag! When we lost Nieryl Six we lost the future of our race ... You may have saved yourself one little _pet_, but by now the rest would be only good for spare parts." Bitterness tinged his words as he added, "As Megatron used them."

"She is my child. We also saved roughly half the sparklings. They will be the future of our race." Fang stroked Prism's head when she peered out. "She is not a pet. She is not a drone. She is not a soldier. She is _my child_. And Megatron is, most definitively, gone for good."

"I won't believe Megatron's gone for good until I slag him myself. And you saved half?" Starscream snorted. "What, you managed to pull a billion gallons of energon out of your aft? We don't have the resources to support them anymore!"

"We don't alone, no." Fang sent a blurt of machine language code at the sensor for the cell door. It rattled open. "Don't forget I can and will terminate you if you disobey me, Starscream."

"... Yes _sir_."

"Follow me."

"Where are we going?" Starscream demanded.

"Follow me."

"Hey, what about me?" Pounce complained.

Fang said, "Don't push for answers you don't want to hear, Pounce."

Outside, in the hall, Starscream asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity, "He said you wiped his memories back to childhood and now you've imprisoned him. What _are _you doing to him?"

Fang pinned his ears flat. "His memories aren't wiped, they're locked. He was glitching crazy, and too dangerous to allow to continue. A threat to the sparklings. We _were _going to try to restore his memories a little at a time, with some therapy, and try to heal him slowly. He has not cooperated so far, he injured an ally for _no _reason other than maliciousness, and I just don't have time for stupid nonsense."

"Why not just slag him?" There was veiled challenge in Starscream's voice.

"As I told him, piss me off sufficiently and Prism gets a brother." Fang reached up to rub Prism's head when she peered out, half to encourage her to stay out of sight, and half for his own comfort. He found holding her, comforting her, to be oddly soothing for his own spark.

"I don't want a brother!" she hissed. "I don't like brothers."

"You don't like Wheelie?" he teased her.

"That's different." She huffed indignantly. "Wheelie takes me places and teaches me things."

"I thought you said Wheelie defected." Starscream frowned at Fang.

"Wheelie did. He's happy with the Autobots, but we see him almost every day." They were almost to the roof. Fang was leading the way up an internal ramp. "He's turned out to be a good kid. I'm proud of him."

"He's a defector." Starscream's tone was flat, challenging.

"Well, given he defected before I came to power, I can't blame him for that." Fang shrugged. "He offered to return once he found out I was in charge, but I said he'd sworn an oath to Optimus and he needed to keep his word."

Starscream sneered, "Like you know anything about keeping your word. You swore an oath to the Decepticons."

Fang quirked an optic ridge upwards. "I swore an oath to Megatron when Megatron had a fusion cannon pointed at my head. I didn't kill _you _and take over until after Grimlock teleported Megatron into Earth's mantle and left him there ..."

Starscream sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. Very low, he murmured, "... so he is dead. Grimlock's alive?"

Fang ignored that. "... and I'm not sure that oath was binding, in any case. I _have _broken two oaths I regret in my life, Fang. One to the Autobots, and one to Wheelie. I promised Wheelie I would keep him safe when he was very small, and I didn't. I admit to breaking two oaths, to anyone who asks. Few know that I don't include my oath to Megatron in that tally."

Starscream considered that, for a long moment. "You didn't swear an oath when you joined in the first place?"

"I was a _child _when I joined this army, Starscream. Aside from the lab where I was created, the 'cons were all I knew." He was surprised Starscream didn't immediately recall that.

"I'd archived that bit of data. You're smarter than most of the little glitchwits that Shockwave brought online in that damned program. No way to raise sparklings, I tell you ..." Starscream's gaze rested on Prism, who was watching him in return with keen wariness over Fang's shoulder. Much to Fang's surprise, he admitted, "... I always wanted a sparkling."

"Skywarp and Thundercracker have two seeker sparklings. They're coming along well." Fang smiled at him, though the friendly expression took effort. He didn't like Starscream, and didn't think he could ever trust him. He knew he was taking an enormous chance just being alone -- with Prism! -- with Starscream, but figured Starscream had determined the status quo was not in his favor, and Screamer was neither stupid nor suicidal. "I'll leave it up to 'Warp if he wants to introduce you. Silverbolt's watching them right now."

"... Silverbolt. The Autobot? What, he defected?" Starscream asked, genuinely puzzled.

At the top of the ramp, the doors cycled open, revealing a view of Fortress Maximus's towers. Starscream abruptly went silent.

"You asked how I managed to get fuel for the sparklings."

"That's Fort Max." Starscream walked to the edge of the roof. "He could _smelt _us from here. Where ... why ..."

"Given the fact that the Nebulans would like to have our afts melted down to slag, I am rather glad that Max decided to plant his skidplates close enough to our base to include us in his force shield during a fight." Fang stood beside Starscream.

"Nebulans."

"You know, the people whose homeworld you destroyed?" Fang snorted. "They survived, they built their own Allspark, and they're back with a serious grudge. It does occur to me that I could send you to them with a bow around your neck as a peace offering."

He had not forgotten Starscream's role in the fall of Nebulos, and would _never _forget it. He didn't think it could ever be forgiven or excused, and there was no statute of limitation on genocide. Starscream had helped Megatron attempt a similar crime on Earth, so Fang also knew he might do it again.

Fang, by contrast, had also played a very different role in that battle -- he had very quietly, and with only Deathwheel's and Captain Bloodshine's awareness, sabotaged the Nemesis's engines. They had taken knowledge of that bit of treachery to their graves, and Fang was never planning on saying a word to anyone. He wasn't sure how his own side would view it. That action had delayed the Nemesis's arrival on Earth by over a month, and had left to Megatron to go up against Optimus in Egypt with only a handful of his most loyal mechs. This had led to higher losses among the 'cons, and put Fang in a position to eventually eliminate Megatron. He'd planned _most _of that, though it had gone better than he had anticipated.

Had the Nemesis arrived, Fang suspected the Autobots would still have won, though at far greater expense in terms of their own sparks and human allies lost. Fang's own skidplates would have been at high risk of termination, though he would have defected -- if they'd accepted him back -- before allowing himself to be killed. He put a pretty high priority on his own survival. It was, after all, difficult to change the universe if one was dead.

Starscream growled, "You allied with the _Autobots_. Are you _insane_?"

"Given that I accepted the Primes' offer to revive you, yes, most likely I'm completely delusional." Fang's response was delivered with a snort of disgust. "Starscream, the war's over. It might not be official, but we don't have anything left to fight over, and a many reasons -- five hundred thousand of them -- to work together."

He turned, and led the way across the roof to the other side, where they could see the SOA in the distance. Even this early in the morning, the building was a hive of activity. Humans and mechs from both factions were loading sparklings onto trailers for transport to secure facilities around the country. The Ark had moved during the night from next to Fortress Maximus to the far side of the SOA, where underground storage tanks had just been completed. He could hear the low thrum of pumps offloading the ship's cargo of energon.

"... That's a really big ship." Starscream stared, going very still and very intent.

"That's the Ark." Fang smiled. "The Ship's Spark decided he wanted to be an Autobot when they found him. The ship was in temporal stasis for over four million years. There hasn't been a ship like that in the air since shortly after the war began. I'd never seen one like that in my life."

"... With that ship, our ships, and a few other Autobot ships, yes, there'd be cargo capacity to move enough energon from Nieryl Six to keep half the sparklings, and our soldiers, fueled." Starscream straightened up, looking a bit dumbfounded. "You made a treaty with the Autobots to save the sparklings?"

"Yep."

"How did you _get _them here?"

"Act of Primus, and your trinemates." Fang chewed on a nail for a second. "Skywarp can fill you in. It's as much his story as it is mine. 'Warp and TC are heroes, Starscream."

"I thought they'd all be dead." Starscream glanced down at Fang, and at Prism, who had emerged to sit on his shoulder. "Think what you want of me. I won't hurt a child."

"A few billion Nebulan children would disagree." Fang's retort came hot and angry. "A few billion children on _this _world would disagree, if they knew the full degree of your complicity in Megatron's plots."

"Squishies." Starscream's response was dismissive.

"_Children_." Fang pulled himself up to his full height of ten feet and scowled up at Starscream. "You have done great, great evil, Starscream."

"Feh." Starscream scoffed. "You think I went to the Well after I died?"

"... oh." He tilted his head to one side. "... You rememember?"

"Where I was? Yes." Starscream blew out a short, sharp, angry breath. "When you go to the Well, your loved ones -- friends, family, lovers -- are supposed to meet you. You'd think with the number of mechs who've died, someone would have wanted to see me."

"... nobody met you?" He was stunned. That had to have sucked.

"I was completely and totally alone. There was nobody who met me. Nobody who wanted me. There was only echoing, complete silence and utter desolation." Starscream quirked up one optic ridge. "I begged for someone to come, and no one did. I screamed and I raged and there was no answer. And then, finally, I asked to be given a second chance. I did not live my life as I intended, Fang. I joined the Decepticons because it was a cause I could believe in. Look how _that _turned out. I begged for another chance ... and here I am."

"Huh."

"I'm still trying to figure out why I should follow _you_." Starscream scowled down at him, looming too close. Fang realized his mistake in a nanoclick. He'd relaxed, and let Starscream get within striking distance. He froze, knowing Starscream was seriously considering attacking him. He could see it in Screamer's eyes.

Screamer would not be able to lead the army. They would turn on him as a traitor, not see him as a savior. There was more staging a coup than just killing the army's leader and declaring yourself commander in chief. But did he realize that? Fang had thought he would, but perhaps he hoped to take the Matrix ... he doubted the Matrix would accept him, but if it did, if he was a Prime, some _would _follow him. It would only be some, and the fighting would tear apart the army and destroy their people.

Prism, to his horror, was sitting on Fang's shoulder rather than safely under his armor. If Starscream struck now she'd be in the way! He wondered if he could chuck her out of the way fast enough. Maybe over the edge of the roof ... it was a long way to the ground, but she'd land in sand, and she probably wouldn't suffer anything worse than bent struts and a system reset.

_I was certain he had more sense than this. I wanted him to know she's mine, and that I am unafraid of him, I thought that would protect her more than hiding her away ..._

Then, to his utter terror, she moved, a sudden, swift motion. To his shock and dismay, his sparkling took advantage of Starscream's proximity to leap from his shoulder to Starscream's hand. She caught a ridge of armor, then ran up Starscream's arm to his shoulder. "Hi!" she chirped. Starscream was so suprised he didn't do more than twitch a bit.

Fang froze in absolute horror. Starscream could kill her. More likely, Starscream could attack him without harming her. He couldn't hit back for fear of her being in the line of fire. _I swear, I'm getting her a leash ..._

"... hello." Starscream answered her happy greeting after a long moment.

"I'm going to draw a picture of you." Prism patted one of the spiky bits of armor that protected his neck. "I like you. Fang doesn't, but I do."

"I've done a lot of bad things, kid. I've hurt a lot of people."

"I hurt someone. I bit Sarah Lennox. 'Cuz she can't do her own housework, I have to do it for her until she's fixed and all better," Prism said, matter of factly. "Wheelie's helping me because I'm little, though, because Wheelie loves me. Doing chores _sucks_ and it takes _hours _ever day, but I got to do it, because I was bad, and it's my fault."

Starscream shuttered his optics briefly. "... I don't think there's enough chores in the universe to balance out the bad things I've done, sparkling."

She flicked him in the auditory sensor. He ducked his head. Fang nearly glitched, expecting Starscream to swat her. Prism lectured, "Are you listening to me or not? If you did something bad, making up for it isn't optional. Even if it's a big job, you got to do it. I'm just a little sparkling and I got this whole _house _to clean, and ..."

"She's been hanging out with Wheelie," Fang said, trying to look calm. Had it been under any other circumstances, to any other mech, he would have laughed. He could see at least three different influences in her lecturing words. "And Ratchet. And _Optimus_, so help me, and ..."

Starscream hissed. Fang stopped, realizing he was babbling. All the power was definitely in Starscream's hands right now.

Prism poked the seeker in the sensor again. "Scary noise! Do it again!"

_Oh, Primus, Prism, I'm sorry if he hurts you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry ... _He had been careless, again. Starscream wouldn't hurt Prism, he thought desperately. It was in his best interests not to, and Starscream was _always _motivated by his own best interests, and ...

"How old is she?" Starscream asked, quietly.

"A few weeks." He held very, very still, as if a lack of motion could keep Starscream from tipping over into violence.

"Your little one thinks I should do _chores _to atone." Starscream caught her between two fingers and lowered his hand to Fang. Fang grabbed Prism so swiftly she squeaked in protest. "So. In order to do those chores, I require an appropriately equipped lab, and _not _the cast-offs that Megatron allowed me, assistants that have _some _intelligence, and the plans from your Matrix for a new Allspark. Also, I will require better quarters than the ones you provided me last night."

Fang, with Prism safely back in his arms, felt more confident. "Fine. I can provide the lab, the plans, and _you _can find your own damn assistants if there's anyone left in this army with the brains to be more of a help than a hindrance. I will also insist on Autobot oversight." He didn't trust Starscream not to try to pull something, and his own knowledge of the sort of advanced physics they'd be playing with was very limited. Anyway, he was too busy to babysit an amoral jet with delusions of grandeur.

"Autobots? Unacceptable. Absolutely not."

"Take it or leave it." Fang meant that ultimatum.

"I want Skyfire, too."

"That's up to Skyfire."

"When can I have my lab?"

"You can use mine, for now. You'll recognize some of the lab equipment, which you may not have back. I inherited it when you died, by right of being the survivor."

Starscream snorted. "It was all crap anyway, you can keep it. Used, abused, and ancient. I'm going to need new facilities. Get the humans to build them if you must. I'll provide plans. They're clever primitives. I believe they can follow plans adequately."

Fang rubbed his forehead. Suddenly, he understood why Megatron was so prone to beating the slag out of Starscream. Unfortunately, physical threats made Starscream switch from nearly unbearable levels of arrogance to sniveling, whining, and begging. He was reasonably sure that the latter was more annoying than the arrogance. Why couldn't the mech just talk to him like a normal person? It was as if he was _trying _to provoke a reaction from Fang, and Fang was just too worn out for drama.

"Just ... give me a list of what you'll need. I'll see what I can do."

The seeker sneered, "What, not even an argument?"

"I killed you, Starscream. I believe that represents the pinnacle to which my loathing of you can reach. At the moment, I'm just too _busy _to fight with you." He turned to head downstairs.

Starscream trotted after him. "Aren't you at least going to give me orders? Restrictions? Some sort of punishment?"

"Orders? Don't do anything stupid. Go help Skyfire get settled in. Restrictions? No flight, no fighting, don't provoke the Autobots or the squishies, don't make weapons, don't leave the base. I'll have 'Regia come up with a more comprehensive list. Punishment?" He reached the door. It slid open, admitting him into the cool of the base. "If you want to be punished, you're out of luck. That was Megatron's kink, not mine."

Starscream stopped short. He abruptly remembered that Megatron had repeatedly violated Starscream's very mind, and that perhaps his crack about 'wanting to be punished' by Megatron was ill advised. He turned to Starscream and said, somewhat stiffly, the apology feeling foul and bitter as it left his vocalizer, "I am sorry, Starscream. That comment about Megatron was rude."

The seeker stared at him, anger at the crack transmuting visibly to open disbelief.

"What? I can admit when I'm wrong. I shouldn't have said that."

Prism advised Starscream, "Fang says when you're mean you have to say you're sorry. Fang, what's a kink?"

He winced. Most adult topics went right over her head, but he really needed to stop assuming she wasn't listening. He told her firmly, "Something you're way, way, too young to know about."

Starscream snickered and then said, "He means that our former Great and Glorious leader enjoyed being cruel to the point where it affected his judgment, and I was his favorite target. Fang's less fun, though I suspect that Fang-baiting might be just as entertaining in its own way."

Prism shook her head with vehement disapproval. "You don't want to make my mentor mad. Truuuuust me. It's not worth it."

"Wise child," Fang patted her.

Starscream smirked. "If it's worth it or not depends on one's own kinks."

_Primus. If he's trying to flirt with me, _Fang thought, with savage disgust, _I'm just going to kill him now and save us all the grief._

*

* * *

_  
_Skywarp came awake to the awareness that he was being held close to someone's chest. He assumed it was TC, for a moment, and then his memory core dumped the events of the day before to his RAM and he realized with sleepy pleasure that the arms around him were far bigger and stronger than Thundercracker's.

"Skyfire?"

"How do you feel?" The bigger mech's voice, always so refined compared to Starscream's nasal screeching or Thundercracker's snark, rumbled close to his audio receptor. "It would not be unexpected for you to experience some significant errors."

He checked his logs. He had a few glitches, but nothing significant. All of them were related to drivers for his sensors and various motor circuits that had been rewritten by TC to compensate for his drastically slowed processing speed. He'd had a number of core crashes due to an excess of data before they'd dialed everything back. His corrected code was causing some conflicts.

"No critical problems." Absently, he fixed the drivers. It was an easy, simple correction, just reallocating resources to the right systems. His optical circuits required some finicky routing, however, to compensate for a surge to their motherboard eons ago that had caused minor damage. It wasn't severe enough to warrant a replacement, but his drivers were non-standard.

It took him a few nanoclicks to correct all the issues. He then transmitted his changes to Skyfire for his review, and only then did he realize how quickly, easily, and efficiently had he managed to do his repairs.

Before, he _had _been able to make changes to his drivers and non-essential subroutines. It had not been easy, and he had been very error prone, but he had done it a few times after damage required an emergency update to compensate. It had always taken forever. Now he had the free RAM to do such ordinary coding without difficult.

"Looks good, 'Warp." Skyfire shifted underneath him. The bigger mech transmitted the math for a very large fractal, and instructed, "Calculate that, and do the math for a simulated jump into orbit with .02 meters of allowable error, while simultaneoulsy running a level three flight simulation through the canyons outside of Vos -- you know the run we used to do for fun before the war."

He very nearly balked. Trying to do that many processor-intensive calculations would have crashed his mind for eons. The fractal would have been right out, period. However, he knew they had to stress test his code or risk fritzing out at a bad time ... like _during _a quantum teleport.

To his pleasure, he could do the required math, with RAM to spare. He sent a report to Skyfire, who said with pleasure, "Fairly close to your old operational abilities. You've lost some circuits in your processor core over the eons to arc-out -- give the life you've led I'm surprised you don't have more physical damage -- but it's close. Please generate a render of that fractal."

He cast a holo-image of the three-dimensional fractal, with resolution down to a molecular level, into the air, then manipulated it a bit, spinning it around and enlarging areas. Now he was truly stress testing his code and cores, and the flight simulation test he was running in the background began to lag a bit, but there wasn't a painful bottleneck throttling his code down to a crawl. He could do it. Easily. The relief was immense, almost incalculable, and he shuttered his optics and leaned into Skyfire's arms. "I can't wait to see TC again. It's been so long since I've talked to him, equal to equal ..."

"Don't lose the fractal holo-image," Skyfire murmured.

'Warp suddenly found himself flying through the air. Tactical routines activated. He flung a foot out to break his impact with the wall, fired a thruster, righted himself, and landed on both feet and one hand on the floor. "Fragger!"

"You kept the holo-image up. Good work."

The athletics he would have always had been able to manage. His motor routines had never been affected. The _emotional _response to being chucked, however, would have involuntarily disrupted any higher level processes he was running. His irritation and anger at being thrown was replaced with wonder as he realized he had not had to abort any of his higher functions to process the emotional input from his spark.

The weird thing was that he didn't _feel _different. He still felt like himself, only freer. The years after Soundwave had hacked his code had been marked by a traumatic loss of self-identity, as he'd struggled to accept his limitations. He'd come to be at peace with who he was, who he had _become_, long ago, but now ...

Abruptly, it hit him that he'd _killed_. He'd fought blindly, and with enthusiastic glee, in battles against mechs who had once been his friends. _Perceptor hugged me, _he remembered. Some, apparently, were still his friends, despite everything. He'd never really thought about who they had once been. He'd simply seen them as the enemy, and hadn't worried about it beyond that. The Autobots killed Decepticons, so he killed Autobots, and it all made perfect logical sense. Kill or be killed. Simple.

Except now he saw it _wasn't _simple.

Rapidly, he reviewed the positions of both armies. He'd joined the Decepticon cause because he believed in Megatron's ideas. In many ways, he _still _believed that Megatron had been right. _I started out fighting for the right side, or at least I thought I did, but it went so very wrong ... how could good intentions go so bad?  
_  
Skywarp finally looked up. Skyfire smiled at him. "How's it feel?"

_I don't want to think about this. It hurts._

He'd done so many bad things, and never thought twice about them.

He wondered if the Autobots felt the same way. The ones he'd talked to seemed to regret the war too. However, he knew plenty of Decepticons who didn't. It was confusing, because he'd believed he was fighting for the right side in the beginning, but now it had all turned sour.

_Primus. Megatron sent us into combat to destroy this world, and I never even questioned it._

Skyfire's smile slipped as he watched Skywarp's expression. "'Warp?"

"It worked," Skywarp said, finally. He just wasn't entirely happy about the success.


	102. Chapter 102

Chapter 102

Author's notes: This chapter strongly deserves an adult content warning.

* * *

Sam was stroking Mikaela's cheek, and Mikaela came awake with a startled gasp, swatting at hiss hand in surprise. She sat up, only to discover Sam was still asleep himself. "... shhh ..." Sam said, without opening his eyes. "Shh, Mojo ..." he fumbled around, found her shoulder, and started petting it.

Bee giggled. He'd been watching them for a few minutes. In a low tone of voice he advised her, "I was wondering which of you would wake first. He's petting Mojo in his sleep."

Bee reached across her and poked Sam with a long finger, tickling him. Sam squirmed, trying to push Bee's hand away in his sleep, then finally jerked awake. Never exactly a morning person, Sam stared at Bee and Mikaela in confusion for a moment before saying, "Where'd Mojo go?"

"You were petting Mikaela."

"... oh." He sat up and rubbed his face. "Mojo's next door. Right. Umm. Sorry?"

"Don't worry, I just have more blackmail material on you," Mikaela said, then laughed at the confused look on his face.

"Like you _need _any more." Sam chuckled.

Bee lay back down on the mattress, idly swirling one finger in a circle on Mikaela's ribs, just under one breast. "Mikaela, when does your shift start?" He could have checked the schedule, but he was feeling lazy. Also, when the other 'bots detected a comm transmission from him, even just to the base's AI, they'd know he was awake. He wasn't feeling social, and there were pretty good odds that would end up leading to work.

"Gnh. I'm working noon to eight -- I swapped with Wheelie so he could babysit Paladin during the big meeting this evening. I've got a meeting with Smokescreen before that, though -- at ten. He wants to coach me on working with the Nebulans."

"I've got today off." Sam was watching Bee's hand with keen interest. "Bee, you don't have to be anywhere until that meeting, right?"

His other half was currently sitting outside of city hall, having concluded an unproductive meeting with the mayor of Las Vegas. Certain business interests in Las Vegas were angling to get compensation from the Autobots for the aftermath of the battle with Nebulans. Tourism was demonstrably off, though Bee wasn't sure if this was due to the economy or due to people being frightened away. In either case, he didn't think that the Autobots should be held financially responsible anything in Las Vegas. The 'bots had stopped an attack that would have led to Earth being conquered by genocidal aliens, after all. That would have been a lot worse for business.

The meeting had not gone well.

He decided to move to the parking garage, but not return just yet. He had a sneaking feeling, or perhaps an optimistic hope, that he might be ... distracted ... on the road, if he did. With that in mind, now that both of his partners were awake, he slid his hand higher and ran it gently over the mound of Mikaela's breast, and kissed the back of her neck.

Bee was rapidly growing fond of the human style of intimacy. It wasn't the physical sensations so much as the closeness with his partners that followed. He was forming bonds with them, strengthening emotional ties, the same way Cybertronian partners would with repeated sessions of interfacing.

"I love both of you," he murmured, even as Mikaela groaned in appreciation of his touch.

However, she went rigid a second later. When he peered over her shoulder he saw that Sam had cupped the side of her face in the palm of his hand. She stopped breathing for a second, then giggled nervously. "Both of you."

"Both of us." Bee toyed with a nipple, very gently. "Does that bother you?"

"Maybe," she said. Her response was half coy, but she was telling the truth. She was uneasy.

"We can stop if you want." It was a genuine offer. Among Cybertronians, there would have been no hesitation to have a threesome, with the only concern being 'daisy chain' or 'router'. For those who chose to be in trines or larger, group intimacy was almost a requirement. However, he knew it was considered ... kinky ... at _best _for humans to do this. He didn't want her to feel like she was violating some sort of social law he didn't fully understand. Or rather, he understood the rules. He just didn't get the _reason _for them.

Sam leaned in and kissed her before she could answer. Then he murmured, "Mikaela, you're so beautiful in his ams. Let us. Please?"

Bee nearly told Sam to back off, to not pressure her, and to let her decide for herself. However, he was worried that sort of a rebuke, in this situation, could set up a bad precedent for their relationship. He didn't want to _chastise _Sam, in front of Mikaela.

She replied hesitantly, "You don't mind ... seeing us? Together?"

"Hell no." He kissed her lightly on the lips. "You two are the most beautiful people in my world. Seeing you two together is all sorts of hot."

"Flatterer." But Bee could hear the smile in her voice.

Sam moved closer to her, sliding his own hand over her body. Bee knew Sam was nervous. He could smell it, could hear Sam's heart racing. However, Sam wanted this. Primus knew _Bee _wanted this. The three of them. Together. One bed. Sharing intimacy together, as partners should. To Bee, it felt right to do this, to bring physical pleasure and emotional connection with each other, but he was worried about how they were feeling.

Mikaela said softly, "You're not jealous of Bee?"

"Hell no." Sam said, smiling. "I w-w-want b-both of you to, um."

Oh, boy, he _was _nervous. Bee hadn't heard that much stuttering from Sam since his Junior prom. Mikaela wasn't much better. She was stiff, heart pounding and breath coming fast.

"We can wait until you two are more comfortable," Bee suggested, though he expected them to ignore it. He knew they wanted this. He just had to give them an out, in case he'd misjudged their intentions.

Mikaela asked quietly, "Do you want me too, Sam?"

"Yes!" Sam seemed surprised she even needed to ask.

"Bee and I made love last night." She sounded hesitant as she said that. "You're okay with it?"

"Sure. Wish I was here, but yeah, I'm okay with it." He bit his lip for a second, then sat up. "Um, practical question, um, how do we _do _it with three of us? Uh, take turns?" Then Sam giggled nervously. Bee recognized clear signs that Sam had just stepped outside his comfort zone. He was also learning that Sam was willing to push and expand that comfort zone, it just took him time and practice to get comfortable.

Mikaela's reaction was a nervous titter. "Well, I'm not doing both of you at the exact same time, so I guess we kinda need to take turns. Because, owe, otherwise that lends a whole new meaning to getting stuffed."

Sam turned pink and yanked the covers over his head. "Oh, god. Forget I asked."

Bee laughed, tightening his grip on Mikaela. Mikaela's sides were shaking and she'd stuffed a knuckle in her mouth to stop her own giggles. Whatever miserable mood that had set her tears off last night had dissipated with a solid ten hours of sleep. It was probably a good time to push things to the next level.

_We are partners. They have indicated they want this. Still ..._ "Are both of you okay with this -- with all three of us, here, now?" He did _not _want to push either of his partners into actions they weren't ready for. He was compelled to give them every chance to back out.

"Yeah." Sam's eyes were bright as he peered out from under the edge of his blanket. He'd brought a fuzzy comforter to bed with him, since even a king sized blanket wasn't enough to cover three people adequately -- and the person in the middle tended to get a bit too toasty.

Mikaela giggled. "So which of you boys is gonna go first?"

* * *

Sam had quite possibly never been so aroused in his life.

He was laying on his back on a pile of pillows, propped in a half sitting position, with Mikaela's back pressed to his chest. His dick was rubbing against the small of her back, and he slid his fingers between Bee's chest and her body to feel the full, soft weight of her breasts. In reaction she arched her back, pushing her stomach up against Bee, and her head against Sam's shoulder.

Bee's weight pressed her deliciously down against them both, and Bee was kissing her. He had a hand resting on either side of Sam, and when Sam peered over Mikaela's shoulder he could see Bee's bare buttocks and his long legs as he lay across the mattress. Mikaela was sandwiched between them, and by the noises she was making, she was loving it.

_God_, they were beautiful. He couldn't believe this was his life. Suddenly, Sam felt like the most fortunate person in the world.

Bee echoed his thoughts, releasing the kiss and murmuring, "I am so very happy. I love you two so much. I never thought I would be able to have this sort of relationship with both of you ..."

Mikaela giggled, and wiggled her backside against Sam's groin. "You're so hard, Sam."

"He's not the only one." Bee slid a several inches down Mikaela's body. His long hair whispered over Sam's fingers and then he pushed Sam's hand aside and closed his mouth around one of her breasts. Sam stroked his head, even as Mikaela made a small, high cry. In reaction to Sam's touch, Bee lifted one of his hands up and stroked Sam's cheek, without moving his attention away from her nipple. Sam was hard, all right. If Mikaela didn't stop squirming he was going to come messily between them.

"C'mon, Bee, you're torturing me here ..." Mikaela was begging. She'd never begged for Sam. He wondered why that was. "Bee, pleeeaaaaaase."

Over Mikaela's shoulder Sam could see Bee smile. Bee's tone was teasing when he asked her to confirm, "Are you sure you're ready?"

"Yesssssss!" Mikaela's demanding affirmation was accompanied by a shiver that ran through her body. She squirmed, creating friction against Sam's body.

Sam felt Bee shift his weight, crawling back up. Over the top of her head, Bee's blue eyes met Sam's gaze. Bee smiled, then turned his attention back down to Mikaela, who was breathing rapidly and clutching at his shoulders.

When he entered her, Sam felt her gasp and flex her hips upward. Sam wrapped his arms around both of them. Bee was breathing hard, and his back arched as he thrust firmly. His eyes were closed now. Each time he pushed into her, he made Mikaela slide against Sam, and she cried out in time with the motion. Sam realized he was whimpering shamelessly along with them.

Mikaela shrieked, clawed at Bee's back, thrashed. Seconds later, Bee went rigid, quivering, then, with a happy sigh, he gave voice to the opinion, "Oh, Primus, this should be illegal."

"P-p-probably is in a f-few states ..." Mikaela shot back, panting. "Thank God we're in Nevada!"

Bee rolled off her, sprawling on his back. Mikaela lay limply in Sam's arms, sweat-damp head resting against his shoulder. Sounding a bit sleepy and very impressed, she said, "God, Bee, you're good. Best lover I've _ever _had."

_What about me? _Sam thought, then told himself he was being silly. His few times going all the way with her had been marked by his fumbling inexperience. Bee had less experience than he did, but obviously more confidence, and he had the advantage of being able to do far more rapid research on the internet. He probably knew more about the mechanics of sex than _ten _humans. _But it's not just mechanics, _Sam realized. What made it good, for all of them, was the connection between them. The love.

_I'll have to show her I can make it as good for her as Bee. Maybe Bee can give me some suggestions. _

* * *

Mikaela could have purred.

She knew she was his first. She honestly wasn't even sure if Sam and Bee had done it yet, though she suspected they hadn't, since Sam was so nervous about the whole idea. So he'd just a handful of experiences, had only lived in a humanoid body for a few weeks, and yet ... he was so good.

_Well, it's not exactly rocket science. Insert tab A into slot B. Repeat until done._

Except what made it good with him was more than that. It was the way he looked at her, the way he told her that she made him happy, the way he _cherished _her. Suddenly, she was struck with guilt for the way she'd spurned him a few nights before. He'd met her with blankets, intending to pad the hard angles of his mechanoid form and hold her, embrace her, as best he could ... because he loved her, and he wanted to express it to her.

An apology was on the tip of her tongue when she heard Bee say something, very low, to Sam. Sam responded with a giggle.

_Sam_.

Sam made her nervous. _He loves me, _she thought, and knew it was true, but she wondered, _does he love the real me, or the fantasy me? _Sam idolized her. She feared he didn't really see her flaws. Somehow, she knew Bee saw her as she really was and loved her anyway, accepting the flaws as part of the package. Even when she behaved horribly, he not only forgave her, he went out of his way to make _her _feel better.

She lifted her head up from the mattress to look at the two of them. Sam was still sprawled on the pillows. A jolt of lingering pleasure ran through her when she realized Sam was still hard. The memory of his erection, pressed against the small of her back while Bee thrust into her, was startlingly hot. She could tell she would be pleasantly sore later, too, just enough to remind her of the fun they'd had. Bee had been a little more aggressive this time. She'd known she was being fucked, deeply and completely, with enough power to rock her on the mattress and rub her back against Sam's crotch.

Bee's eyes were on Sam's dick too. He observed, with a smile, "I think Sam's ready for his turn."

She envisioned their roles reversed, Sam doing her. She was pleasantly sore now. Another round might leave her in a state that was a less comfortable. At least, she told her that was her only reason for feeling a bit defensive about it. Firmly, she told herself this was about having a good time with the guys she loved. There wasn't any reason for her to feel guilty

Sam climbed over Bee and padded, erection still standing proud, to his suitcase. He zipped it open and she assumed he was retrieving a condom. However, when he returned he also had a bottle of lube in one hand, which she eyed cautiously. She thought, with a little alarm, _He better not be thinking of trying the back door ... I'm sore enough as it is. _In her experience, every guy she'd ever dated had wanted to try that at least once, and as far as she was concerned, it was rather over-hyped.

Something had changed Sam's confidence, however. She watched with interest -- and appreciation -- as he rolled the condom on and stroked himself while they both watched. He grinned as he did it, and she was taken aback by his sudden show of confidence. In the last two years he'd grown from a gawky teen to a rather attractive man who still _acted _like he was awkward sometimes. However, he didn't seem at all flustered now. He was calmly smiling, but not at her. To her surprise, she realized he was looking at Bee.

Bee had shifted his position to the middle of the bed. He reached out and caught her hand as Sam crawled back onto the bed. She didn't understand what they had somehow silently communicated to one another until Sam slipped between Bee's raised knees and gently and tenderly kissed him.

_Bee _had been anticipating this. Sam hadn't even looked in her direction once. Bee squeezed her fingers, as if to let her know he was thinking of her, then focused totally on Sam. Sam was a good kisser, tender and sweet, and it was both very hot and very weird to watch him make out with someone else. And then her mind snapped the thought that _Bee was making out with Sam _into focus, and the mental vertigo left her nearly physically dizzy.

She'd seen them kiss before, but never like this. What started out as a gentle embrace turned more intimate. The two touched each other, hands wandering over arms and backs. Sam stroked Bee's hair for a minute, drawing the fingers of one hand through it. Bee's thumbs swirled little circles on Sam's back and he made soft, hungry noises deep in his throat. Then Sam pulled back, and without even looking in her direction, shifted his weight into position and then reached down and guided himself into the right place. "You ready?" he asked, softly.

"Oh, Primus ..." Bee groaned, spreading his legs further.

Slowly, gently, with great control, Sam entered him. Once he was fully seated he grew still for a moment, letting Bee adjust. He reached out and brushed a stray blond curl away from Bee's cheek, even as Bee opened his eyes and met Sam's gaze. Bee said nothing, but he smiled a small smile.

"You're so beautiful," Sam murmured. He began to move, though he never lost eye contact with Bumblebee. "You're _gorgeous_." Another slow stroke. "I am going to spend the rest of my life with you." Bee seemed to be in perfect sync with him, rising to meet each thrust, as Sam said, "I love you so much."

She felt like she was witnessing something very private. Each time they came together, Sam said beautiful things. He'd never done anything like this with her. Had he tried, she wouldn't have believed him, but it was so clear that Sam meant every word to Bee. Bee's expression was rapt with a reaction that was far more than physical . Sam continued, "I ... want to spend the rest of my life ... with you. You make me ... so happy. Happy forever. I ... feel complete. I will ... come to love you ... for ... the ... rest ... of ... my ... life.

Sam's breath was coming sharply now. She wasn't sure he was entirely aware of what he was saying. They were gazing into each other's eyes, and the connection between them was almost physically visible.

Bee murmured, "I love you, Sam ..." and then came hard, with a cry, arching up off the mattress, hands tightening on the sheets. Sam climaxed a second later without ever looking away from Bumblebee. He babbled something incoherent, and slumped down onto Bee's chest. Bee stroked his hair but his gaze was a thousand miles away. He finally said, "I didn't know it was possible to do that."

"Do what?" Sam said, wrapping his arms around Bee's thin form and pulling him tightly into his arm.

Bee tucked his head under Sam's chin, and snuggled into Sam's arms. "Make me come ... as a mech, with my spark, not just an organic climax. I didn't know you could do that. Your words felt like interfacing, like you were sending emotions, love and joy, to me. It's because I believe you so truly, I think."

"It is true," Sam murmured, stroking Bee's hair. "We'll always be here for each other. I cannot imagine not loving you."

Mikaela tucked her knees to her chest. How did she compete with _that_?

Of Bee she thought, _I don't love him like Sam does. I can't._

Of Sam, _He'll never love me like that, and now that his love's focused on Bee, he'll start seeing my flaws._

Sam sounded like he was drifting back off to sleep. She couldn't make out his words. Bee's replies were low, pitched for Sam's ears only. He was ignoring her, even though she was only a few feet away.

She had never felt so alone in her life.


	103. Chapter 103

Chapter 102

* * *

Author's notes: There has been minor but aggravating drama in my life, and another round of lung crud (which is pretty much the story of my life), and kittens, and getting a new business started. Therefore, I'm way behind on everything fanfiction related. Sorry for the lack of updates. Anyone want a kitten?

**I also owe a major apology to Black Dragon, who did a fantastic fan art of Fangface. It's here:**

**blackdragon21 dot deviantart dot com / art / Lord-Fangface-Finished-162609992**

**I missed Black Dragon's e-mail telling me the art was done, and didn't say acknowledge it when I should have. I'm so sorry. It's an awesome drawing and I'm really tickled about it. Thank you thank you thank you! **

* * *

"Fangface, sit, please." Optimus gestured at the chair in front of his desk as Fang entered.

Fang scrambled up into it, after giving Optimus a wary look. The chair was designed for average sized mechs. He hated the way his legs dangled over the edge, but Optimus was trying to be casual. He would have preferred to remain standing, but good manners probably dictated he accept the offered chair.

"How are you doing?" Optimus asked, and it was a genuinely concerned question. Fang still found such social niceties jarring, even when they were honestly given. He was far more used to Decepticon snark. He _preferred _Decepticon snark. He engaged in it regularly. Autobot manners made him suspicious, simply because he wondered what the mechs using them were really thinking.

"I'm functional. Starscream hasn't killed me yet." He nibbled on a claw. Meeting with Optimus always made him nervous. It wasn't so much that he was _afraid _of Optimus as it was that Optimus made him feel inadequate and small simply by the power of his existence.

Optimus noded gravely. "You believe you have him under control?"

"Tcha! Starscream's never under control. I have him aimed in the right direction." Fang tried not to sound too defensive when he added, "I'll offline him myself if he doesn't behave."

"Were I in your tracks, I believe I would do the same, with very little tolerance for misbehavior from him."

"You're not going to lecture me, or tell me I was stupid, or ..." he blinked up at the Autobot leader.

Optimus rubbed the jointed metal under one optic, making the tiny metal plates rattle against each other. "No. I am merely going to suggest some cooperative strategies for mitigation of conflict between Starscream and my mechs. I try not to lecture you, Fang. You're not one of my mechs and it isn't my place. You're my peer among the Decepticons. If you want advice, as you know, I am always happy to help, but I will not tell you how to run your army unless you seem to be having a problem that impacts us or you ask for my opinion."

"... Tcha! Well then. Let's try to avoid Starscream and your troops having a deadly misunderstanding. I will totally and completely work with you on that." He tried to tell himself that it was _not _a rejection when Optimus said he wasn't one of his soldiers. That was completely messed up, and wrong, and if any of the Decepticons even had an inkling that Fang sometimes wished he _could _call Optimus 'boss' then they would probably disown him as their Decepticon Prime on the spot.

_I really do have a thing for the tall and powerful ones, _he thought, at himself, with acid irritation. It was more than that, though. Optimus's calm, wisdom, and unshakeable moral foundation spoke to something deep within Fang's spark. Optimus was everything he longed to be and knew was impossible for him to accomplish. If he lived to be ten million, he'd still never have that level of patience, wisdom, or anything resembling Optimus's dignity.

"Yes, that is my general thoughts."

"If he leaves the DOA it's with me or 'Regia as an escort." Sourly, Fang added, "Probably me. He could beat 'Regia in a fight, and 'Regia hates him. I don't want to risk 'Regia provoking him. I loathe him too, I'm just better at keeping a lid on my anger."

"If you loathed him so much, why did you bring him back?" Optimus merely sounded curious.

Fang held both hands up, palms out. "This is my hatred of Starscream," he made a fist, "And these are my needs." He kept the other hand hand open, far from his fist. "They do not cancel each other out."

Optimus sighed. "I've certainly worked with my share of people who I'd never call a friend. Very well. If he steps out of line, however, I will offline him if you don't first."

"Feel free. I trust your judgement as far as 'out of line' goes." Fang managed a smile. "In all seriousness, being an annoying fragger is not, of course, 'out of line.' Unfortunately. I'm keeping him home at least partly because he _is _an aft and a half, and he's my responsibility, and I'm not going to inflict him on my allies."

"I appreciate your discretion. So does my security chief."

They shared a look of complete understanding. Fang felt some tension drain away. "I'm not even sure I did the right thing, honestly, Prime."

Optimus frowned. "If Ratchet wasn't part of the equation, would you be wondering about your decision to return him to life?"

_If Ratchet wasn't so furious at me for this, I would feel far more confident in my choice. _Fang shuttered his optics, realizing just how much he'd let his personal feelings, desires, and needs affect his actions and choices. He'd never thought of his natural desire to please others as being a flaw before, but perhaps in this context it was. He admitted, "We need him, Prime."

"Ratchet loves you." Optimus sounded tired. "He can also be a very difficult person to be around."

"I'm starting to appreciate that."

Optimus sighed. "Fang, I've always found his friendship worth it -- but I suspect he's a better friend than a lover in many ways. However, I've never seen him keep a partner for more than a few earth years at _most_. The last one lasted a few weeks and ended the relationship the first time Ratchet lost his temper. Ratchet was crushed, but I can't say that I blame his partner for it. I hoped, perhaps, that things would be different with you, because it's been a long time, and Ratchet is a Prime, but it appears I was wrong. I want to make sure you know that we -- and by we I mean the rest of the officers and command staff -- will not take it personally if you break it off with Ratchet. Our relationship with you will not change."

Fang blinked. He _had _been thinking of ending matters with Ratchet, but he hadn't gotten past the pain and confusion of the idea. The thought that the Autobots might upset enough on Ratchet's behalf for it damage relations with him, and his faction, hadn't even occurred to him. He chewed on a nail for a second. "If it comes to that, I'll need to make sure my officers know that the relationship, or lack thereof, is personal and _only _between Ratchet and I. I'm not worried about you guys -- you _live _with Ratchet, you know what he's like -- but I can see 'Regia or Skywarp getting hostile with him on general principals, just because I'm their commander and he'd be my ex."

Optimus's chuckle. "Indeed. We do know him. Fang, _do _you want to end it?"

"I don't know." Fangface shook his head slowly. "I'm ... I'm going to see him tonight. I'm staying over. I'll talk to him, make a decision after that."

"Very well. Please make Red Alert aware of your plans. He's under order to allow you twenty-four hour access to Fort Max, but we do need you to keep the security staff posted of your intentions when you're here for reasons that aren't obvious." Optimus sighed, then added with a smile. "It's not that I don't trust you, it's that Red Alert doesn't."

"Does Red trust anyone?" He thought the question was rhetorical.

"Myself." Optimus snorted. "Fort Max. I believe that is all."

He hadn't been expecting a literal answer, much less one delivered with so much humor, and he glanced up at the Autobot leader. The big mech was smiling. Optimus had layers, and Fang was starting to realize that the Optimus that the rank and file troops saw, that the Cybertronian population had known as their elected leader, was not necessarily the same mech to his friends. He'd never _imagined _that Optimus Prime had any sort of a sense of humor until the last few weeks.

He smiled back, but it was fleeting. "Prime, I don't know what I want with Ratch. I really don't."

"Do you want my advice?" Optimus asked, tone gentle.

"Primus, yes."

"Ratchet's temper is fueled by traits that are integral to his spark, Fang. However, he is also fiercely loyal, passionate about his beliefs, he has a profound strength of character and an iron clad personal moral code. Additionally, his intuition and empathy make him a brilliant medic and a very good friend." Optimus frowned in thought for a moment. "Fang, you can't change his core traits. You _can _insist that he modify how he demonstrates them. You've got a hot temper yourself, I've seen it ..."

Fang grinned at that. "Not without significant provocation."

"... but you're a bit more like me in that you generally keep a rein on it unless sorely provoked."

Fang was not sure that was a compliment. And Optimus didn't have a temper ... did he? Fang remembered a few videos of Optimus in combat. He answered his own silent question with a mental _duh_. Oh, yeah, he could channel some rather frightening levels of anger when the situation required it.

Optimus rubbed the metal around one optic again. "You can't stop him from getting angry, Fang, but you can insist he treat you with respect even when he is. I believe he is very much in love with you, and if he understands it distresses you, he will try to change his behavior."

He sighed. "You're saying give him a chance."

"I'm saying it might be worth it. I've known Ratchet for a very long time. This is the first time in tens of thousands of years that he has decided to take a chance on someone. He might have been partially at fault for the failure of his last relationships, but he _did _love them. He told me, just before he tried to make it work with his last partner, that he thought he had finally found someone who would be his partner for the rest of his life. He was so very excited, and it didn't last. He has never talked to me, or anyone, about what happened."

Fang chewed on his claw, realized he was doing so, then continued to nibble. Optimus had seen that tic of his so often that he decided it wasn't worth even trying to hide the fact that he felt a little nervous. When Optimus didn't say anything more, however, he finally admitted, "I had no idea, though I should have wondered why he was single. He's such a caring person. I should have asked why someone hadn't snapped him up."

Optimus nodded. "They've tried. You're not the first young soldier to fall for Ratchet. This is just the first time I've seen him willing to reciprocate, and I suspect that is partly because Ratchet saw you as having thick enough armor to put up with his temper, as well as both truly caring for you and seeing that he was _needed_. You've dealt with a lot worse as a Decepticon than he'll ever deal out."

"Oh, boy, that's wrong." Fang covered his face with one hand and shook his head. "I can take slag from other 'Cons all day, though I usually end it one way or another. I _won't _put up with it from a friend or a partner, because I do care what they think, and I do expect to be treated well. I ... have spent a lot of time, looking at the memories of other Primes' lives, and how they related to people. How Percy treated me when I was little? That's how we _should _treat each other. That's how the many of the friends of the other Primes, their lovers, their family, treated them. Respect, dignity, affection. It's what _I _want, and it's what I want to _give_. And I want friends, allies and advisors who I can trust. More to the point, I _need _that. I've been studying what worked for Primes in the past, and what didn't, and ... I know what I need."

It was completely true. He'd been devoting a percentage of his processor's spare ram to analyzing what worked for Primes in the past. He knew he had a tremendous amount to learn; when he looked at who the past Primes were, he was left astonished that a Matrix had accepted him. He was woefully unprepared for the responsibilities and demands of being a leader of his people ... and he knew it. He had so very much to live up to, so very much he needed to do, and he honestly didn't know if he would have what it takes.

Optimus's expression was very still, and very odd. Fang couldn't read him at all for a moment, and he wondered if he'd said something weird, or if he'd come to a wrong conclusion. He'd never see Optimus look so strange. Then the leader of the Autobots slowly shook his head. "I wondered, when I first realized that you have been accepted by a Matrix, if you a disaster as great as the Fallen might come of that. I see now why you are a Prime."

He laughed, amused that Optimus's thoughts had paralleled his own -- and that Optimus's conclusions were different. "I'm glad you see it, because I don't. I'm still wondering if there wasn't a mistake."

The leader of the Autobots simply smiled and said, "I don't believe it's a mistake. After all, we are sitting here talking as friends, not attempting to kill each other across fields of battle that destroyed entire worlds as collateral damage."

Friends. The word rang between them. Optimus had said it casually, and yet to Fang, the word was no minor declaration.

He nodded. "Friends. -- Thank you, Optimus. Tcha! I'm going to go maudlin here. I should go, I need to go beat on my troops and make sure that they behave for 'Regia this afternoon, so we're not interrupted."

* * *

Smokescreen was not a big mech, and seemed to be originally from the same model as Jazz, though Mikaela knew he massed quite a bit more than the Autobot SIC. She'd already been up to her shoulders in his internals a few times, for routine maintenance. He had some serious mods for speed and agility all out of proportion to his size, and he had a massively beefed up holo-emitter array. The latter required a very large power plant and plus extra banks of capacitors and power cells. He also had several additional weapons that she couldn't identify, and which she had been told were classified. All this meant he needed a reinforced chassis, and that made him bulkier.

She'd discovered she could learn a lot about a mech by his reaction to the human changing his filters and fluids. Some of them were chatty and curious about her. Some were suspicious, but willing to give her a chance. Some treated her like a drone. And some mechs were grossed out and disgusted by the idea of any organic creature accessing their sensitive bits.

Fortunately, Smokescreen had initially fallen somewhere along the range between "curious" and "suspicious." He'd definitely shown no signs of being disgusted by squishies. Subsequently, after they'd talked a bit, he'd throttled his suspicion back to a low simmer and was mostly curious and friendly. He greeted her with a smile now as she stepped through his office door. He was leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, a datapad in one hand. The sight of such a large being sitting that way should have been more alarming than it had become to her; she'd learned mech reflexes -- and mech furniture - were better than human. He wasn't going to fall. And the chair would continue to hold him.

Somewhat to her surprise, he wasn't alone. Jazz stepped out of a side room at her arrival, saying, "Hey, kiddo. You're a bit early. Ah saw ya headed to the cafeteria with Bee's short half and Sam earlier. Didn't expect you here until spot on the time."

She shrugged. She was fifteen minutes early. "I'm eager to get to work, what can I say."

"Mm." Jazz bent over and laced his spiky, dangerous-looking fingers together to make a safe cradle for her to sit on. "Wanna a boost up?"

She didn't know Jazz very well, but Bee had come right out and told her that he trusted him implicitly and she'd heard the other mechs talk about him with fondness. Therefore, without too much worry, she sat down. He gently and smoothly lifted her up onto the desk, then casually hitched himself up to sit next to her. He was nimble and graceful, and very, very controlled.

Smokescreen said, "Windy's going to be joining us too ..." just as the door slid open and the little flyer padded through.

Windy said cheerfully, "I believe the human expression is, 'speak of the devil'."

"You're supposed to salute your superior officers," Smokescreen replied.

Smokescreen sounded like he was teasing. Saluting wasn't part of their military culture Nonetheless, Windy snapped off a salute, and then crouched, and leaped up the seven or eight feet to the top of the desk. He wasn't wearing his wings and he was missing armor plates from his shoulder and arm, plus he had scratches across his face plate.

"Woah, flyboy, what happened to you?" Jazz poked him in the chest with a long finger. "Should you be out of the med bay?"

"I'm fine. It was all superficial damage." Windy sat down crosslegged on the desk. "The medics are just banging the dents out for me and reinforcing a couple of spots. Eps won again."

"_Eps_?" Mikaela said, incredulously.

"He's teaching me hand-to-hand human style." Windy grinned. "Optimus asked the N.E.S.T. team to work with me on learning how to fight like a human, since I'm about the same size and mass. There's talk of me being assigned to report directly to Lennox. I'm not very effective in combat with other mechs, but I could be pretty useful if I was working with a team of human soldiers."

"Gives the runt a chance to study humans up close, too, and give us some cultural suggestions for better relations with our allies." Jazz poked Windy again, making Windy slap ineffectually at his finger. "But he's got to survive combat training, first. He'll also need to integrate with a team. Ah think he can do it, but it won't be easy. The combat training, I mean. Those humans are _tough_. Windy can handle the cultural slag."

Windy rolled his optics. "I can handle the training. You're just picking on me because I'm short."

"Well, yah."

Some sort of comm'd communciation passed between the three; she could tell because they traded glances. Then Jazz said, "Anyway. Smokescreen's here because he's our best expert on really sly ways of getting info from enemies. Ah'm here because I'm Smokey's boss. Windy's here because he knows Nebulans better than most of us, having been in one's head for a few thousand years."

Windy smiled tightly. "I was brought online and raised on Nebulos and had Nebulan citizenship. I can't help much with their current culture, but I can help with the core biology and mental functioning that influences everything they do."

She must have had a puzzled look on her face. Windy's smiled relaxed a little. He added, "It's like one of the differences I see between humans and Nebulans right away is the way you relate to strangers. Humans are curious and open. You often react with an initial level of suspicion, but then warm up fairly quickly if there's no threat. It's one of the reasons we think we can settle here. Your people are cautious, but not paranoid."

"Nebulans are paranoid?" It would explain a lot about the Nebulan mechs. But that couldn't be right; they had a four million year history with Cybertron, and most of the 'bots seemed to be quite fond of Nebulos and Nebulans. The general Autobot reaction to the Nebulos crisis wasn't, "Damn them for attacking us!" it was, "We wronged out friends, we know it, but first we have to defend ourselves and our other allies." And that reaction was accompanied by a rather striking amount of sorrow.

She'd watched the Autobots with the Nebulans, and their mechs. There was no resentment for the attack, and they treated their prisoners with courtesy and care. They were not foolish, and they were cautious and wary when working around potentially hostile prisoners, but she'd yet to see an Autobot show any signs of maliciousness or cruelty to the prisoners.

In fact, they were currently setting up guarded dorms in one part of the Fort Max's structure. It wouldn't be long before they would move the prisoners to a more secure, and much more comfortable, location. The dorms would have a cafeteria, a rec room, and a library -- she'd picked up somewhere that the Autobots had, among other things, a substantial library of Nebulan history books covering millions of years of civilization, and they were having them loaded onto datapads for the prisoners. She wondered how much the history books that the Autobots were providing would match to the history the prisoners had learned ...

She'd asked Ratchet if they actually expected the prisoners to read the datapads. He'd considered the question then offered the opinion, "If they get bored enough. And their intelligence geeks will certainly tear the data apart trying to learn about _us_."

Jazz answered her question about Nebulans and paranoia rather than Windy, after the two exchanged a look and probably a few moments of comm'd discussion. He said, "They are not so much paranoid as they are real clear on who's a friend and who's not a friend. Nebulos had more limited resources, and the Nebulans lived a very marginal existance for much of their evolutionary period. That shows up in both their physiology and their psychology, and the psychology aspect is partially hardwired. They are fiercely loyal to a close circle of their friends and extended family, and those little groups will band together for larger goals ... but the loyalty is always to their social circles first. The social circles -- we're translating them into _clans _in English -- function as a unit. They do not have nearly as much of an individual identity as humans do."

"I suggested they should be referred to as packs, rather than clans, but I guess that's seen as potentially uncomplimentary." Windy grinned.

"Yet you were partnered to a Nebulan," Mikaela observed.

"Hnnh, yeah. If the clan agrees -- and it needs to be a nearly unanimous agreement -- outsiders can be accepted into it. They'd known Starknight for thousands of years, and _he _had been part of their clan. It wasn't a big step for them to accept me. Though, joining a new clan for a Nebulan is seen as a huge deal. It's like a marriage to humans, except it's for generally for life, so _both _sides are very careful about it. Personality conflicts within a clan really suck." Windy's smile turned faint, and he seemed to gaze off into the distance for a bit. "When I married -- and I'll use the human word, because it was closer to that sort of relationship -- my Nebulan partner, I ended up with not just him, but a clan of twelve other people who became like sisters and brothers to me. Nine of them were his blood relatives, three others had been accepted into the clan over the years. One was another mech."

Windy sighed, then continued, "It's hard to believe that they're all gone now. I wish I'd stayed on Nebulos ... I thought I'd be able to return in a few years. I just had to get away for a bit, because everything reminded me of t'Grethi. Which, by the way, is how a Cybertronian or human might react. They understood I wasn't psychologically like them and needed the distance, but Nebulans ... don't have that need for separation. They are _much _more closely bound to each other by emotional ties. I had quite a fight with them over me leaving because to them, because not everyone felt I had the right to hurt _them _like that, and I did hurt them, and ..."

Windy trailed off. "Sorry. I might be oversharing."

"It's okay." Jazz gave Windy a sympthetic look and, likely, another brief communication over the radio waves. Mikaela had learned to ignore that sort of byplay between mechs. _They _didn't consider it rude, and private, encrypted, comments between two or more mechs were the norm durig any conversation involving multiple people. It was considered rude to talk _simultaneously _but not to pause and say something privately to someone else, then continue the conversation with the first person. "It was recent, for you."

Windy flashed him a brief smile. "Thanks. Anyway, back to the subject. Nebulan social structure is based on small clans. They live together, raise their children communally, and generally have the same or similar occupations. The _army _is structured that way. A small ship might be run by one clan. A big warship like the one we took out has multiple clans, and they're generally divided upon occupation lines. i.e., engineering would be one clan, maintenance another clan. Big departments might have more than one clan. Each clan will have a handful of leaders that fill the role of officers in a human or Cybertronian army. Their ship commanders are then elected by those leaders. Military clans, in my time, had the same field of study for tens of generations, and often the same post."

Jazz observed, "I always hated dealing with chains of command in the Nebulan army when there _was _a Nebulos ... they've always done it that way, it works for them, but clan politics got interesting at times. If _we _have a problem with a rank and file mech, any officer can deal with it. If I had a problem with a Nebulan soldier, I couldn't address it myself unless I was on kin-terms with that clan. Kin-terms is sort've like being ... I dunno, a friend of the family in human terms? You're not part of their clan, but you've got some emotional attachments, and it goes both ways. Anyway, if I didn't have kin-terms, I had to know which clan he belonged to, and either who the officers in his clan were or which other clans had kin-terms with his to deal with it. It got to be a real headache."

"Not if you're Nebulan. It all makes perfect sense to them." Smokescreen snorted. "They're suspicious of humans because we don't form clans like that. When I explained to a couple of their officers that human children move away from their parents when they're in their late teens or early 20's, without necessarily moving _into _another family, and that some humans live alone, they concluded the entire race of humans is insane."

Windy nodded. "Not having a clan is a _bad _thing. Usually the only way a Nebulan becomes clanless is some sort of terrible tragedy, or insanity. They consider the lack of desire for a clan to be a form of profound mental illness. Anyone who takes actions that harm their clan, no matter the reason or personal cost, would also be considered insane."

Jazz snorted. "Which is why the humans are having a Pit of a time interrogating the Nebulans. The Nebulans aren't going to talk. Their reaction when in a hostile situation with enemies is to simply shut up and shut down. They won't talk until they consider us kin. You can't torture or coerce information out of a Nebulan. There is _nothing _you can offer them, nothing you can threaten them with, that will get them to betray their clan. It's a hard wired and culturally reinforced response. Clan comes first. Always. And the welfare of their entire people directly influences the welfare of their clan."

"Which bring us to r'Oya." Smokescreen steepled his fingers. The two mechs sitting on his desk both looked back at him. He said, "It took us a bit to figure out why she was talking to you. At first, we thought she'd been sent to gather intelligence, and you're a likely target for that -- you are young and inexperienced, and not military."

"r'Oya's low ranking, though. She's an odd choice for that sort of assignment." Windy shook his head. "However, we think it might be something more."

"Yeah?"

"Watch this security footage, and remember what I said about clans specializing in one occupation," Smokescreen said, as he cast a holo-image into the air.

The image was of the camp, specifically, the area the medics had set aside for their own sleeping quarters. r'Oya entered the cluster of cots and headed for one cot that was set apart from the others. As she did, a male Nebulan rose from his place and followed her.

She turned, and said something sharply to him. He held his hands up in a clear, "I'm not going to touch you!" gesture.

r'Oya turned away, and as he did, he grabbed her despite his earlier show of no-hands. He yanked her to his chest, and tried to hold her tight. She kicked and thrashed for a second, and then another medic broke it up by grabbing him by the shoulder.

Seconds later, there were two factions yelling at each other. One of the older medics issued a demanding-sounding question at r'Oya, and pointed at first one cluster of medics and then the other. r'Oya made a sharp, slashing gesture through the air with her hand, horizontally, at shoulder height.

"That's a no," Windy noted, "with a side order of, 'I flip you off.' It's _not _a polite way to indicate a negative, and theirs is a culture with layers upon layers of meaning to 'yes' and 'no.'They did that a hundred thousand years ago, too -- It's sure not something you'd ever indicate to a clan member."

Another medic, apparently from the other faction, said something softly to her. r'Oya touched her fingers to her lips and puckered them up, then made a flicking motion with her hand towards the medic.

"And that's not as flirtatious as it looks." Windy's grin was open now. "To humans? A cute, flirty moue. To Nebulans? Feces exiting an asshole. Even ruder than the first response."

"I ... see." r'Oya had always been polite to her, but then, she worked for the woman's captors.

"She's clanless," Jazz said, softly. "She's all alone. We think the rest of her clan died in the crash. Both surviving clans are vying for her. A woman without a clan, with skills such as r'Oya's, would be desirable. Obviously, she doesn't like either option, to say the least, but it's socially expected of her to join a clan. She, literally, would be considered insane if she doesn't chose one group or the other in the near future. A bad match is better than no clan, as far as most Nebulans are concerned, but it's for _life_. Even if they go home, she would then be expected to stay with them, even if she loathes them. The only way for her to join another clan would be for them to agree to release her, and she has valuable skills. They would be unlikely to let her go because she will bring income to the family that would be difficult to replace ... and yes, by human standards, that sounds like slavery. Remember that the welfare of the clan takes precedence over the welfare of the individual. She also must feel terribly alone. She's a captive, with no family to watch her back. That we are treating her well must be an incredible relief."

Mikaela asked, "Can she join another group?"

"Not without changing her occupation too, and starting over. I also get the feeling she enjoys being a medic." Smokescreen shook his head.

"We're not real sure why she's so dead set hostile about joining one clan or the other, though I'd note that the clan leader of the first clan is a real hag of an old lady who's been outright cruel to r'Oya a few times." Windy pointed out an older woman whose skin was deeply seamed and wrinkled. "The other clan has that jerk who tried to molest her in it. He hits on her all the time. He's the only unattached male in their clan, and she would be expected to marry him."

Mikaela couldn't conceal her wince.

"So that's where _you _come in. r'Oya knows that humans don't form clans, but she's alone, she has no clan to be loyal _too_, and you're non-threatening and potentially friendly. Remember that her loyalty is to a clan, not her people. It would be entirely possible for her to form a clan-substitute with humans. You guys are more independendent than Nebulans in your psychological makeup, but so are mechs -- and we have plenty of examples of mechs and Nebulans forming mixed clans together, including Windy right here." Smokescreen drummed his fingers on the table. "We want to exploit that ..."

"No." Mikaela said, flatly, her reaction impulsive but completely heartfelt. She knew what it was to be alone, to feel unwanted, or, worse, wanted by the wrong people. "I won't _use _that."

Jazz, to her surprise, chuckled, even as Smokescreen frowned at her and Windy narrowed his eyes at Smokescreen. "Good on you," Jazz said, "The Smokester just wants to exploit it. Me, ah think the girl needs a friend, a real one. She's alone, a prisoner on an alien world, she may never see her home again, she has no family, no kin that we've seen. It must be hell. _You _can be that friend she needs. If she _chooses _to give us information we can offer her asylum among us, providing the American government agrees. Let it be her choice."

Mikaela hesitated, trying to puzzle through the morality involved. She felt confused by what they were asking her to do. She'd been used one time too many in her life to ever want to do it to someone else.

Jazz's voice turned soft as she said, "'Kaela, you are uniquely situated to help defend Earth by befriending r'Oya."

That was true. She hugged herself unhappily. "Why me?"

"Because she's approached yah. And because you _can _do this." Jazz extended a long, clawed finger towards her. She should have felt threatened by that deadly digit. Instead, she found herself smiling when he gave her a little push with it. It was just impossible to dislike Jazz.

Windy sighed, drawing her attention back to the little flier. "Her loyalty is _not _to her people. Nebulans don't think that way. It was to her clan. Give her a reason to be sympathetic to us. It might make all the difference in the world to her. She needs the friend, as Jazz said ... and we need so much information about them.

Jazz's nod was firm. "Also, Mikaela, she would _not _be betraying her people to tell us about them. We want to defuse this, and we need more information, but the Nebulans, for understandable reasons, don't trust us. We need someone to cross that bridge, an' it best not be one of us mechs."

Smokescreen's snort made Jazz roll his optics. Jazz added, by way of explanation, "Smokey still thinks we just need to hack a couple of their mechs, thoroughly, all the way to their spark, and add our own coersional programming. He's willing to do it. We aren't ruling that out in the interests of the greater good, an' Optimus'd approve it, if it came down to that, but we got the cores of the dead mechs an' we can hack _those _if we can get an English-to-modern-Nebulan or Cybertronian-to-modern-Nebulan dictionary out of r'Oya."

"Problem we're having with hacking the cores," Smokescreen said, sourly, "Is that we don't have the language we need to do it. We can crack the operating system easily enough and watch video files, but we don't have the language. We've got no idea what they're saying, and they're well aware of it. They talk amongst themselves in ancient Nebulan to deliberately fox our abilites to learn their language, and they think in modern. It makes it damned difficult to hack 'em."

Mikaela considered that. She'd been training on the physical parts of mech medicine, but had picked up a bit about the way their code worked from listening to chatter between the medics. "Wouldn't you be able to access an ancient-to-modern dictionary? Translate Cybertronian-to-ancient-to-modern?"

"It's not that simple." Windy sighed. "I'm probably one of the most fluent mechs in ancient Nebulan who's alive right now. We can understand the language, but there's been considerable linguistic drift despite their efforts to keep the language of their ancestors alive. The vocabulary they've retained from Ancient Nebulan is limited, as well -- they modules we've been able to download from the cores of the dead contain around three thousand words. That's enough for direct, simple conversation and, apparently, religious uses. Most of the language they've kept has to do with their gods, or with life, death, and birth, and anatomical nouns. They use ancient Nebulan about like humans use latin."

Jazz elaborated, "Ancient Nebulan is a language of generalities. One word may have a couple hundred meanings. English is a bit like that, but Ancient Nebulan takes it to extreme. Modern Nebulan, by contrast, probably has tens of thousands of words, maybe as many as a hundred thousand, and it's very, very specific."

"Bee told me the problem he had with writing an English-to-Cybertronian module was our language was more general than Cybertronian, and a word's meaning had to do with context. Same problem?" Mikaela guessed.

"It's a couple orders of magnitude worse, since we _don't _have a context to work with." Jazz shook his head slowly. "Ah'm pretty good at linguistics, but ah don' have the processor for this. We're trying to take Cybertronian, which is very specific, with a very large vocabulary, find inexact matches in the Ancient Nebulan language, then turn around and figure out which one of any of about two hundred thousand modern Nebulan words contextually matches. It's _not _easy. Complete accuracy isn't needed but we're not even in the ballpark yet."

"And, of course, there's definitions to help them figure out contextual usage ... They're in modern Nebulan." Smokescreen shrugged. "There's no definitions in ancient Nebulan, just a thesaurus of possibilities."

"Oh, and the Nebulans _love _idioms." Windy snorted. "They always did. Also, they do this thing with tonalities that completely changes the meaning of a word in ironic or sarcastic ways, and that's totally and completely a form of slang and the actual meaning drifts. Humans do that to -- things like 'bad' meaning 'good' or 'sick' meaning 'cool' which is also a very general measure of temperature ... I digress. Anyway, the Nebulans can take it to an extreme, with thousands of words that have alternate meanings based on context and slight tonal changes to either the word in question or based on specifically stressed adjectives. And on top of that, individual clans tend to develop their own slang, too, sort've like human families do sometimes."

Jazz nodded. "Ah've never known Bee to take more than a month, in an extreme case, to decrypt a language and develop us a module all on this. He, Smokey, Bluestreak, and a couple of the 'con geeks are working on it an' getting nowhere. It would be a difficult project if we could transcan ourselves and a pack of drones into the scenery and sit and observe the language in daily use. It's exponentially more difficult to decrypt with the limited data we have."

"So you need me to get her to help us with the language," Mikaela summed up.

"Ayup." Jazz tapped his long fingers on the top of the desk for a moment. "And just ... I feel for the girl. She's all alone, if we're reading the situation right. Be pretty nice of you if you'd take her under your wing."

Mikaela sighed. "It feels ... wrong. Like I'm deceiving her."

Jazz made a quick, sharp shake of his head. "She'll assume you're after information. It's okay. If she comments on that, confirm it. Nebulans aren't human. They don't offer friendship if it's not genuinely meant. She'll assume it's both: that you've seen she's in a tough spot and you're offering her a way out, and that you're after info. She won't hold it against you. What you want to do is give her a reason to empathize with the humans on this world. You guys _are _innocent and Earth was attacked without provocation. Show her humans are a possible ally to the Nebulans, that an alliance rather than a war with Earth would be to her people's benefit. And ..."

Abruptly he cut off his words. All three mechs grew still, heads tilted to one side. Then Smokescreen slapped his hand to his faceplate and through his fingers he groaned, "Slagging _idiot_."

"What happened?" Mikaela envied them their comms, sometimes. Windy was rolling his optics, and whatever the news they'd received was, it made Jazz slide off the desk and stand up.

"Wildrider got in a fight with Bluestreak."

"With ... _Blue_?" She had a hard time picturing that.

"And Sunny broke it up, but then he and _Bluestreak _got into a yelling match," Smokescreen added. "They're still screaming at each other. -- Jazz, you want me to go knock their heads together, or do you want to do it?"

"Ah, let me." Jazz was already headed for the door. "Windy, you want to tag along? I'll deal with Sunny if you'll de-escalate Bluestreak for me. Ah hear ya got a gift for working with him."

As the two exited, Mikaela overheard Windy say, "Figured Bluestreak had some anger in him, what with his history, but I bet it takes some work to set him off ..."

"It's Sunny. That's all ah need to know. They're friends, but ah've seen Sunny provoke every mech here at one time or another." Jazz sounded mildly amused. "They won't kill each other, but Ratch won't appreciate the dents if we don't stop it ..."

The doors slid shut, cutting their conversation off. Mikaela observed to Smokescreen, "Windy seems to be fitting in."

Smokey frowned. He drummed a finger on the desk for a moment, then said, "Maybe. -- Mikaela, are you okay?"

"Me?" She ... didn't want to think too much about that question. "Fine."

"You've just been through a lot in the last few weeks. If you were a mech, I'd be quite worried about you." He regarded her with a level, even gaze, as if he didn't believe her words.

She looked away. "I should head over to the med bay. I'm sure Ratchet can use some help." Her shift didn't start for few hours, but she wasn't lying when she said Ratchet needed help. He always welcomed it when she put in extra hours.

Smokescreen's hand clinked against the desk, palm up, at her feet. She stared stupidly at it for a moment before she realized he was offering her a lift down off the desk. Only after he'd carefully set her on her feet did he say, "Let me know if you need anything with r'Oya, or with anything else."

She nodded. "Thanks. I'll do that."

"You're important, Mikaela," Smokescreen added, as he accompanied her to the door to show her out of his office. "We've got your back."

"If I wasn't important, would you have my back?" she replied, tartly, suddenly irritated by his show of kindness. "If I was a nobody?"

He blinked down at her, frozen in place. After a long moment of simply staring at her, he said, "You know, I have no idea how to answer that. There's layers of concepts, I can't sum it up in a few sentences in English, and if you want to talk about it later, call me. I'm actually ... interested ... in why you responded that way. The simple fact, however, is that you _are _important to us because of who you are and what you've done, and what we expect you to continue to achieve, and because of that you are our friend. Friendship doesn't exist in a vacuum, Mikaela. It is earned. You have earned our friendship, trust, and our commitment to you."

She stared at him. "So I have to _contribute _to be Bee's friend? Or yours? What if I can't? What if I don't live up to your standard? What if ..."

He frowned again, more intensely.

Suddenly furious, she spun about and stalked out of the room. She didn't even know _why _she was so angry, just that she was pissed off beyond belief at him.

* * *

Starscream was nearly as surprised to find that he wasn't going to be imprisoned as he was that he was alive again. Aquaregia -- who he'd last known as the fourth-in-command on the Nemesis -- regarded him with a level, unimpressed gaze while standing in front of the door to Starscream's new quarters.

"Stay out of trouble," 'Regia finally said, after a long moment of silent scrutiny that had followed a near-silent walk from Aquaregia's spacious office on the second floor. Fang's officer handed Starscream a data chip that would contain the codes to ping open the door's lock. "I'll figure out your duty schedule tomorrow. I'm busy today."

Starscream swept his wings back, straightened up to his full height (which was several feet taller than Aquaregia) and said, "I am not doing scut work. I will be assigned to research."

"You will be assigned to work a shift like everyone else on this base," Aquaregia snapped back. "Including myself. Since you have a medic's training and a degree in mechanical engineering, the best place for you to work, for now, is with the sparklings. I'd assign you to the med bay but somehow I think that having _you _work with _conscious _mechs might be problematic. I do understand Fang wants you to do research on the Allspark. At this point, we do not have a lab suitable for studying quantum physics."

He scowled and demanded, "Me? Babysitting sparklings?" He was envisioning a creche, perhaps, full of sparklings being raised en masse. He was not a babysitter. (He refused to consider the appeal of a pair of earnestly trusting optics, gazing up at him, small arms held out to be picked up ... or acknowledge the fiercely stabbing jealousy he felt for Fang, who had not one but two children who loved him.)

"No. I doubt anyone would trust you with their children." Aquaregia's words were cold, and delivered with a smirk. "It seems fitting that you work on the maintenance of our sparklings who remain in stasis lock. Given that they're here because of you."

"You have _no _idea what really happened," Starscream hissed. "They're _alive _because of me."

"Really."

"_Really_." He took a step towards Aquaregia, intending to be intimidating. "In a very real sense, they are _here _because of me. Megatron wanted to use them as cannon fodder in one final push against the Autobots."

"And you stopped that." 'Regia took a step back.

Starscream smirked. The glitching pit-spawned Decepticon Prime was almost impossibly confident, but Starscream was pleased that was still able to unnerve 'Regia. The chemist looked wary, clearly wondering who would win in a fight. For that matter, he'd seen Aquaregia in battle a few times. 'Regia had decent aim with a projectile weapon, and fought smart and calm even under heavy fire, but he was simpy not built for close combat. He was big, and he'd picked up a huge pulse cannon somewhere that he couldn't completely hide under his armor, but he was neither fast nor overly powerful. Starscream pretty much figured they both knew who would win.

'Regia was a scientist, not a warrior.

_It's possible to be both_ _fighter and nerd_, Starscream thought, snidely. But that thought was accompanied by a pang of longing. Aquaregia had spent most of the war in a lab. Starscream _... hadn't. _Once upon a time, they might have been peers. Starscream had intended to design weapons for the Decepticons, never be a fighter. However, his pride and ego had led him to record-breaking scores on flight testing when he signed up, and the rest was history. He'd been voluntold to apply for combat training, and had -- more pride and ego there -- worked his way up through the ranks simply because he couldn't bear to be second best at anything. Aquaregia was an expert in explosives and fuel, Starscream remembered reading some of his papers before the war. He was brilliant. He wasn't a warrior, and Starscream was surprised to see that Fang had made him second-in-command of Earth operations.

However, the point was, if Starscream had simply been a scientist, they would have worked together. Aquaregia was smart, with a keen intellect. He was the sort of mech that Starscream actually liked ... but they barely knew each other.

_Nobody was waiting for me._

That awful, aching loneliness still rang in his soul. He wasn't even sure the mechs he claimed as his trine and his partners still loved him or would meet him in the Well someday. He hadn't 'faced with either of them in tens of thousands of years. Thundercracker refused, after Starscream had lost control during a session and gotten a little ... aggressive ... and had threatened to kill him in recharge if he forced himself on Skywarp ... had made it clear to him that he didn't believe Skywarp would be able to deal with the darkness in Starscream's spark.

His mind wandered for a second, wondering if there was _anyone _in life or in death who wanted him. Even his own mentors hadn't met him in the Well. They'd both been Autobots, and had disowned him eons ago, long before the war started. He was unwanted, unloved, hated, feared, by all. It wasn't fair ... didn't they understand he'd had no choice? He could have, perhaps, chosen to offline himself, but then Megatron would have simply found himself another slave to abuse.

'Regia, who could have been his peer, was scowling ferociously at him. "Stay out of trouble. Don't leave the DOA. If you even _think _about getting in our way, provoking anyone, or even so much as looking wrong at any mech, Autobot or Decepticon, I will personally see that you are put in the brig."

"Fang said I could have my freedom." He chose to look down at 'Regia rather than whine, though there was a very strong impulse there to grovel and submit. 'Regia was shorter and less powerful than he was, damnit. He could break the mech in two. He was _better _than the chemist, who was _only _a scientist, not a warrior of Starscream's caliber.

_I'm both, _he thought, savagely. _I'm both warrior and genius. I'm the best Air Commander -- and one of the best tacticians -- to ever live. If Megatron had listened to my advice more often, or _ever_, we would have won cleanly and soundly, rather than beating ourselves into oblivion against the Primus-damned Autobots. How many times did I have Prime in my sights? All we had to do was take him out, and the Autobots would have folded.  
_  
Megatron had savagely forced interfacing on him so many times that Starscream _knew _why the Decepticion leader had never accepted Starscream's schemes to slag Optimus. Although Megatron had never lowered his firewalls, his emotions had often filtered through, and Starscream had inferred that Megatron wanted to kill Optimus _himself_.

Of course, Megatron hadn't even been receptive to ideas from Starscream that would have put him in the position to do so. Starscream would have gladly plotted a way for Megatron to personally offline Optimus. However, Megatron wouldn't even accept help planning it.

"The Decepticon Prime will back me up if that freedom needs to be revoked." 'Regia's optics narrowed.

He stared right back, eyes wide and falsely innocent. "Surely, you're not implying that I might cause trouble. I've been chosen by Primus himself to return from the Well. I would think that implies I _might _be good enough ..."

Aquaregia snorted. "There are security cameras on that roof. I'm well aware of the misery you described as your afterlife and why you are likely back with us. You've got a second chance by Primus's grace, but I have no idea if you're going to take advantage of that, and plenty of reasons to believe you won't. You forget I've served on the Nemesis for the duration of the war. I know you, Starscream, and because I know you, I don't trust you."

He started to protest that, and the chemist favored him with a sharp, biting smile. "How many times did you claim _my _work for your own?"

He blinked. "I never ... I didn't do that!" Of course, he had, but he wasn't about to actually admit it. He hadn't realized that Aquaregia had taken that personally. It was pretty much standard operating procedure for the officers to take credit for the work of their underlings when presenting reports to Megatron. Otherwise, Megatron was likely to promote the underling and accuse the officer of being incompetent. Starscream wasn't incompetent -- far from it -- but he was only one mech, so yes, he'd dumped things on the science staff, told them to figure it out, and then let Megatron assume the solution came from Starscream's own processor ...

Aquaregia pinged the door open. His expression was as cold as frozen helium. "Stay out of trouble, or so help me Starscream, I may not throw you in the brig, I may just terminate you."

He bared his dental plates in a snarl. "You couldn't do it and you wouldn't dare!"

"Did you ever wonder how I got my designation?" Aquaregia retorted, lip plates lifting in a snarl in return. He spat out, "They wouldn't even find the body."

Chemist. Decepticon chemist. Starscream considered that fact and sheer _lack _of emotion that accompanied that threat, revised his chances of winning against 'Regia sharply downwards, and retreated into his new quarters. The door slid shut, leaving him utterly alone.

He surveyed the room blankly for a minute, too shaken by the fact he'd been cowed into submission by a twenty foot tall _geek _to consciously process what his optics were seeing. Finally, however, after a somewhat shaken systems check, he took a closer look at his new quarters.

The room was forty foot by thirty foot -- tiny, for a mech like himself, who stood nearly thirty feet tall and close to that wide. Half that space was taken by a berth. The berth could be folded up against the wall, and only then could a desk be lowered. Both appeared to be made of native materials: plate steel and I-beams, roughly welded together. His thermal scanners showed the welds were still a degree or two warmer than ambient, so they'd probably completed the furnishings recently.

There was no chair. A storage box, pushed up against one wall, was probably intended to substitute for one while also providing him a place stash any personal effects that he didn't want to put on his shelves. The shelves on one wall were depressingly empty, and he had absolutely nothing to put on them. His subspace pockets had been emptied after his death, and he didn't have a single personal possession. He hoped that Thundercracker or 'Warp had inherited his few personal mementos, and they hadn't just been tossed out. At the moment, he didn't even have ammo for his chain gun.

The room's lighting came from several clusters of primitive LED lights recessed into the ceiling. There was no window.

He'd seen in cheerier prison cells. Recently.

It took him all of thirty seconds to grow bored of his surroundings, and a few seconds longer to decide he wanted to see the lab that Fang had mentioned. He shot Fang a quick ping.

_:What?: _Fang replied.

_:I want to see your lab, and then the sparklings.:_

_:'Regia's busy. I just sent him over to Fort Max on an errand. Skywarp has the code to my door.:_

_:You know I could 'face that code out of him.:_

Fang's response was sharply pointed, _:And regardless of all the other evil you've done in this world, you'd never hurt Skywarp.:_

_:Maybe he'd give it to me willingly.:_

_:I'm confident of Skywarp's loyalty. I have ample reason not to trust you. Don't test me, Starscream. I'm very busy right now, I don't have the time for it, and I'm certain my troops would enjoy round two of forcibly removing you to the brig.: _Fang cut the comm. When Starscream impatiently pinged him again, he received an automated invitation to leave a message on Fang's voice mail.

Starscream snarled and slammed a fist down on his crudely made desk.

It promptly popped a weld and collapsed.

His life pretty much sucked.

He smirked, as an insane bit of humor surfaced from the depths of his processor, the sort of comment, if said aloud, that was guaranteed to earn him a beating from Megatron: _Hey, but it's better than death._

And then suddenly he was laughing, somewhat hysterically. It was all so ridiculous. He'd died. He'd died and found out just how badly he'd lived his life. And yet despite being an utter and absolute and miserable failure at everything he'd ever done, the Primes had seen fit to give him another chance.

_Why me_? he thought. Then, with another fit of chuckles, _Probably better me than Megatron! At least I'm a better mech than that slagger!_

Primus, he'd been such a failure. A complete and absolute loser. He'd been just good enough as Megatron's second in command to lead their race to near annihilation (he was certain that Megatron on his own would have lost before the war even began). He hadn't been good enough to compensate for Megatron's egomaniacal insanity, hadn't been talented enough to work around him, hadn't been bright enough to manage to slag him, and so they'd fought only to a stalemate and not a decisive win.

If Megatron hadn't been in his way most of the time, he _would _have won the war himself, but he'd failed because he wasn't good enough to take Megatron out. And then along came a scrawny, nervous little slagger who'd done what Starscream couldn't, _plus _got himself a Matrix and singlehandedly brought about the first hope for peace in tens of thousands of years, mere weeks after he'd taken over.

Starscream's laughter abruptly stopped. He keened and sank to the floor next to the tilted remains of the desk. He was still keening when someone pinged the door open. Hastily, he shut off his vocalizer and lurched to his feet.

"Starscream?" Skywarp's concerned optics regarded him warily. "I could hear you in the hall."

"You've got the code to my quarters?"

"I do to all the rooms." Skywarp frowned at him. "Fang said he might need me to take someone down. All of us he trusts have the door codes, including to his own quarters. I'd say he was naive, but you've seen how he fights ... And you were crying."

"Was not."

"Hmph." Skywarp clearly didn't believe him. He stepped closer, studying Starscream's expression for a moment. Finally, he spoke, but his words weren't what Starscream expected. "I suppose you've got a lot to cry about, but if you're gonna do it, pick a room with soundproofing."

"Did you miss me?" Starscream sighed.

"I've missed you for a lot longer than you've been dead."

It was the ... insight ... in his words that made Starscream look up. "You fixed your code."

"Skyfire."

"Should have expected that." Skyfire's sense of justice knew no bounds. He would have fixed Skyfire's code as soon as feasibly possible.

"Hmph." Skywarp opened the door again. "'Regia said to let you into Fang's lab. It's more of a machine shop than anything else -- Fang's good with his hands, but he's not got the training or code for theoretical applications -- but he said you'd be working on the sparklings."

"You glad I'm back?"

"Haven't decided." Skywarp led the way down the hall. "That depends on you."

He grabbed Skywarp's arm. "I kept you alive. You _owe _me."

Skywarp just stared at him for a long, silent moment. Only when Starscream released him did Skywarp frown, then say very firmly, "And I've now made my decision. We're not partners, anymore, Starscream. What you and TC decide is between you two. My loyalty's to Fang. I can't divide it between the two of you."

Starscream stared at him. He couldn't believe that Skywarp had just ended it like that, anticlimactically, with a simple, 'We're not partners anymore.'

Starscream ... wanted to keen, or scream, or laugh hysterically. He settled for trying to shove Skywarp against the wall. 'Try' was the operative word; Skywarp blocked him without any trace of fear or hesitation, and jammed a pulse cannon against Starscream's spark. 'Warp didn't say anything at all, this time, but the threat was clear. It blazed in his optics, deadly and cold.

Starscream remembered that he had no weapons.

After a moment, Starscream looked away from Skywarp's angry gaze, and said, "I should have expected you to betray me. Everyone else has. You know that nobody met me at the Well? NOBODY!" his voice hit a high, screaching tone. "NOBODY MET ME! NOBODY! I'm alone. Not even my partners want me!"

Skywarp shoved him away, then turned without comment and lead the way down several ramps to the lowest level of the basement. Starscream, at a complete loss for what else to do, followed him. He wanted to rage and scream and throw things. He couldn't even summon the energy to do that much.

When he followed Skywarp through the door, he realized that Fang's quarters were effectively a bunker. Wisely, the new Decepticon leader had made himself a very well protected design lab, and suite of private rooms deep below the earth's surface. The lab could function as a med bay if needed, and judging by the size and shape of the tables, someone -- perhaps the Constructicons, if not Fang -- had 'secondary use as medical berths' in mind.

Skywarp said simply, "The door will lock behind you when you leave." He turned to go.

There really wasn't much to see here. Fang said, "Wait! I wanted to see the SOA. They sparklings are alive because of me ..."

Skywarp came around so fast that Starscream nearly fell on his aft in surprise. "The sparklings are alive because of _me _and the others, and Primus's own hand. I was part of a miracle, and I haven't forgotten it. Primus himself gave me a chance to do better. I damn near killed myself bringing them here, but we did it. Figured it was worth blowing my circuits out to push myself that hard."

"So now you think you're too good for me."

Skywarp frowned. "I need to go. I need to pick up our kids from Silverbolt."

_Our kids. _He meant the seeker sparklings that Thundercracker had adopted, and for whom 'Warp was the secondary mentor. Starscream stared at the door long after Skywarp had left. Then he turned, rage consuming him, intending to smash and tear and rend. The lab was full of satisfyingly breakable equipment.

The closest table had a paper sketch pad on it, open to a nearly completed drawing no bigger than the tip of his finger. The artwork, clearly by a talented child, depicted him. He recognized his own features, drawn with some sort of colored wax on fragile, ephemeral wood-chip based paper. Not even a very good grade of paper; the pad was made of something called newsprint, which was highly acidic and which would degrade to yellowed flakes of dust within decades. By the size of the art, and the fact that this was Fang's lab, he suspected the little artist was his pathetically fragile, insect-sized sparkling Prism.

In the picture, Starscream was smiling.

Starscream sank to the ground, leaned against the wall, shuttered his optics, and found he couldn't even _think. _What was he supposed to feel?

If he destroyed something, he'd provoke Fang, certainly -- and it might be satisfying proof that Fang was no different than anyone else if Fang and his goons beat him to slag for it. But he'd also upset the child ... who drew Starscream with a smile.

Pain seized his spark, raw and all encompassing. He would say that he wished he were dead, but that was worse. Death was utterly emptiness, terribly alone and unwanted. Death wasn't any better than living.

He wanted to rage.

He wanted to scream.

The overwhelming, agonizingly painful grief and loss and fear in his spark was paralyzing. He found he couldn't even move.

He'd done so much evil in his life that he didn't even know where to begin to catalog it. He was as unwanted in life as he had been in death. He started to think, _but it's their fault for not loving me ... they don't see the greatness that I am._

He whimpered softly.

He would never have risked his own aft to save the sparklings.

Prism had drawn him with a smile on his face.

He wouldn't have risked his own aft to save _her_.

There was no greatness in his spark. He'd been deluding himself his entire life.

He really would have killed himself.

But death was no escape.

She'd said, "I'm going to draw a picture of you. I like you."

She _liked _him. She'd drawn a picture of him smiling.

Starscream slowly brought his optics back online. Out of the agonizing, terrible, endless darkness there was one little ray of light, one person who liked him, one person who would draw a picture of him with a smile on his face. One person willing to tell him he _could _be good, rather than just, 'Don't get in trouble' or 'stay out of the way.'

One little ray of light. Of hope. A chink in the darkness.

He sat there for hours, torturing himself as he went over a life badly lived, endless loops of mistakes made and people hurt and great, great evil done. Yet whenever it seemed impossible, whenever it seemed overwhelming ...

_I like you_, she'd said.

Somebody liked him. Somebody innocent, and good, and pure ... liked him.

He should have sneered, and mocked her, and perhaps even slagged her to prove her wrong.

_I like you, _she'd said.

Nobody had met him on the other side. Nobody wanted him here.

_I like you, _she'd said.

Finally, he whispered, "Guess I like you, too, kid."

And something just broke inside him. Shattered. He couldn't even keen; his vocalizer seemed frozen.

Why would _liking _someone, and _being _liked hurt so much?


	104. Chapter 104

Author's notes part A: Sorry for the long time I took in posting this. I've been setting up a new business, dealing with abso-frigging-lutely cute kittens, and studying for a new position at Teh Day Job. I also owe quite a few responses to quite a few reviews, and I'm sorry about that. I'll be responding this weekend.

Author's notes part B: This may be tl;dr, but I need to say it. Feel free to skip to the story if you want. Just scroll down until you get to the next line break.

Normally, I ignore trollish negative reviews from anyone who doesn't have the guts to sign them with a recognizable handle. However, an anon troll made an accusation that I actually want to address, because it directly ties into a theme I'm exploring in this story. The anon accused me of setting Fang up to break up with Ratchet after 'just one' mistake by Ratchet.

That isn't, exactly, what I'm doing.

Ratchet's fanon characterization, generally speaking, is that of a very hot tempered, very aggressive, very assertive mech. He is generally portrayed as having a violent temper, to the point of throwing things (wrenches) at people, and he is often portrayed as being insulting and threatening to his patients.

Most fans who write Ratchet in a romantic context have him make an exception to this behavior for his lover(s), and be warm, supportive, affectionate, and patient with the lover(s) while still being an ass to the rest of the world. That's romantic, yes, but it doesn't really reflect realistic psychology. Most people who are jerks to colleagues, patients, friends, or complete strangers, are _worse _to their loved ones, not better.

If a doctor in real life abuses his patients - yells at them, insults them, threatens them - I can virtually guarantee he'd be an even bigger insufferable ass to his friends and family.

Now, that was a general observation on human nature, and while, yeah, we're dealing with giant alien robots it's _canon _that the giant alien robots are a lot like us. So for the purposes of this story, I'm going to assume the same general rule applies.

And I can practically sense my readers getting ready to defend Ratchet here. If you've read this far, please keep reading. In my head, Ratchet's far more complex than 'simple abuser' - he has that potential, he behaves in abusive ways at times, but he's not _just _a one dimensional abusive boyfriend. He's far more than that.

At his core, as Optimus more-or-less observed, Ratchet (at least, my version of Ratchet) naturally has a hot temper fueled by impatience with the rest of the world. Ratchet pretty much expects the rest of the world to keep up with his genius, and he gets impatient when they don't. That fuels the anger even more.

And yes, in my personal fanon, it would be completely in character for Ratchet to turn that same temper on a lover. Fang got a pass from Ratchet for a good long while for a number of reasons: Ratchet genuinely liked him, Ratchet felt sympathy for him, Ratchet saw him as vulnerable, and Ratchet knew from the very beginning that if he lost his temper at Fang, even once, Fang would probably never trust him again. Ratchet does have a fair degree of empathy (even when he hides it very well) and he understands Fang ... most of the time.

He _knew_, and it was a conscious awareness, that losing his temper at Fang would get a very different response than losing his temper at Sideswipe or Ironhide. He knew damn well that Fang would be hurt, furious, and perhaps never forgive him.

And yes, that temper of Ratchet's, that assertiveness, can - and has in the past - turned abusive. In my personal fanon, Ratchet's a mech with tremendous amount of good in him. He'd lay his life down for the Autobot cause, he is an incredibly loyal friend, and he was that rare creature, the honest politician, before the war began. He is a _good guy_. But he's flawed, and imperfect, like anyone. And in his flaws lies the potential to be very abusive towards his lovers.

For once trust is established, once he's reasonably sure that a lover won't reject him outright, he lets down his guard. And then the temper surfaces, and the domineering, controlling attitude comes to the forefront. In Fang's case, just as Ratchet became comfortable with the fact that Fang might really, truly _want _him, Fang did something that (in Ratchet's eyes) was incredibly stupid. Ratchet felt within his rights to yell at Fang about it, while assuming Fang would _take _it because he thought that Fang trusted him enough to know that even if Ratchet was furious to the point of shouting and throwing things, Ratchet still loved him ... note that these were not really conscious assumptions, but more subconscious. He lost his temper and stopped thinking.

Ratchet also doesn't see yelling and throwing things in quite as frightening a light as Fang does. Autobots don't generally conclude arguments, even screaming arguments, with physical violence. Decepticon officers sometimes killed each other during fights. It's an entirely different culture and environment.

From Ratchet's point of view, a lover ought to understand he has a temper, and put up with it as part of the package.

From Fang's point of view, love is nearly synonymous with trust. Ratchet broke his trust.

Fang, by contrast from Ratchet, is desperately seeking approval, but he also has a great deal of difficulty with trust. While he can be a needy emo!kitty at times, he has a decent amount of self respect. He'll only put up with so much crap before walking away. And now he has quite a few examples of emotionally healthy minds - the memories and emotions of past Primes - stored in his matrix to learn from. He's far more stable and far more grounded than he ever was before, and he was never _that _bad off to begin with.

Additionally, Fang is not inclined to _be _abusive. As Optimus noted, Fang has quite a temper, but he's slow to anger and he tends to keep it under control except when it would be useful to lose it. The few times he's lost his temper recently were anomalies. He's under a lot of stress, and while nowhere near 'cracking' he's a bit quicker to react than is usual for him.

At his core, Fang is patient and forgiving, and he leads by building up everyone around him, by building alliances, and by convincing others that it's in their best interest to follow him. While he _can _be fearsomely intimidating if he needs to be, that is purely a learned response that he uses when everything else fails. He's actually a lot like Optimus. On the surface they're very different, but they have many of the same behavioral responses.

Ratchet, I might point out, behaves a lot like Megatron. He's a good guy - there is no doubt of that - but he uses fear and intimidation to get his way, he has a 'my way or the highway' attitude, he's quick to anger, he will heap abuse upon completely uninvolved parties (i.e., "Don't go in the med bay when Ratchet's in a mood, he might throw a wrench at you ...!"), and he's intolerant of mistakes from others. Of course, the big huge glowing neon difference is that Ratchet is sane, capable of empathy, and not a megalomaniacal evil warlord.

Fang, having spent a good chunk of the war seeing Megatron's behavior up close and personal, is _really _not comfortable with Ratchet's behavior during the argument.

However.

Ratchet is _not _a bad guy. He's full of shades of grey, but at his very core, he's caring and he doesn't mean to hurt his friends and lovers. As Optimus implied, he has done so before, and that was _before _the war. He wasn't ever malicious, but he was impatient, hot-tempered, angry, and rude, and a painfully exactly perfectionist.

Whew. So. This wasn't just a case of, "Author yanking the character's chains for fun." There is some thought behind what I'm doing.

I did say this was going to be a tl;dr author's notes, right? Yeah. On with the story.

* * *

"Hi!" Percy rose from his desk as Fang stepped cautiously into the scientist's machine shop. His numerous lenses rippled away from his optics as he stood, folding back out of his line of sight and nestling together with clockwork precision. How well he remembered being fascinated by those lenses when he was little.

"Hi, Com... Percy." He hastily corrected himself. It was too easy to call him Compass, despite all the intervening years.

"Perceptor!" Prism bounced on Fang's shoulder. "Optics! Optics! _So _cool! I wanna draw them!"

He smiled and held a hand out. "Hello, little one."

She leaped into Perceptor's nimble fingers, ran up his arm, and took up a comfortable perch on his shoulder, with no sign of fear. Perceptor grinned at her, the expression open and honest. Fang could recall that smile being turned his way in many fond memories. Prism, he figured, was going to _love _Perceptor. Percy asked her, "So I take it you're happy to hang out with me?"

"You build people! You built Fang!" That was probably a yes, Fang thought.

"She's fascinated by protoform design," Fang said, smiling at her enthusiasm. "You two should get along well."

"Indeed, though it's been a long time since I've _designed _protoforms." Perceptor's gaze grew shadowed. "There was no need for new designs."

_No sparklings to make the protoforms for_, Fang realized. There had been a limited number of new designs during the war, due to limited resource, all intended for adult mechs. Perceptor had therefore been assigned the tasks of weapons design. If he recalled correctly, most of the new protoform designs had been Wheeljack's work, in conjunction with Ratchet.

Once upon a time, before he'd taken the military contract that had created Fang, Perceptor had owned a private design company. He had created custom protoforms for wealthy families, and legend had it that those builds had been true works of art. Fang did not doubt the legends. The way that Percy loved children, he had to have put all his spark into creating their forms.

Fang didn't remember Compass ever being so depressed as Perceptor was now. He didn't remember the flashes of darkness and sorrow in his eyes. They'd all been hurt so badly by the war.

However, the scientist brightened and said, "By the time we run out of the sparklings you saved, Fang, we'll have an Allspark. I've already asked to work on the project. I look forward to it."

"Starscream asked, as well." It was something of a warning. He assumed that Perceptor would not want to work with Starscream. "Just so you know."

Instead, the mech simply sighed. The reaction wasn't quite what he was expecting. "Fang, we're short on nerds. I may personally dislike someone, but I _will _work with them if it means saving our race." He reached up and stroked Prism's head with one gentle finger. "It's the only way to give our people a true future."

He grunted, "Thank you."

"Of course, I didn't even care much for Starscream _before _the war. Never did see what his partners saw in him." Perceptor shrugged. "Other than slagging brilliance and pure genius when it comes to design. And I suspect he's probably ..." mindful of little auditory sensors, he switched to comms, _:... probably good in the berth, or was, anyway. The arrogant afts always are. It's the confidence. Mmmhmm.:_

Fang ... had not been expecting a comment from Perceptor like that. He blinked and stared.

_:What?: _Percy stared right back. __

:Just ... weird hearing you say something like that.:

:You're a grownup.: Percy grinned at him, teasingly. _:Or, what, you think _I _am the innocent one because I'm a nerd?:_

He sputtered mentally for a second. _:I'm not sure it's possible to think about your mentor doing that ... that sort of ... Primus, I'll stop now.:_

Perceptor's comm'd giggle made him sound like a youngling, not a million year old scientist. _:I could tell you some things about Wheeljack ... and Jazz ... and Soundwave ...:_

Morbid fascination compelled Fang to ask, _:All at once?:_

:Alas, no.: Another of those mischievous giggles. _:Jazz would have gone for it, because Jazz just loves sharing his love for the universe and _being _loved back, but there was no chronological overlap there. Alas, alas.:  
_  
The entire discussion had been conducted at lightning speed. Prism nodded happily, meanwhile, at verbal mention of the seeker. Drawing their attention back to her, she declared, "Starscream builds things. He's really good at it. I like him."

Fang frowned at her. "Who told you that he's an engineer?" He hadn't really discussed Starscream with Prism, other than to warn her not to talk to him unless Fang was with her, or _ever _jump on him again.

Prism shrugged. "I just knew."

"She probably overheard someone talking about it." Fang shook his head, and dismissed it. "Percy, I've got to run. I've behind schedule. I'm sorry I can't stay and chat."

That got him a bright smile. "It's okay. Maybe we can talk when things slow down."

He nodded. "Prism, I don't know when I'll be back. Ratchet's going to pick you up this afternoon and I'll see you in his quarters this evening sometime."

She hunched down, looking suddenly unhappy. "Why do you need to work so hard? You never spend time with me."

His initial impulse was to promise her a block of time in the near future that would be all hers. However, Perceptor spoke up first, in a teasing tone of voice. "What, you don't _want _to hang out with me? And I thought you liked Ratchet."

"You're not Fang." She sounded sullen. "Love Fang more than anyone."

"Good." Perceptor padded off towards his desk. "You're supposed to love him. But we can still have fun, right? Because I want to have some fun with you and I made sure my afternoon was free just for you because I knew Fang was going to be busy."

"You saved the afternoon for me?"

"And I'm a little hurt you don't want to stay with me now." His tone was completely innocent and sounded totally honest, as if she really had wounded his feelings. Fang had a sudden flashback to Percy using the exact same guilt trip on _him_, so many years ago. It had worked rather well, and with an adult's hindsight, he realized Percy was a very good actor. Perceptor's optics had a very faint teasing gleam to them that he doubted Prism would catch.

"Sorry." She ducked her head down, and looked a little apologetic. "I'll stay. Nobody _ever _has time for me. Fang always leaves me with other people and sometimes they don't even _want _me. It _sucks_. He even gave me away once. Nobody _wants _me."

"Well, _I _have time for you. I want you. And you didn't want to play with me ..."

"I do, I do!" Her gaze was earnest, her voice apologetic. "I'm sorry, I want to stay!"

Fang smiled, and remembered why he had loved Percy so much. While she was distracted, he slipped out. He also made a mental note that his little sparkling apparently responded rather well to guilt trips. He hadn't actually realized she was developing a conscience. It was early for that, but they'd been actively working on empathy with her.

Perceptor comm'd him as the doors slid shut. Fang winced, expecting to hear anger from Percy because of what Prism had said about him giving her away. He hadn't realized, until that moment, just how very much he'd hurt her. And how much passing her around was _still _hurting her. Slaggitall, he loved her like his own spark, but he had _work _to do ... some of which wasn't appropriate for little sparklings to see or overhear.

However, despite Fang's assumption that Percy was going to scold him or worse, the scientist simply said, _:Thank you, Fang. It's been a long time since I've had a sparkling around. If you want, I can make sure I have time in my schedule for her every day. They're reassigning me to the med bay to work on sparkling maintenance, and she can help with that. It'll be good for her to learn about maintenance and repair, if she wants to be a designer.:_

He blinked, stopping short in the hall. _:You _want _her around?:_

:Sure. Just like I wanted you around. You do remember how much fun we had, right? I enjoyed having you around. Kitten, I loved you as if you really were my own, but I've always loved sparklings in general.:

Primus, he did remember those few short years, when he'd been ... loved ... and welcomed by one mech, this mech, who had worked so hard to make sure he knew just how much he cared for him. He remembered the gifts, the kind words, the encouragement, the education, and none of it required of Perceptor - he'd done it all because he _wanted _to. He'd never doubted Percy loved teaching him things. Part of his spark was suddenly, fiercely, jealous of Prism, who would get - if he had his way - all the time with Perceptor that both of them could bear. He wished he could run back to the lab and jouin them.

_:I ... yeah. Thanks. We'll talk later, but she could certainly use someone who ... well. She does get shuffled around a lot. Wheelie ... he takes care of her as much as he can, but he's ...: _he struggled to explain through waves of guilt. Sometimes, he regretted even bringing her online. It had been an impulsive bit of self-indulgence to do so. He worried it was going to permanently affect her. It would have been better for her if he had waited.  
_  
:He's busy with becoming a medic, I know. That's a good kid you've got there, by the way. I've talked to him a couple of times. I haven't discussed much about our relationship, because I didn't know where you and I stood, but if ... if I hadn't lost you, slaggitall, if the war hadn't destroyed everything, I'd like to think I'd be helping you with both of them. As a mentor should. Takes a family, generations of family, to really raise children right.:_

Perceptor huffed a sigh across the comm at Fang, who honestly didn't know what to say to the scientist. Then he continued, _:_My _mentor would have loved them, and you, too. He was the greatest old warrior, and I'm sorry you never met him ... I gave him some of the memories I had of you, after I left, and he tried to convince me to let him steal you away. I ... couldn't ... allow him to do that. Fang, he said you had Primus's own fire in your spark after he saw some of the memories I had of you arguing with Shockwave. I wish I could tell him how right he was.: _

He bowed his head. Perceptor had the craziest way of making him remember just how loved he'd been. How could he have ever believed that Percy had simply walked away? Who was more credible, the mech who had once been Compass, or Shockwave?

Right. He'd been an idiot to even begin to believe Shockwave. Especially once he'd become an adult, and had seen the mech's behavior through adult eyes.

Wistfully, Perceptor added, _:I know we're kindof on the opposite sides of a war still, but ... I wish we weren't.:_

:Tcha! I won't hold being a soft-sparked and crazy Autobot scientist against you if you won't hold being an evil 'con traitor against me_.:_

Perceptor's laughter in response to the crazy-Autobot-scientist tease was a brilliant reward. His words that followed, however, left Fang instantly more sober, and a little more embarrassed. _:It's never been about 'con or 'bot for me, Fang, just about good versus evil. You're one of the good guys, regardless of which God's aspect is painted on your armor. I don't believe you've ever forgotten that. The more I see of you, the more proud I am of you.:_

:... thanks.: And again he was rendered speechless beyond that.  
_  
:Mmmhmm. Talk you later, Kitten. And - I'll share some memories with you when we have time. You are my child. You always were, regardless of what the laws said.:_

It was with a much brighter mood that he headed off to his meetings. Perceptor was everything he remembered, and more. Oh, Primus, it felt good to hear that approval, and that fierce claim

* * *

Perceptor sat in his work bench chair for a long moment after Fang had closed his end of the comm connection. Prism was chattering at him about art - something about wanting an airbrush set. He only paid absent attention to her.

Fang had forgiven him.

And Fang wanted him to be part of his life, and the life of his children.

Perceptor shuttered his optics, and allowed himself the indulgence, just for a moment, of dreaming. For one brief klick of time, he considered what life would be like with Fang as his grown child. A life with Fang in it, and his children, _family_ ... it seemed too good to be true

_Once upon a time, it would simply have been normal._ Not _'too good to be true.'_ It would have been abnormal to have no family.

He told himself he shouldn't think of the past, and what might have been, any more than he should try to analyze what the future might hold. In either direction lay pain. Thoughts of the family he'd lost to the war, his own mentor dying in the very first year, were so painful he couldn't bear to recall them for long. And yet ...

With a surprised blink of his optic shutters, he realized that he had to change his calculations in regards to the future. He hadn't wanted to know what was happening, who was alive, who was dead, because every analysis he'd ever run ended with the utter destruction of their race. In all of those scenarios, known Decepticons had led: Megatron, Shockwave, Starscream, Soundwave, and on down the line to lesser commanders: Jhiaxus, Straxus, Onslaught, Astrotrain, and more. In every case, the result was the same.

The death of their race.

The death of everyone that Perceptor had ever known or loved.

It would happen. He'd known it.

However, now he had a new variable. One young Prime who might just change everything.

Or ... not.

He sighed, and turned his attention to Prism. He would not run that analysis yet. He told himself he didn't know Fang well enough, and he'd deliberately lost track of the specifics of their situation. It probably didn't matter anyway.

A hundred thousand years of war had made Perceptor more than a little fatalistic. What would come would come. He just didn't want to anticipate the slag too far in advance.

* * *

Bluestreak leaned against Fort Max's exterior wall, knees drawn to his chest, optics off. The fight had turned physical, as Jazz had predicted, by the time they'd arrived. It had taken Grimlock and Magnus to break it up, and then Jazz had personally escorted Sunstreaker off to his office, presumably to mete out punishment.

"You okay?" Windy asked, after silently regarding the big grey mech for a long moment. Bluestreak didn't acknowledge his presence until he spoke, which was unusual - Blue was usually social to a fault.

"He called me a stupid glitch and said the reason they managed to hack me in that prison camp was because I was dumber than a human."

"Wildrider said that?"

"Yeah."

"I've noticed Wildrider's pretty much an idiot himself." Windy snorted. Bluestreak was such a sweet mech; it made him mad to think that the Decepticon frontliner would be so cruel. There were plenty of Autobots who could give as good as they got. Why would Wildrider pick on Blue, who - except when he was slagging things rather effectively in battle - was kind and gentle and earnest?

"I wish I could slag him." Bluestreak hunched his shoulders further. He sounded more miserable than angry. "I mean, I really wish I could ..." he trailed off. "Sunstreaker tried to stop the fight. Jazz thought he was the cause. _I _threw the first punch."

"Oh." Windy had made the same assumption.

"I already comm'd Jazz to tell him." Bluestreak gave Windy a sharp look, briefly focusing on the smaller mech. "I won't let him take the fall for me, particularly when he was right. Sunny got between us and said I needed to let it go, that the war was ending and a dumb insult wasn't worth killing anyone over. He was totally right and I'm not at all surprised he'd say something like that, because he's heard that kind of thing from the officers so much and his problem's a lack of perception of what others are thinking and feeling, not a lack of reasoning ability, and he probably meant that it wouldn't be worth the punishment, which would be stasis until we've got courts again, then a murder charge, and maybe a choice between reformatting and really restrictive coding and I think I'd take reformatting because I've _been _hacked and I never want to do that again and ..."

"So you hit him," Windy summed up. He'd learned that Bluestreak would talk until someone stopped him when he was in this kind of a mood. Fortunately, Bluestreak didn't seem to be bothered when he was interrupted by others.

"Yeah, I did, I was so mad, and now I'm probably in a lot of trouble, and Sunny's probably mad at me, more because I got him in trouble when he was trying to be good, he thinks they'll give him a sparkling if he's really good, though I dunno ... anyway, he's probably mad that I got him in trouble, not that I hit him ..."

"You care what Sunny thinks?" Windy asked, before Bluestreak managed to wind up into a serious monologue. It really was best to just stop him before he got off on another tangent.

He'd recently overheard one human grumble that Blue never even paused to breath when he got going, and another human had promptly laughed and observed that Blue didn't _need _to breath.

"Pit, yeah, I care! We were in a prison camp together for a long time. He kept me sane. Everybody else told me to shut the frag up, Blue, you talk too much, but Sunny let me chatter. Sideswipe says Sunny likes me because when I talk so much he understands me better because he gets enough data from my words to come to correct conclusions about what I'm thinking, and I know he really listens, he doesn't tune me out. And Sides says Sunny trusts me, too, because we 'faced once in the prison camp when we both thought we were gonna die and he _knows _I like him 'cause of that. It was _deep_, y'know, because we were both so alone. He's really not as bad as people say ... he just doesn't _get _people and sometimes he gets really depressed and then he just doesn't care what people think, but when he's doing okay, he's not bad, he's just clueless. He's no Decepticon, not like people say. And I'm talking too much."

"It's okay." Windy smiled at him encouragingly. "I'm listening."

"Anyway. I know I talk too much, I say too much, but Prime says it's okay, that I'm allowed, that I do a good job and I've got lots of friends, and that my friends understand, and that what anyone else thinks doesn't matter, but I know I annoy people, and Sunny's my friend and he carries a grudge and he'll probably be mad at me for a long time and I know we're both going to get punished and it's not his fault, he was just trying to ..."

Windy reached out and rested his hand on Bluestreak's leg. It was as high as he could touch; Blue was a big warrior, easily twenty feet tall, with heavily reinforced armor. The light contact caused Blue to fall instantly silent. He blinked down at Manywinds, then the big gunner started up again, telling Windy, "I envy you. You missed the entire war. You get to help us rebuild, but you haven't had to kill thousands upon thousands of people and then justify it yourself, tell yourself it's okay, that you're a good person. I want to be a good person but I've done so many bad things. But they killed everyone I knew and loved right at the beginning of the war, and I joined the Autobots because I wanted to stop them, because the Autobots wouldn't destroy a town of innocents, would they?"

Those blue optics were full of such pain. For once, Bluestreak stopped talking on his own. Windy sighed. "I don't think that the Autobots would condone that sort of thing." Somewhere along the line he'd picked up that Bluestreak's entire hometown had been destroyed. Bluestreak had been a neutral until that point; he'd joined the Autobots to fight the Decepticons.

Wildrider had probably come a lot closer to being deactivated than he realized, Windy thought. If not for Sunstreaker, of all mechs, intervening, it was entirely possible that Blue would have done something regrettable. Windy had seen Bluestreak in both actual combat, and in hand-to-hand practice. Bluestreak was known as a gunner, but he was good enough in practice to occasionally put Sideswipe down on the ground He was a better fighter than Wildrider, hands down.

Blue drew his knees closer to his chest. "If it comes down to a choice between Nebulos and Earth we'll pick Earth and I'll be killing innocent mechs. I was talking to First Aid, he says the Nebulan mechs are so screwed up in their programming we can't blame them for attacking us. I don't want to fight anymore. I don't want to kill innocents ever. I have, you know. It's part of war. I'm a good shot, but I'm not perfect. And sometimes I've shot people and they've crashed into buildings or crowds, and one time there was this seeker who I killed and he nose dived right into our field hospital and the bombs he was carrying in his payload blew and killed everyone there, it was forty-five people, and I didn't mean to have that happen, and it was war, but it was my shot that killed him and if I'd hit him a few seconds earlier or later they wouldn't have died because his trajectory would have been just different enough ..."

"I'm sorry," Windy said, truly at a loss for anything to say other than that.

Blue continued, oblivious to Windy's momentary distraction, "... But I'm so scared, I'm so scared, fighting feels good, it feels good to fight for my side, I'm proud to do it, but then afterwards I feel so bad, it's always been that way ..."

Windy shuttered his own optics, briefly disconnecting from the runaway train of Blue's monologue again as Bluestreak chattered on while his own thoughts turned inward. Bluestreak was obviously traumatized and confused by his own feelings, and Windy pretty much _got _that. He personally thought Bluestreak should have been pulled off the front lines a long time ago, though he also understood the rather pragmatic decision by the officers to use Blue because Blue's skills kept others alive.

_I don't know how to fix this. _Windy gazed up at the bigger mech, at a loss, feeling terribly sad and out of his league. He liked Blue. The mech, for all his chatter, for all his emotional scars, was funny and kind and sweet.

_I owe him my life, because of that fight a few weeks ago. _Windy blinked, remembering that. Blue was courageous, and smart, and more than competent with his outsized laser rifle. And he was hurting so very much. It made Windy want to help, somehow, some way.

Windy patted his armor, drawing Blue's attention down to him. Getting into another mech's space was something they taught in medical school; he had an academic understanding of how and why it worked to make a connection with another mech, but he hadn't practiced it much. Still, it seemed worth a try here. "Mind if I get up on your shoulder? I feel like I'm talking to your elbow down here."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure. I don't mind. Not many people want to get that close to me, because I'm not exactly partner material, but you're a little guy, and you're right, it's kinda hard to talk to you when you're so short, and the social rules are different for you little ones. Though we could move inside and you could stand on the catwalks or something, or we could find a rock or something down by the river if you want, if you'd be more comfortable ... I didn't realize it was awkward for you to talk to me from way down there, I'm waiting you from the optics in my ankle, but of course you don't have the same perspective on _my _face as I have on _yours ..._"

His earnestness was amusing. Windy sprang, caught the edge of one of Bluestreak's arm plates, and vaulted up. He landed lightly and settled down on Blue's shoulder. "It's okay, Blue. I don't mind. I'm pretty breakable, but I trust you not to hurt me." As Blue had implied, he _was _fairly used to getting into other mechs space, though he generally knew them a bit better than he knew Bluestreak. Sometimes, it was simply safer to sit on a friend's shoulder versus risk being trampled under foot.

It _really _wasn't the big deal that Blue was making it seem to be.

Bluestreak said, rather strongly, "I wouldn't! Of course I wouldn't! I wouldn't ever hurt you!"

Windy leaned against Blue's helm, and let his legs trail down the other mech's chest plating. In an effort to figure Blue out a little bit better, he asked, "How come you think you're not partner material?"

That got him a rude noise. "I talk too much and everyone thinks I'm too unstable and that I'm just, well, me. Well, I had a partner for a few years but she died, and that was a long, long time ago. A Decepticon shot her out of the sky. I thought I was going to die from the grief, but it was a long time ago, and I've learned since then that I can survive a lot of things and just keep going and I guess I'll just keep going with this, face what comes when it comes, but damnit, I just want the war to be over, but then I don't, and I miss her so much, and ..."

"So you two were happy?"

"Oh, yeah. Primus, I miss her. She was the best thing in my life. We were only together for about five earth years, it was so short, but she loved me for who I am. It was so good to have someone to share everything with, to just lose myself with sometimes. Primus, I miss that, just the spending hours and hours with her ... Wish I could find someone like that again ... but everyone thinks I'm a bit of a glitchwit, I'm the butt of a lot of jokes, I hate it, sometimes I wish I could just go far away but the Autobots need me. Optimus put me in one of the highest suites in the tower because I'm so accurate with my weapon. He wants me there if we have to fight to defend Fort Max because he knows I can blast anything I can see. It's not easy, you know, to hit a target if it's a really long way away because there's so little margin for error. I've got mods in my arms and shoulders and my legs so I can be really, really still and really precise, and in combat I'm running some high level tracking routines that take a ton of my processor power."

A light went on for Windy. "You're not able to focus on anything other than the task of hitting a target when you're shooting?"

"And maybe that's a good thing, because then I don't have the think about killing someone, which is what I'm trying to do every time I acquire a target and shoot it down."

Well, that explained why Blue had a melt down after many battles. He was processing everything all at once, after the fact. It also explained why Blue was invariably paired with a few big heavy hitters, front liners, who could defend him. He put so much processor power into targeting that he wouldn't be able to adequately monitor his immediate surroundings, or to defend himself until he shut down those routines.

"I hate it, because I don't feel anything when I run those routines, and I should feel it, shouldn't I? But it doesn't feel like I'm killing, it just feels like a ... game. Like target practice. The humans have a game called skeet, and it feels like that'd feel, I think. All I do is determine target, lock on, and eliminate it. And listen for orders and follow them." Bluestreak shook his head slowly, and Windy straightened up so the motion wouldn't knock him off Blue's shoulder. Blue, realizing he'd jostled Windy, froze until he was sure Windy was comfortably situated again. "Sorry ... anyway. Prime makes sure I'm always under a good commander. He knows I'd follow a bad order because I shut down so many of my logic routines. I've got to trust my commander to give me good orders and to defend me, or I can't get into that zone where I can bring all my code online for really accurate shooting. He usually sends me out with Jazz or Ironhide, sometimes with Bee. I trust their judgment. I won't go out with Grimlock or Ratch. They've got scary tempers and could sic me on someone who doesn't need to be shot."

Windy sighed. He wasn't sure he'd give that much power over to anyone, period. And Ironhide was an odd one to trust ... or perhaps not. Ironhide didn't lose his temper in _battle_, and he was constantly stressing the need to keep one's emotions under control during combat to Windy. Windy asked, "Who do you usually talk to after a fight? Or when you need someone to just talk to?"

Blue wrapped his arms tighter around his legs. "I'm supposed to talk to Smokie or Jazz or even Optimus. I like them, I guess, but they all outrank me, and it's hard to forget that. And Optimus - Primus, he'll listen if I need it, and he's a great mech, but he's our Prime. I hate to take his time up like that."

"You don't talk to your friends?" There were any number of mechs who would be willing to support Bluestreak if he needed it.

He answered softly, "Don't want to burden 'em. I'm not the only one who hates his life." He hunched his shoulders. "I probably shouldn't even be burdening you, but I know Jazz probably told you to keep me busy, right? An' you asked, and ..."

"I volunteered," Windy said, honestly.

"You've got psych training." Bright optics that held a surprisingly sharp intellect regarded him keenly.

"I have a degree in the field, yeah, but that's not why I volunteered." Windy made a face. He suspected that the reason Bluestreak was willing to talk to him was that he was seeing him as a doc, not a friend. He wasn't sure he liked that, and he was quick to correct that assumption. He said, "I'm not particularly tolerant of the usual glitches you get as patients. And I'm not real good at tact or thinking up pretty answers to make people feel better. If someone's being a glitch I tend to tell them the truth, not always politely ... So I moved into research. I'm loads better at analysis than I was at talking to neurotic civilians whose biggest issue was not being able to figure out what color of paint they wanted to wear ..."

Bluestreak sighed. "I'm probably irritating you, then, if you don't like to hear this stuff."

Windy pointedly leaned against Blue's helm, demonstrating trust and affection. "Blue, quite honestly, if they tried to assign me to the med staff, I'd object. Strenuously. Research is my passion, not medicine. Most of the idiots in this world have self-inflicted problems and I've got no tolerance for that. You ... do not fit in that category. Blue, you've lived through absolute slagging hell, you've done things no sane mech would ever want to do, you're running a type of tactical application that is notorious for causing emotional distress ..."

"I have to run it!"

"You do. I'd agree. It keeps you and troops you serve with alive. You _do _need it. And the Autobots need you. But it's hard on you." Windy traced a glyph etched on Blue's helm with one finger, pointedly. It meant _commitment_, with the implication that the commitment was to one's brothers. Blue had others tattooed into his plating as well, and Windy had noticed them one at a time, over the last few weeks. None were obvious against his grey paint: _honor, integrity, strength, courage, hope. _There were names, too, written in elegant script on the backs of both his arms. The names were right above his weapons mounts. He wondered if they were names of friends or enemies, and if they were living or dead. "You've been in a no-win situation for a long time, Blue."

Bluestreak actually didn't say anything for a long moment. He tilted his head subtly to one side, just a few inches, not enough to really jostle Windy, but clearly indicating he was thinking hard about something.

Windy let him sit in silence, knowing Blue probably needed a moment to think things through. He idly slid two fingers under his own armor and against a pressure sensor that had been jammed earlier, in the combat practice with the humans. He weighed less than the humans, and they'd thrown him around with alarming ease. The sensor was warm and wet with a film of repair nanytes - minor circuitry damage and small sensors were best left to nanytes to mend. It was big things, like dented armor and damaged internals, that needed a medic's care. However, the sensor was _itchy_ and sore. It was driving him crazy, and rubbing it didn't seem to help.

Blue's next words made him forget his aches and pains entirely. "Windy, maybe I'm wrong here, because I'm really not used to this, but, uh, are you kinda coming on to me? It's okay if you're not, and it's okay if you are, but you've totally got me confused, and I sorta want to know. You were dating Bee, and I know that didn't work out, but there's a lot of mechs who are way more desirable than I am who'd be interested in you, I think even Doc might like you a little bit, and you two would be cute together, and ... oh, there's that human girl who's so smart, and ..."

"Bluestreak," Windy said, with a low laugh, not entirely surprised by the question, "Kat's cute, but her mother keeps giving me the death glare, and she's not _that _cute. And Doc's just not my type."

"You've got a type? What's your type? Here, sit on my knees. I can't see you very good there, my peripheral optics are designed for long-range focus and your face is close to the ones on the side of my helm, you're blurry ..."

Windy hopped from Blue's shoulder to the offered knee. He balanced lightly, small feet finding purchase in the seams of Blue's armor, and realized Bluestreak was staring at him with a mixture of confusion and absolutely charming hope. Unfortunately, it was misplaced hope. He would need to let him down gently. Windy sighed, "Blue, I'm sorry. I'm here because I like you, and I want to be your friend. I'm not attracted to you. You're not my type."

"Oh." Blue issued a soft burst of white noise, the Cybertronian equivalent to an embarrassed grin. "I guess I was hoping a bit. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm flattered." Windy shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Do you want me to get down?"

"Nah, it's okay. I've seen you riding on other people's shoulders. Shoulda known you didn't mean anything by it." Blue shuttered his optics and shifted cautiously, leaning his helm back against the wall. "So what is your type? I mean, you don't have to tell me, but I'm curious, and I want to be your friend too, and ..."

Windy gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle. "I'm well known for falling head over heels for the brave hero types - you know, tall, heroic war... heroes. I'm sure you know the type. It doesn't take much for me to start crushing on a knight in shining duryllium armor ..."

Before he said _heroes_, every single one of Bluestreak's systems had gone silent. Windy trailed off as he said the last word. The tall mech was perfectly still for a long moment. Then he said, "I should go, Windy. Maybe I'll be in less trouble with Jazz if I seek him out versus letting him summon me. Not that I don't deserve to be punished, but I really don't want time in the brig, I'll do anything to avoid it, and ..."

"Did I say something?"

"Nothing I haven't heard people imply before." Blue's voice sounded very neutral.

"Wait, wait, what?" Windy was truly confused.

"I need to go." Bluestreak reached a hand up, offering Windy a lift down.

"I can't change who I'm attracted to," Windy said, still feeling like he was missing something.

"You said you're attracted to heroes, right? Tall, heroic heroes. Officers."

"Yeah, that's me." He gave a rueful smile. "Though, granted, _tall _for me includes quite a few humans and Nebulans. t'Grethi was several inches taller than I am ... he used to hold me in his arms for hours, and it didn't matter I'm a mech and he was Nebulan. Oh, and officers. I've always had a thing for officers. I guess that's why I fell so bad for Bee - tall, by my standards, in either form. A hero. An officer - a _Prime. _Maybe it's shallow, but that's the way I'm wired, and ..."

Bluestreak closed a hand around Windy's shoulders. Before Windy could formulate a protest, he found himself set very firmly down on the ground and released. Bluestreak stood up, and Windy had an optic-level view of the gunner's knee.

"You realize I'm a ..." he said his rank in Cybertronian; they were translating it to lieutenant in English. "... don't you?" Bluestreak said, very softly, very very far above Windy's head.

He was still confused, a bit. "Look, Blue, I'm sorry if I misled you. I'm friendly with everyone. I wasn't trying to come on to you."

"It's not about that." Blue's voice was very soft, very controlled, and he'd stopped babbling. "A simple 'no' would have been fine. It's all about _why _you're not interested."

"But you're not my type - I'm sorry, I can't change that." He shrugged. "I want to be friends with you, sure. I like you, Blue. We can hang out. But I'm not interested in ..."

"... I need to go find Jazz." With that, Bluestreak headed off, long legs carrying him so swiftly away that the only way Windy could possbly have kept up would have been by taking to the air. He seriously considered doing so, if only to find out why Bluestreak had suddenly started acting funny. However, he was afraid of upsetting Blue even more.

He vented a hiss of static in frustration when Blue was out of audio range, and comm'd Jazz. _:Sir, Bluestreak took off looking for you.:_

:Oh, good. Ah was just about to summon him.:

:He's upset. I don't know why ...:

Jazz snorted. _:That fight have nothing to do with it?:_

:I would assume he was not in the best frame of mind before Wildrider decided to harass him. He's ... troubled ... Jazz.:

:Ah know.: Jazz sounded pained. _:We all want t' help him.:_

:I said something that seemed to really upset him. Or did something. I dunno. I got friendly, I was trying to comfort him, and he asked if I was coming on to him. I swear _I wasn't, Sir. Anyway, I told him he just wasn't my type, which was true ...:_

:Aw, slag. I just had a look at Max's security tapes. You little glitch.: Jazz didn't sound particularly angry, just annoyed, despite the severity of that particular insult. _:Could you have been any less tactful?: _There was a brief pause, and then Jazz added, sounding more than a bit annoyed, _:And you would not be in trouble for propositioning him.:_  
_  
:Uh?: _Now Jazz was ticked at him. He'd only been trying to help, and he just didn't get how he'd upset  
_  
:For a shrink, you really are _not _good at seeing the world from other people's viewpoints.:_

:I have no clue what you're talking about. Jazz, there is a reason _why I went into research. Please. Clue me in. I really don't get it.:_

Jazz vented an exasperated hiss of a sigh at him. _:You told him you like tall, heroic officers, which is a rather good description of Bluestreak.:_

:Slag, he thinks I said he wasn't a hero ... oh, meh. I'll go clarify. it's not that, I know he's a hero, it's just ...:

Very patiently, Jazz interrupted and explained, _:I am absolutely certain Bluestreak knows what you really meant.:_

:Jazz, seriously, I personally think he's a hero. I'll tell him.: He hadn't realized Blue was that touchy.  
_  
:Please don't. You'll make it worse. Windy, Bluestreak knows he's a hero. It's one of the reasons we use him so much; we can count on him to do whatever needs to be done. It's probably best if you avoid him for awhile. You'll only make it worse if you try to talk to him right now.:_

Exasperated, Windy demanded, _:Will you please spell this out for me in small words?:_

:In small words, Blue has issues. If he meets all your other criteria, and you are bluntly not interested in them, you just validated how undesirable he is to others because _of those issues.:_

Oh. Suddenly, he felt about two inches tall.

Peevishly, Jazz added, _:Couldn't you have just said something like, 'Sorry, I'm still getting over the mutual clusterslag that was my affair with Bumblebee?':_

:Jazz, I ...: He closed his eyes. Jazz's barbed words stung. It would even have been a truth. He wasn't looking for a relationship. _:I'm sorry. I'll go tell him I'm sorry.:_

:Don't bother.: Jazz snorted. _:You told him the truth. Unless you plan to lie to him now, there's no getting around it. He _does _have issues, and most mechs wouldn't consider interfacing with anyone that screwed up.:_

:Well, yeah. I sure don't want to know what's in his spark. Primus.:

Jazz vented a long, exasperated sigh. _:And now I get to pick up the pieces. Windy - just stay away from him. He's one of my better friends. I thought you'd be good for him.:_

There was a little squawk of feedback as Jazz cut the connection, probably a deliberate insult. That could be an accident, or the Cybertronian equivalent of a dirty look. He was inclined to think it was the latter.

* * *

Jazz pinged open his office door as Bluestreak approached, letting Sunstreaker out. Blue met Sunny's gaze, something many mechs were afraid to do. Sunny had his horribly awful moments, but deep down, he was not a bad guy. Bluestreak had spent enough time with him to know that - and to be able to read his moods.

Sunny said, with apparent good cheer, "Your turn."

"How bad was it?"

He shrugged. "Worth it."

Sunstreaker always measured punishment with "worth it" or "not worth it." He'd get the details later. He simply said, for now, "Guess it's my turn to face the Jazz."

That earned him a roll of Sunstreaker's optics. Sunny punched him in the upper arm as he passed by, hard enough to scratch Blue's paint.

"Hey!"

"Worth it," Sunstreaker repeated, with a dark smile. "But you owe me, Blue."

Great. Sunny was ticked off at him. _And _would probably call that favor in when he needed help with a prank, which meant that there was every chance in the world that he would be in even _more _trouble in the near future.

He stepped into Jazz's office, and the door closed behind him with swift finality. He jerked his chin up, squared his shoulders, and said, "Sir. I understand you may not have determined an appropriate punishment yet, but I just wanted to state I will accept anything you mete out. I was in the wrong. Sir."

It felt good to say it. He knew he'd screwed up. Admitting it to Jazz was a relief.

Jazz sighed and rose from his chair. The top of his head only came up to Blue's elbow, but he never seemed small. He came around the desk and said softly, "Are you okay?"

"What do you mean?" He wasn't okay, but he wasn't going to dump on Jazz.

"Windy," Jazz said, enunciating every word with great care, and losing his trademark slow drawl, "doesn't know you. We know you._ I _know you."

He sighed. "Max said something to you?"

"Fort Max is in recharge this hour. Windy comm'd me because he was upset that he had upset you." Jazz peered up at Blue. "He's a good mech, I think, but he just didn't get it. I do. And I'm sorry."

Uncomfortably, Blue shifted from foot to foot. "It's okay."

Jazz sighed. "It's not. But - your punishment. You get to decide. Ah'm far to busy to deal with it."

"Uh." For once he was completely speechless, and Blue was more than self-aware enough to see the humor in this. He chuckled a little. "You want me to pick my own punishment?"

"Ah'm cruel like that."

"What did you do to Sunny?"

"Half day solitary. Double shifts for a week."

Bluestreak nodded slowly. He wouldn't argue that punishment with Jazz, though he felt it was a little harsh. Sunny _never _had time to himself. "Two days solitary. Two weeks double shifts." He thought that was fair; it was similar to what Sunstreaker got for fighting when he _did _throw the first punch.

"You're being a bit harsh on yourself." Jazz tilted his head a little to the side. "It's the first time you've been in serious trouble in years."

"Coulda caused an incident with the Decepticons, Sir. Maybe it should be harsher."

Jazz snorted. "Ah highly doubt Fang would have a problem with anyone handing Wildrider his aft, on either side. Fang has already dealt with it, and trust me, what ah'm doing to you two isn't anything compared to what Fang did to Wildrider."

"Oh?"

"He said if Wildrider couldn't use language appropriately, he wouldn't be allowed t' use it at all. The Decepticon medics have already disabled Wildrider's vocalizer."

"Slag." Just when it got easy to forget that Lord Fangface was a Decepticon, he did something like that to remind them that 'cons had a whole different approach to discipline.

"And he's sharing that work detail with Sunstreaker. And you, if you have no objections."

"No, sir. I'll be polite, sir." It would definitely be easier to be nice if Wildrider was mute!

Jazz gave him a tired-looking smile. "Ah know ya will, Blue. And now ah'm taking my boss mask off, if ya don't mind. Ya know ya did wrong, and yer gonna face the music, and that's good enough for me. Ah don't have to lecture ya -"

"But ..."

"- If you think ya need a lecture, give yerself one later. It'd be longer and more thorough than any ah'd give." Jazz smirked at him, and Blue responded with wide-optic'd surprise at being teased. It was welcome teasing, but he'd expected to be in far more trouble. However, Jazz's next words shed some light on why Jazz wasn't angry at him.

Jazz admitted, "Ta tell t' truth, I'd have hit him too, and to quote Sunny, it would have been worth the punishment."

Bluestreak smiled, then asked Jazz a bit teasingly, "What sort of punishment would you have assigned yourself?"

That got him a laugh from Jazz. "Ah don't even want t' think about it. Probably more time in solitary than you assigned yourself because it's the worst thing anyone could do t' me ..."

He fretted suddenly, "Did I assign myself enough?"

Jazz made a casual waving gesture with his claws, dismissing Bluestreak's sudden concerns. "You're fine. But we're done with the official slag now. Answer me honestly, are ya all right? Ah'm asking as your friend, not your CO, so it's not an order to answer, but ah do care about you."

"I'm miserable," he said, softly. "How much of that video with me and Windy did you see?"

"It's been viewed by me and Red only, in its entirety, and then we security locked it. Ah did see everything you said, but it's nothing ah didn't know about ya already, kiddo."

He sighed. He was just so tired. It wasn't the first time he'd been smacked in the faceplates by other's perceptions of him. It wouldn't be the last. The worst part was, it was true: he would _not _be a good partner.

"Ah wouldn't be scared of you," Jazz said, softly, with a curiously intent gaze. "Of 'facing with ya. For what it's worth."

Bluestreak smiled. "I know, Jazz. But you've got Prowl back, and we all know how you feel about him, and you don't feel that way about me, and ..."

"Ah don't." Jazz stepped into his space, just a little, enough that it could be seen as an accident and ignored, except that Jazz didn't make mistakes like that. "But ya know that. Ya know where ah stand."

Bluestreak blinked and couldn't help but simply stare. Jazz had a reputation for casual intimacy. There was no negative connotation to this, unlike a human who was seen as 'easy' - it simply implied that Jazz had a very secure sense of his own self, and a great deal of love and affection for his friends. However, never in a million years did he expect Jazz to proposition him.

He was imagining it. He had to be.

Jazz clicked back his visor. Bright blue optics, which somehow looked youthful despite the fact that Jazz was nearly as old as Optimus, regarded him steadily. Jazz repeated, "Ya understand, right?"

"Understand what?"

Jazz took another step forward. Now he was close enough to rest one dangerously curved claw on the back of Bluestreak's hand, very lightly. Blue had seen him punch those fingers through the armor of more than one 'con, through layers of internals, through a spark chamber, and into a spark. He'd seen Jazz a thousand times after battles with his fingers singed and charred from the discharge of life-energy.

The single finger touching Blue's hand was very gentle. He had no fear, only trust, of this mech. He looked down at the fingers, then met Jazz's intent gaze. Jazz said softly, "Ya understand, right? Because ah would have some time with ya, if ya'd have me."

"Me?" He was stunned. He knew that Jazz couldn't have Prowl, that was fairly obvious, but he had assumed that Jazz would not be intimate with anyone else. The love between the two of them was so very obvious to anyone who watched. Of course, now that he thought about it, it had always been obvious, and Jazz had many lovers before Prowl had been lost, too.

Bluestreak had never really understood why Prowl had wanted to wait. Well, he could guess. Prowl was incredibly independent, not real big on trust, and he probably had not wanted to rely on anyone else, even Jazz, to the degree that partnership implied. Given the way they felt about each other, forming a partnership probably would have been inevitable if they started 'facing.

That earned him a wry smile. "Yah like me, right?"

"As a friend, yeah, I like you, of course I do, but I know you love Prowl ..."

"Good. Tha's what I wan' ta' hear." One corner of his mouth turned up in a rueful smile. "Ah don' do this with mechs that might get wrong ideas an' expect things of me ah won't give."

"Why me?" Bluestreak frowned at him. "Are you trying to prove something to me? Because if you are, I know I can be a good partner, I had a partner, remember? Just, she died. It was a long time ago, but I know I can be. The thing is nobody even wants to give me a chance because they think I'm just a little crazy, and ..."

Jazz sighed softly. "Blue, ah don' know." The long finger resting on the back of Bluestreak's hand lifted away. "Ah was gonna see somebody was free tonight quite honestly. Ah need this too. It's been a pit-slagging long week, and ah'm tired, an' ah could use losing m'self in someone's arms for the night."

"But why me? I mean, I'm flattered, I'm not offended, but why me? You've never asked before."

"Because you're a friend, and ya need it too, an' ah've never asked because ah was never sure you were actually interested in interfacing, ah'd never heard your opinions on relationships before at all, or knew you desired intimacy."

Jazz reached up and traced Bluestreak's Autobot insignia on his chest. Blue froze at that display of intimacy, of closeness. It was the touch of a lover, and it had been a long, long time since anyone had touched him that way. Jazz asked softly, "Are ya interested? Ya know ah care about ya. It'd be good for both of us, ah think. No problem if yer not. Ah'n ya know ah won't treat ya any different if it's _work. _There's the off-duty me, and the on-duty me, an' pretty much everyone who's ever been in my head figures out real quick ah got a good firewall between 'em."

Bluestreak was so very tempted. He asked, "But what if you don't like ..."

Jazz's other fingers were now resting on his hip, splayed across the joint and curled around across his aft. "Ah know ya, Blue. Ah've worked with you for tens of thousands of years. I've seen ya at your worst, an' ah've seen ya at yer best. We've fought for our lives together, an' if that's not a good way to get t' know the character of a mech, ah don't know what is. I will like what I find, an' I will not reject you. Ah am also confident you'll like me ... ah've never had anyone object to what's in my mind yet."

Hesitantly, he lifted his hands up and put his palms on Jazz's back. "... okay." He found he was rather interested, actually. The thought that Jazz - and he respected Jazz very deeply - found him a worthy prospect for a lover, even a casual one, was incredibly mood elevating. It was flattering, and a thrill of desire ran through him, because it was Jazz, and he had always found Jazz incredibly attractive. Everyone did. On the other hand, nearly everyone treated Bluestreak like an overgrown sparkling ... though 'nearly' had never included Jazz. Jazz had _always _treated him with adult respect.

Oh, yes. He wanted this. He'd just never thought that Jazz would be interested in time with him, when Jazz had so many other options.

Bluestreak folded the smaller mech into his arms, tugging him closer, and was incredibly gratified when Jazz responded to the embrace by tightening his own grip. He was holding the SIC of the Autobots in a lover's embrace, something Bluestreak had never thought would happen. Jazz _wanted _him. Genuinely wanted him.

"Ah need this so bad, ah _need _to be with someone for a little while," Jazz murmured, one long finger tracing the outline of the hatch that covered one of Blue's dataports. "Tonight, then?"

"I should ... there was this punishment I sorta proposed for myself ...?" He'd assumed his two days in solitary (and he was _not _looking forward to that) would start immediately. He figured he'd be assigned a cell in the brig, which would probably not be locked, but he would be alone. He would retain his comm, and would be able to hear the others, though he would be honor-bound not to communicate with anyone.

"You will start that tomorrow morning. All three isolation cells are full right now - Sunny's already started his sentence, and there's a couple others who have gotten themselves in trouble." Jazz slowly released him, and looked up to meet his gaze. "Ah have a pit-slagging meeting to go to in just a few Earth minutes an' ah have t' talk to Optimus first. Will you be okay now?" Jazz was still in his space, and his visor retracted. His tone was gentle, but not condescending.

He answered with complete honestly, "I'm fine. What Windy implied ... I've heard it before. I know it's not true, I know I could make somebody a fine partner, I know there's nothing wrong with me that would stop me from being somebody's lover, but I've heard it all before. Nobody wants me because of what they think, and I wish they did, but I can't change them, and I try to change me, I try so hard, but that never works, and ..."

Jazz leaned against him again. "Ah know. Ah know it doesn't work.

"It hurts."

"Ah know." Jazz slid two claws up under Blue's bumper and rested them over the inner layer armor that covered Blue's spark chamber. That touch triggered a warning from Bluestreak's combat routines; when he shut the alarms off because this wasn't an assault, it triggered a wave of trust and _desire_. He was so lonely, and it felt so good to know someone found him desirable back.

Jazz continued, "Ah'd worry about you a lot more if ya didn't hurt, after everything we've all lived through. Everyone in this army hurts, Bluestreak."

"I know." He made a soft, mournful white-noise sound. "Wildrider. He hurts too. Maybe worse than I do. He has no hope left."

"Mmm." Jazz leaned against him for a minute, then with clear reluctance, straightened up. "I'll see you later, then. You should finish your shift, then go do something fun until the meeting's out. I'll comm you when I'm free."

A frisson of _want _ran through him. Bluestreak nodded. "Fun ...?"

"Fun. Go get some of your friends together and do something fun." Jazz removed his hand from under Blue's bumper and patted him on the arm. "Life's too fragile not to have fun when you can. Ah got to punish you, to be fair, but your sentence is suspended until tomorrow morning. "

He smiled. Jazz _lived _by that mantra, to have fun when and where you could. Bluestreak tried to. "Okay. I'll ... I'll look forward to tonight."

"Me too," Jazz said, with a very bright and very honest smile. "I'll be thinking about you. I _will _see you later, Blue. I do have to go, though, or I won't have time to talk to Optimus before the human bigwigs get here."

Bluestreak cringed. He'd really let Optimus down.

"It'll be okay, I promise."

He thought he could believe that, and managed a smile again. "Yeah, I know."

"Good. See you later, Blue." Jazz headed for the door, without looking back.

Bluestreak sighed. What Jazz was offering would be fun, he was sure. It would take his mind off everything. He was truly looking forward to it. He also knew that Jazz really did care about him, though it was friendship and affection that the other mech felt, not love. Not love like Jazz felt for Prowl.

_He's hurting too, _Bluestreak realized. _He really does need to be with friends right now. And I am his friend._

It would be good for both of them.  
_  
_

* * *

"Blue threw the first punch." Jazz rubbed his face plates with two fingers as he explained the incident to Optimus. "Multiple witnesses confirmed it. Ah've seen the video from Hound. There were no security cameras there."

Optimus leaned back in his chair. "That's unusual behavior from Bluestreak. What provoked him?"

Jazz knew Optimus was assuming Sunstreaker's mouth had started the fight. In answer, he cast a holovid into the air above Prime's desk. The video, from Hound's memories, contained the end of a provocation from Wildrider that was significant enough that Jazz definitely didn't blame Bluestreak for losing his temper, and he rather regretted the need to discipline him. Bluestreak very rarely got in trouble, and when he did, it was usually because of a prank with the twins that had gone a little overboard.

Jazz had long ago concluded that Sunstreaker was a bad influence on Bluestreak, Blue was a good influence on Sunny, and that the two of them were good for each other. If Sideswipe wasn't around, Sunny generally hung out with Blue, and that meant he got included in lots of normal social activities. Bluestreak was friends with pretty much everyone.

In the video, Sunstreaker stepped in, separating the two. "You!" Sunstreaker snarled at Wildrider, "Go home, unless you want to spend another week with me."

Optimus, after reviewing the video, sighed heavily. "Have you meted out punishments yet?"

"Ah assigned Sunny extra work details, an' half a day of isolation, an' told him to write an apology to Blue for insultin' him." Jazz rubbed his face. "As far as Blue goes, ah can't say ah've never had to discipline Blue for fighting, but it's been a long time. Kid's got a temper, an' it's the worst kind; it's fueled by old hurts. But he doesn't lose that temper unless someone provokes him deliberately."

Optimus nodded.

"Ah used one of Prowl's old tricks for discipline for Blue - had him name a punishment. He was harder on himself than I would have been, gave himself two weeks of double shifts and two days of solitary."

"Yes." Optimus sighed. "And on that note, Jazz, I do not believe Prowl is doing well at all. You have come to the same conclusion, have you not?"

He'd asked for a meeting last night to discuss just that. Jazz leaned forward in his chair, head hanging down, then looked up at Optimus. "No, he's not. Not at all."

It was breaking his heart. He felt so alone, so lost, so helpless. There was nothing he could do for Prowl, nothing he could say to make it better. He couldn't even _be _there for him.

"I find I am at a loss, Jazz." Optimus suddenly looked every bit as worn as Jazz felt. "He is one of my oldest friends. I consider Ranger my child, and I had so much hope for him."

"Is it that bad?" Jazz asked, though he knew the answer.

Optimus frowned. "Their thoughts are separate, but not their emotional state. You know this. I am very worried that their existence may be mutually incompatible ... from a psychological standpoint. The medical staff believes we could split them but it would be very rough on both of them, akin to losing half one's spark. Prowl has made it emphatically clear he doesn't want to go through that."

"Ah've seen mechs offline after such injuries from the emotional and physical pain." Jazz shuttered his optics. "Ah can see his point. Knowing Prowl, he'd probably reformat himself out of existence before he let you do that to him or Ranger."

"A shared, dual existence may be better ... if they lived, and there's a decent chance they would, they _will _heal, though it would be a long recovery. However, neither of them are healthy, Jazz." Optimus's expression was very troubled. "Ranger is dealing with it well enough for now, though I suspect he will have difficulties as he matures."

"And Prowl is struggling." Jazz leaned back in his chair, and regarded Optimus thoughtfully. "So what do we do?"

Optimus, if possible, looked even more weary. Bleak blue optics met Jazz's sharp gaze. "Jazz, I don't know. The situation is relatively unprecedented. There is nothing in my Matrix about it. Ironhide told me one of the past bearers of his Matrix faced a similar situation, after a mech's partner maliciously tried to reformat him during interface, and the Prime who bore the Matrix then determined that the younger consciousness should prevail. However, the elder mind was badly damaged and no longer sane."

"That's not the problem we face here." Jazz knew Prowl was sane. However, morbid knowledge of the stress Prowl had to be under compelled him to add, "Yet."

"Jazz, I'm going to remove myself from making any decisions about the two of them," Optimus said, softly. "I am not impartial."

"None of us are." Jazz shook his head.

"Ratchet's best qualified to make decisions about them." Prime frowned. "However, I know his sense of guilt is tremendous ..."

Jazz shrugged. "Not the first time he's screwed something up in a big way. Won't be the last. Ratch deals. On the whole, his balance sheet of miracles versus collossal disasters is pretty solidly in the black, an' he _knows _it."

That, at least, got him a small smile from Optimus. "True. Ratchet is well aware of his own value to our cause."

"Ah'd say so." Jazz grinned. However, his amusement at his own humor was fleeting. He said, more seriously, "Prime, what will be will be. You know that as well as ah do. We do the best we can, an' we don' look back an' worry about the what-might-have beens."

Optimus said, after a long moment of silence, "The thing is, Jazz, that part of being a Prime is _knowing _the what-might-have-beens, an' making better decisions next time."

"Then millions of years from now, this situation might help some other Prime down the road. That's assuming yer not Prime until the universe dies of entropy."

That got him another smile. Then Optimus tilted his head sideways for a second as he received a comm from Red Alert. "The human dignitaries are arriving. I suppose we should greet them."

Jazz was not looking forward to the meeting. He was supposed to lead the Autobot half of the mission, which was fine. That didn't worry him so much as trying to hash out a plan with humans _and _Decepticons involved. Personally, he wished the Autobots could just take on the Nebulans themselves and be done with it, but there were both political and practical concerns. The Autobots had fliers now, but not seekers. The three seekers on Fang's side (including Skywarp, Primus help them) were going to play an integral part in the assault. And as far as human support went, they both needed to involve the humans in order to minimize political fallout if things went all pear shaped, and in order to have ground support and recovery in case any mechs needed to make hot re-entries after being injured.

If somebody landed someplace hostile like, say, North Korea or Iran and was captured, Jazz was going to let the humans handle the delicate task of recovery, thank you very much. One of the biggest logistical issues they faced was landing. They were taking more mechs than the seekers could pop down in a reasonable amount of time.

The plan was to maintain orbit, of course, then land in a proper ship, but the best laid plans rarely survived the realities of battle. Injured mechs, and those fleeing pursuit, sometimes simply had to go suborbital to survive.

Jazz nodded. "Ah'll go meet them if ya want. Ah imagine you want some time with your kids before we're tied up all day. Ah'll comm ya after the grand tour for the veeps."

Optimus shook his head. "Elita took both our sparklings into town to help with the recovery efforts. They'll be helping with clean up for a few hours."

"Ah." Jazz said. Then, in an effort to lighten Optimus's mood, he said lightly, "By the way, ah really like Elita's new look."

Optimus, to Jazz's surprise, didn't smile at that. Instead, he ran his hand over his face and let his shoulders subtly slump. Optimus, even among his inner circle, was almost always a little formal, and very dignified. However, it wasn't the Prime who looked at Jazz now. It was just a friend who was very tired and worn. He said, simply, "We both missed you, Jazz. Not just as a valued officer, but as a friend. She assumed the form of the Solstice because she is your friend and she was grieving and it was something that tied you to her."

He shrugged, a little uncomfortably. He didn't like to think about dying, or about how badly that must have hurt the others. He wanted to _live. _He'd done what he had to do, sacrificing himself to buy the others a little time. If he had to do it over again, he wouldn't change anything - well, no. If he had to do it over again, he'd wire his chassis with the biggest slagging bomb he could make fit under his armor before letting Megatron get his claws into him. He _was _known for his ability at sabotage. He made a mental note to find a more appropriate time to make a comment to that effect, perhaps when he needed to make someone laugh ...

Optimus leaned forward, and said softly, "This is the first time you're going into combat since you died. Are you _certain _you're ready?"

"Of course." That was true enough. He would do what he had to. "Prime, Ah'm fine, honestly. Ah'm telling you the complete truth."

"I know you are." Optimus rose from his chair. "Sometimes I think _we _were more traumatized than you were."

He shrugged. "Ah don't remember it, except for the impression that it was peaceful an' that ah was loved. I get flashes of memory, sometimes. Which is weird, if ya think about it, because our spark goes to the Well, but our cores don't ... Ratch told me that's not fully understood, but that it's a known phenomena, memories that are burned into the very substance of your spark ... Anyway, it's less peaceful here, but ah know ah'm loved here, too."

Optimus smiled at that, because Jazz's tone had turned mischievous. He was glad to see that glimmers of a lighter mood. Apparently, his efforts at cheering up Optimus had worked, because his leader smiled and said, "Yes, you are, Jazz. We are all incredibly grateful to have you back."

After Jazz stepped out of the office, he let the smile fade from his own face. _Primus_, it hurt. He felt so damned alone, even among friends. He was so ridiculously grateful that Blue had accepted his offer ... it would be good to feel not-alone for a bit, even if just with a friend.


	105. Chapter 105

Fang was bored, which ordinarily would have been a bigger problem for everyone around him, but he was actively trying to be on his best behavior. The meeting between the humans and the mechs was going well enough, which was to say nobody had stormed out or accused the other party of attempted genocide yet. He was somewhat disappointed. Perhaps he'd just been in one Decepticon staff meeting too many that had ended with someone dead after ferocious (though generally dimwitted) insults were exchanged. He'd learned to duck and cover the moment Starscream lost his cool and stood up, even if he wasn't the one that Screamer was pissed at.

Anything short of that was anticlimatic. And boring.

Normally, if he ran out of things to occupy his mind, he was the _first _to admit he could be annoying. He would generally end up asking everyone else around him what they were doing, followed by either helping or meddling. Deathwheels had claimed his complete inability to relax, and the fact that he was uncomfortable when his processor wasn't crunching its way through a thousand ideas at once, was a sign of genius, insanity, or both.

Death had then admitted he had similar problems with needing something to keep his mind busy ... though he was better at being discrete about it. Deathwheels had possessed a remarkable ability to be still and reserved even when he had absolutely nothing to keep his processor occupied. By contrast, Death had often teased Fang that his motor circuits had a direct connection to his power cells. He was almost always in motion, and being bored made that urge to move _worse._

_Oh, Primus, I miss him. _It was a weird time to think of Deathwheels. Or, perhaps it wasn't. If Death had been alive, perhaps Deathwheels would have been amusing him with snarky commentary and the occasional discrete roll of his primary optics. It would have been easier to behave if Death had been standing behind him, a looming and dull presence with a secretly keen wit.

Grief, sudden and unexpected, stabbed at him - then intensified when Ratchet shifted in his seat. He had thought Ratchet would be a healing force, someone to soothe his shattered emotions. Instead, he felt worse than he ever had before, though in different ways. He couldn't exactly define why, but rather than searing pain a sort of awful bleakness had settled into his spark. He simultaneously had a tremendous amount of hope for the future, and a deep despair for himself.

_Shake it off, _he told himself, in irritation, knowing his feelings had turned morbid.

Unfortunately, his boredom was giving his processor time to analyze the still-recent events involving Ratchet and Deathwheels. It had only been several days since Death had died. He tried to focus on the meeting, and tried to sit still, and knew he was failing at both. His tail, purely of its own volition, twitched around his ankles. The tip of his tail-mounted laser rifle tapped against his leg until he realized that the noise was audible, and he planted a foot on his own tail as a reminder to hold still.

The energy that always seemed to rush through him in overabundance next surfaced when he caught himself tapping his index finger on the table while one of the human generals asked Optimus a question. He laced his fingers together. Then his ears started twitching, and he could have sworn it was an involuntary reflex that caused that. He was depressed, yes, but depression led to anxiety in his case, and that just made him all the more jittery.

Ratchet shot him a _look_, eyes narrowing, and he realized he was tapping his weapon to his ankle again. He'd taken his foot off his tail without even realizing it. He drooped his ears at Ratchet and shrugged subtly. Ratchet smirked, amused at something that Fang didn't quite understand. He flashed Ratchet a smile back on reflex, however, and Ratchet seemed to relax.

The meeting had been going on for four hours. Ratch was probably annoyed too. He was here, along with Doc, to cover the medical end of planning. That, normally, didn't take that long because the medics just needed to establish where they would set up a field hospital, and then Ratchet would handle the rest without involving the command staff, including assigning some fliers to ambulance duty and handling coordinating with the 'con med bay and the human authorities - and Ratchet therefore undoubtedly had a thousand other things he needed to be doing instead of sitting in a meeting watching humans argue.

Fang, initially, had not understood why Optimus had set aside _days _of time to plan the attack on the enemy ship. Within the first two hours, the Cybertronians had established everything critical. In theory, the rest - the fine details - should have taken a few hours at most. It was all just a matter of brainstorming problems, calculating probabilities, and allocating resources appropriately.

It had taken them less than five minutes to determine, for example, where to put the field hospital. They were going to begin the assault when the ship was over the Pacific ocean, at the farthest point from land, and a quick calculation of likely trajectories of any wounded making hot reentries had been cross-referenced with friendly nations and military bases. The field hospital would be located at Vandenburg, near San Diego. Odds were that mechs coming in hot would come down somewhere in a line between San Diego and the Barry Goldwater bombing range ... probably closer to San Diego, and possibly undershooting land and splashing down just off shore.

The uncertainty of the landing site had to do with the expected duration of the battle and the orbital velocity of the ship they were attacking. That was for controlled re-entry, of course. Mechs who were unconscious or unable to use their thruster packs might land anywhere, if they survived re-entry at all.

Ratchet and Optimus had established they would use Broadside and his team as a recovery team, with the Wreckers and some human military helicopters handling recovery of the wounded. He had been surprised that the Autobots had not included the Wreckers with the initial assault team until Jazz had explained, "If we get an ugly surprise when we breach that force shield, we want a kick-aft backup team to stage a second assault or defend Earth from a counter-attack."

They were sending a hundred and four mechs into battle, which left a little over nine hundred on Earth. Fang was paying very close attention to the Autobot command's tactics, including the decision to send only about ten percent of their troops on the initial assault.

The calculation was a brutal one. They didn't know what was on the other side of that force shield. Plan A was to take out the enemy forces with a hundred of their troops. Plan B was to use those hundred troops to gain intelligence on what they were facing, and then stage a retreat. They would regroup and attack with greater forces later.

Plan C was what Ratchet termed the, "Slaggitall to the Pit!" plan. If they breached that force shield and found, say, a Quintesson warbird, they might lose their entire assault force but better to lose a hundred than a thousand all at once. The nine-hundred and some mechs on Earth would then be responsible for defending Earth and distracting the enemy for as long as possible. Meanwhile, the Autobot sparked ships would evacuate as many of the physically smallest sparklings as possible, to maximize the number of children they could fit in a hold.

The nine-hundred plus Autobots on Earth would not retreat. They would fight to the last spark to defend Earth. There would not be another Nebulos. Earth had, however reluctantly, welcomed them. It was home now. Optimus and all five other Autobot Primes were prepared to die on Earth.

Ratch, First Aid, and Rivet would operate the joint field hospital, with several other medics and two apprentices - Wheelie and Mikaela - operating the hospital. Starcatcher was going up with the assault force, as was Wheeljack.

Really, Ratchet should be briefing his team and preparing a field hospital, not sitting in on a meeting with the humans. However, he seemed to be needed because the humans had to be reminded (repeatedly) that the mechs were going to take casualties and would need ground support and a field hospital, and potentially rapid transport to Fort Max for emergency treatment in Max's well-equipped med bay.

The humans were currently arguing among themselves while the mechs looked on. Fang wasn't entirely tracking the problem; it had something to do with American politics and the field hospital. Something about some company that had a contract with the American military that the Autobot field hospital might infringe on. He wasn't sure he even understood the logic, and it definitely wasn't applicable to the actual _needs _of the mechs going into combat. For some reason, Burtonhale - whoever that was - demanding in on the action. He really didn't get it. By the irritation of some of the American allies, he wasn't sure _they _got it either.

He set his audio sensors to record the human discussion as a discrete file in case he needed to actually comment, then subsequently lowered the priority of their argument below the threshold of conscious monitoring. They were all repeating themselves in a remarkable display of stubborn circular reasoning. He doubted he'd need to say anything until they broke out of the logic loop they'd gotten stuck in.

Instead of paying attention to the humans, he turned his processor's RAM towards thinking about what his mechs might face during the assault. They still didn't know what was behind that cloak, and it worried him. They would be attacking with over a hundred mechs, but he was worried about ugly surprise.

Jazz, a widely acknowledged master of improvisational combat, would be leading the joint force, assuming Onslaught agreed to cooperate. Fang was going to have one of the seekers pop him up into orbit to have a chat with Onslaught and his team when the humans broke for dinner later. Having fought both for and against Jazz, he was inclined to feel at least a little better with Jazz leading.

Fang realized he was drumming his claws on the table and made himself stop.. He tried, again, to sit still while the humans debated strategy. He'd never had a problem with sitting quietly in Decepticon staff meetings ... but then, again, those meetings had never been boring!

Optimus and Jazz were occasionally adding comments, but the humans were mostly bickering among themselves. He briefly resumed conscious monitoring of the humans. Arguing about Burtonhale's role had changed to a discussion about media access to the medical staging area.

Ratchet held up a finger, made a coughing noise to gain their attention, and said, "HIPAA."

The president's holomatter avatar grinned at the others. "He's right. HIPAA applies."

"Pardon me?" One of the foreign leaders said.

"American law. Health Information act. Restricts the information about medical conditions that can be released without the permission of the patient." Ratchet leaned back in his chair. "We're recognized as people under American law, so HIPAA applies. Which gives us a perfectly legal and even morally upright reason to keep the media out of the field hospital. Practically speaking, I'm more worried about the safety of the slagging reporters than I am about ..."

"Okay, that settles it," one of the generals observed, "... the Autobots are officially more altruistic than I am. I stopped worrying about slagging reporters getting slagged up a long time ago."

One of his foreign counterparts snorted a laugh and said in accented but clear English. "Yes, but it's bad press if they get slagged."

Ratchet concluded, as if he hadn't been interrupted, "... any breach of medical confidentiality. It's not part of our culture to be overly concerned about privacy."

Human gossip networks, Fang mentally translated, had nothing on Cybetronian gossip. The closest analogy humans had to Cybertronian gossip was YouTube, but that it was a pale comparison to what Cybertronians could really be like. He was well aware that his own troops _and _the Autobots had taken to trading embarrassing videos of him in less-than-dignified moments, with LOLcat style text appended. It was all in good fun, and showed that moral was very good at the moment.

But privacy? Not really part of their culture when every person could transmit bits of their memories at will to everyone else.

"Human bodily fluids are corrosive," Fang put in, trying for a laugh. With a sly smile he added, "I don't much care about reporters either, but I don't want my medics to step on them. Makes an awful mess of joints and sensors and it's a total Pit to get the fats out ..."

Well, _he'd _thought the comment was funny. Both humans and Autobots were now staring at him as if he'd suggested rendering their babies down to make joint lubricant.

"Just joking. Geeze." He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and said, "Continue on. I'm done trying to be funny now. Clearly, the Decepticon Prime is not allowed to have a sense of humor."

That, at least, earned him a flash of a grin from Ratchet and a brief smile from Optimus, as well as one or two of the humans. The humans present included several generals and high-muckety-mucks from several nations, the U.S. President in holomatter form, Major Lennox (who'd been called in to the meeting to give his opinion on something or other), some NASA big-wig, and the NASA big-wig's Russian and Chinese counterparts. Fang was given to understand that there were multiple high level foreign leaders watching the meeting via video link from "off stage" but they weren't officially taking part, for reasons of plausible deniability if the battle went badly.

Slaggitall, he was fidgeting again! He forced himself not to scratch at a tooth with a claw.

Ratchet inquired, teasingly, _:Would you like me to disable your motor functions?:_

:Oh, bite me. I'm bored. They're dragging this out for no reason!: Fang had seen Jazz's plan, and while he wanted to make some changes to it, the humans were incredibly slow to get to the real meat of the issue. The conversation had turned to potential damage to human satellites. When a few of the elected types indicated unfamiliarity with the effects of high-altitude nuclear airbursts, Jazz helpfully began a historical overview of radiation damage to satellites following a (deliberate!) test firing of a high altitude nuclear weapon in the 1960's.

Fang thought it took a special kind of stupid to explode a nuke at orbital altitude, unless you were _trying _to slag lots of important stuff. The humans had done it. Fools. He found it typical of their behavior, really, and he wasn't entirely sure what the Autobots saw in the species. He lowered his attention threshold on the discussion again, bored to tears. _:Ratch, this is killing me. Can I take a nap? We could have the framework of the assault planned hours ago, and then turned it over to the field commanders to flesh out, if it was just us.:_

Ratchet, sounding rather impressively calm, said, _:Remember that they do not have the experience with this sort of combat that we do, nor our processing power. This is also as much about politics as it is about battle plans. Pay attention, Snowflake, and you might learn something about battles that don't involve guns.:_

:Hnnh.: He couldn't keep a whine out of his voice. Deliberately trying to sound like a sparkling, he said, _:They're taking too long. At this rate, we'll still be covering _history _in a month.:_

:No, we won't. This is political, Fang. It has nothing to do with tactics. The humans need to feel like they're important. Let them talk. Remember we're running this show.:  
_  
:I still want to take a nap until they're done. I can just keep recording the chatter and listen to it later ...:_

:You can't recharge,: Ratchet smirked at him. _:Because I can't.:_  
_  
:Sure you can. Just leave your optics on and program yourself to nod every time there's a break in the conversation ...:_

:You know, Ratbat used to do that.: Ratchet's smirk grew broader at a fond memory. _:I figured it out, and caught him napping and asked him all sorts of embarrassing questions, like, 'Have you ever interfaced with a datapad' and 'is it true Sentinel banned you from his office after you tried to bribe him ...' and caught him nodding happily every time I stopped talking.:_

Fang giggled across the comms. _:I never met him, of course, but I've seen some videos of him in action. He was a bit of a doddering old fool, wasn't he?:_

:Completely. He tried to have me arrested for harassment after that and Prowl - who had just taken the job at the Bureau of Enforcement - noted that there was no proof _that Ratbat was in recharge when he admitted to trying to bribe Sentinel ... Jazz laughed his ass off about it and still talks about it sometimes.: _

"... we can retrieve the humans from the international space station, but doing so could alert the enemy to our intentions ..." Jazz was saying. The mention of the humans in orbit drew Fangs attention back to the discussion, mostly out of pure curiosity.

"We can't leave them up there!" one of the humans - the NASA director, Fang thought - protested strenuously.

"... ah was going to say," Jazz continued, "that the best thing to do might be to bring the whole lot of them down in the moments before the battle begins."

"How would you do that?" the NASA man demanded, tone more than a little hostile.

Jazz leaned back in his chair, which still put the level of his head higher than the human - despite the fact that Jazz was the shortest of the mechs (other than Fang) present, and the human was seated in a chair on _top _of the table. "Ah imagine we'd tell th' humans t' get in their escape capsule an' we'd teleport it down to the surface."

"We couldn't give them advance warning," the president mused, "for fear of the transmission being intercepted."

"Well, then, how well do they follow orders?" Jazz asked. "Situations like this are _why _soldiers are supposed t' follow orders."

"They're not all soldiers ... but I expect they'd do as they were told by NASA command and control," the President nodded.

Fang held a hand up. "Better suggestion than teleporting it: the entire escape capsule, if the dimensions on the internet are accurate, will fit in one a shuttle's hold ..."

"... Ya cannot possibly be suggesting Movor or Blastoff. Ya haven't even spoken to them yet," Jazz said in Cybertronian, and scowled at him, and Fang briefly wondered how Jazz knew he hadn't had time to talk to his shuttles yet. Then he remembered Punch, and how very much access Punch had to the base. The Autobots probably knew his daily activities better than he himself did. Punch might have agreed to be his 'liason' with the Autobots, but that didn't mean he'd forgotten his primary duty.

It wouldn't be hard at all for the mech to learn that Fang had not yet spent any time in the comm room. Encryption wasn't good enough for the sort of discussions he needed to have with them. Line-of-sight laser link was a far more secure way of communicating.

He corrected Jazz's assumptions, however, on the point of the shuttles. "... I was going to suggest Skyfire."

"No." Optimus frowned. Also in Cybertronian, he stated, "He's a neutral, we don't know him, and he's in poor repair, Fang."

"I think he'd be fine ..." He tried hard not to let his reflexive embarrassment show. Optimus's words felt like are a rebuke. He would have sent Skyfire if he was the sole planner for this party; he thought letting the Cybertronian neutral deal with the pseudo-military human scientistis was a great idea. Fang just couldn't get too worked up over a couple of humans floating in orbit in flying tin cans. In the grand scheme of things, they weren't nearly as important as dealing with an enemy ship in a tactically very threatening location.

Human priorities left him truly baffled sometimes.

"We're not that desperate," Optimus frowned, then switched to English. "Jazz, we do have Stratosphere. We were planning on having him teleport around the curvature of the earth and out of line of sight after dropping off the strike force. Where will the station be in relation to that when the attack begins?"

A flurry of schematics passed between all the mechs as they established orbits, velocities, and positions. Plans were made and run through several simulations, and then Optimus nodded to the humans. "I'll have Stratosphere take the escape capsule into his hold after dropping off our assault team. He's quite heavily armored."

Fang thought with satisfaction, _There. Problem solved. We'll let the geeks figure out the specifics, but that's a workable plan. _At this point in a staff meeting, the brass would have shot off a request to one of the tactical planners, and called it a done deal.  
_  
_Except it wasn't. Fang resisted the urge to thunk his head against the table as the humans started arguing about the idea. Fang could _not _understand why they had to debate everything to death.

It was going to be a _long _day.

Ratchet caught his gaze, smirked, and said, _:Isn't politics fun?:_

His response involved one-syllable words in two languages, and suggested Ratchet didn't have a spark, he simply had vacuum inside his chamber. Ratchet's laughter over the comm was deeply amused and completely unoffended. Fang glanced over, and met Ratchet's gaze. He flashed Ratchet a smile, then could have groaned aloud. Wasn't he supposed to still be angry?

Ratchet returned the smile with brief grin of his own, before turning back to watch the humans.

Oh, _Primus_. He was so appealing when he smiled that way. Instead of still being angry he simply wanted to crawl into Ratchet's arms and forget the world for a little bit. Those conflicting feelings made him feel very confused and out of sorts.

His feelings for Deathwheels had been so much simpler ...

_I wonder what Death would make of the humans? _he wondered idly. He could picture his late lover's snarky amusement at irrational human behavior, and for a moment, he found himself full of painful longing to hear Death's voice. That left him just as confused as his disturbing desire to swiftly forgive Ratchet and snuggle into his arms did. If he'd followed Deathwheels' advice in regards to the Autobots he would be in a very different place right now. Death would have been horrified by his relationship with Ratch, and appalled by the peace plans with the Autobots.

_This is the right thing to do, _Fang thought, quietly. _But Deathwheels wouldn't approve. I broke up with him. I don't owe him a thing, do I? Yet he saved my life. But even if he were alive I would not take his advice in this. I ..._

:You okay, Fang?: Ratchet asked. Apparently, his shift of mood was visible in his expression.

_:No,: _he admitted, honestly. _:But I function.:_

Ratchet asked, _:Me or Death?:_

:Hnnh?:

:What's bugging you? Me or Deathwheels? Or both?:

Oh, Primus. Ratchet knew him _so _well. He asked, _:Is it that clear in my expression?:_

:Honestly, no.: Ratchet's voice turned gentle and concerned. _:But I can tell something's wrong.:_

:We'll talk about it later. Tonight.:

Ratchet nodded, _:Tonight, Fang.:_ It sounded like a promise, and Ratchet smiled at him again as he said it. Fang flashed him a tentative answering smile, then realized that several of the Autobots and a couple humans were looking at them. He mimicked a human throat-clearing noise. "Pardon me. You were talking about ..." he rapidly reviewed his audio recordings of the discussion, "... you were discussing the choice between returning the human astronauts to Earth, or sending them back to their station after the fight?"

Silence, from the humans, who probably hadn't gotten over the whole 'Decepticon' thing.

"There's going to be a ton of debris in orbit, even if they don't manage to set off a nuke or three." Fang drummed his talons on the table. "I'd be concerned about having anyone who requires an oxygen atmosphere to survive being in the path of that debris. Why don't we do this? Have Stratosphere take the humans home, and then we can have someone return them to the station later."

"There are experiments that need tending ..." the NASA director said stiffly, and unhappily.

Fang frowned, then shrugged. "We could have a couple of our smaller mechs take over until we can clear the station's orbital path."

Optimus nodded. "That would be an excellent assignment for Windy, given his scientific background and small size."

"Wheelie would fit too," Bee observed. He was present in his human form, seated at the table with the real humans.

"So would you," Fang pointed out, suddenly frowning. Sending Wheelie into that dangerous of a situation was not part of his plans at all. "and you're not a minor."

Ratchet tilted his head sideways, for a moment, thinking, "I'm not entirely sure that I would consider Wheelie a minor, Fang. His behavior is that of an adult."

"He's thirteen!" Fang's objection was swift.

Ratchet held a hand up. "I wouldn't agree for my _apprentice _to be assigned to such a post. I need him here. I agree that Windy might be a good choice to assign to the station, however ... Bee, you know Manywinds better than the rest of us. I hate to point that out, but you do. Can he handle the solitude?"

Bee would have grinned broadly in his shorter form. His optics crinkled up in amusement now. "Absolutely not. Have you _ever _seen Windy by himself?"

"... point." Ratchet chuckled. "He is a little social butterfly."

"In all seriousness, he probably can." Bee grew more thoughtful. "He won't like it, but he'll do it if we ask, and we could have one of the others keep him company. Even if they can't fit inside the station, they could be outside ..."

"There's classified research material on that station," one of the NASA directors objected.

Fang kept his sigh strictly mental. It was going to be a very, very long meeting ...

* * *

"I left my crayons at home!" Prism's voice, high and excited, made 'Regia turn around. Aquaregia was halfway to the exit, having dropped some lubrication samples off at the med bay for analysis. He had a bored Autobot guard tagging along behind him, and her voice made both of them turn. "'Regia, I left my crayons home!"

Prism zoomed towards him, with Perceptor following after her. Perceptor looked bemused. Aquaregia was a bit surprised to see Percy at all; they had been keeping the legendary scientist sequestered away from any possible threat from Earth's Decepticons. Either the 'bots didn't consider him a threat to Percy or Percy had blithely disobeyed his orders to stay out of sight.

His bored guard suddenly looked a lot less sleepy. He guessed it was the latter case.

Aquaregia bent over as she transformed and launched herself airborn. He neatly caught her in mid leap. The Autobot guard, a front-liner with enormous guns, twitched a bit and looked even more alert. He ignored that (if the idiot thought he was going to hurt Fang's sparkling, the idiot was, well, an idiot) and said to Prism, "Hello, kiddo."

"I forgot my crayons!" she repeated mournfully.

"Sorry," Perceptor said, as he approached. "I was taking her outside to play for a bit and she saw you. She's been going on about the crayons for hours."

Aquaregia smiled. He was very well acquainted with Prism's ability to obsess on one subject for hours. "I can imagine. Fang must have been very busy to forget Prism's crayons. I bet he's really sorry, Prism."

"He better be," she said, sounding disgruntled and irritated.

Percy said, "Prism, I bet there's all sorts of other things we could do ..."

"I want my _crayons_."

'Regia pinged him with a request to talk over the comms. Cautiously, Perceptor replied, _:Yes?:_

:I need to go down to Fang's lab anyway. I know Fang's still in that meeting. Rivet asked me to pick up a couple of tools that First Aid needs the next time I was over there. I can take her down and have her show me what she wants, if you'd like.:

:Um. Hold on a second.: Percy clearly wasn't sure if he could trust Aquaregia. He switched channels and pinged Ratchet. Absently, Aquaregia decrypted the transmission - he was a 'con, after all, and Perceptor was only using the lightest levels of privacy code.

Ratch responded after a second, _:What's up?:_

:Have you escaped yet or shall I have Wheeljack blow up an experiment for an excuse?: Perceptor's tone was very different with Ratchet.  
_  
:Funny, Percy. Yes, I escaped from the torture that was that meeting. What's up?:_

:Do you think it will be okay if Aquaregia takes Prism down to the 'con base get her crayons?:  
  
Ratchet's laughter was reassuringly amused. _:Oh, by Primus. Fang didn't forget her crayons, did he?:_

:I am afraid he did.: Perceptor laughed. _:He seems to be a bit overwhelmed, understandably so.:_  
_  
_Ratchet sounded mostly amused, _:Yes. If he wasn't so hyperactive he would not be able to keep up. And as far as 'Regia goes, yeah, he's cool. He's Fang's dog.:_

:His ... dog?:

Aquaregia barely kept from reacting to that. _I am _not_! _he thought, then amended, _Well, he's our Prime. Of course I am loyal._  
_  
_Ratchet continued, _:Regia's utterly loyal to Fangface. I've talked to him a couple of times and he's oathsworn to Fang, and he means it. I don't completely trust him with Autobot secrets, y'know, but when it comes to the kid, he'd probably die for her simply because she's Fang's child.:_

'Regia agreed with that assessment. He was also pleased by it.  
_  
:Thank you, Ratch.: _Perceptor then said aloud, "Yeah, 'Regia. If you want to get her crayons, it would be most helpful. I would simply take her over, but I am under orders to never be alone with a Decepticon other than Fang. In fact, the only way I persuaded Red to allow me to be alone with Fang was to appeal it to Optimus."

Aquaregia smirked. "Your superiors are wise. There are still those among us who would see ending your existence as a benefit to our side."

There were also those on his own side who would assume that Perceptor could be compromised by his relationship with Fang. 'Regia doubted that would happen. Percy's history indicated a rather unshakable moral code.

"Oh, gee, thanks for the warning." Perceptor shuddered, making his armor rattle.

'Regia held his hands up defensively. "Just a fair warning. I wouldn't, but some would."

* * *

Starscream had drifted off into a half-aware state that wasn't quite full recharge when the lab's door slid open and the lights snapped on. He lunged to his feet out of pure reflex, hands coming up defensively, teeth baring in a snarl. He was unarmed, stuck on a base among mechs whose feelings towards him ranged from cold indifference to active hostility, and he was therefore quite on edge.

Even as he thought, _I really don't want to die, death is worse than living! _and even as he registered that it was Aquaregia who had entered, he heard a high-pitched, delighted giggle.

"Starscream scary!" Prism declared and leaped out of 'Regia's grasp even as he frantically tried to catch her. She ran the fifty feet or so across the floor to his position with his back against the wall, and launched herself airborn into the hand he hastily put out for her. "Funnnnnny!"

Aquaregia became very, very still. Softly, he said, "You are aware that is Fang's child, yes?"

There was warning in 'Regia's words.

"We've met." Starscream lifted Prism up to optics level, feeling something settle in his spark. She was adorable, really, with her intent gaze, and her eager, enthusiastic response to him. He had seen other sparklings, of course, brought online for the war, but none had held her innocence. Very quickly, with beatings and worse, the commanders of those new soldiers had brought them into line. None had been _children _by the time Starscream saw them, even if they were only days or weeks old.

The closest he'd seen to a real child in a very long time had been Wheelie. It had incensed him that the slagging predacon had tried to pretend Wheelie was just a servant. The two had shared a clear bond, one Starscream knew wasn't supposed to exist.

And yet, he could completely understand the appeal to having a child. He'd wished for that himself, though he knew better than give Megatron that sort of leverage over him.

Prism liked him. He couldn't even imagine why, but she did. It made him ferociously jealous of Fang, because he was her mentor, but he wasn't about to harm her. Even he wasn't that cruel. Scornfully, he told Aquaregia, "I'm not going to hurt her, nerd. Cool your cannons."

Prism giggled. "'Regia's not a nerd!"

"Regia is absolutely a nerd," Starscream assured her.

Aquaregia said shortly, "I seem to remember someone else who graduated at the top of his class happens to be in this room." 'Regia's battle routines seemed to be activated. His irises were dilated and his fans whining right along with his capacitors. Starscream was amused, and made a point of ignoring the silent threat.

"I am not a nerd. That would imply a certain lack of battle prowess." Starscream looked down his nose at the smaller mech, even as he very lightly ran his fingers down Prism's back. She leaned into the touch, with complete sparkling innocence, simply taking affection from a mech she liked. He was enchanted by that. By the time he'd seen the Decepticon younglings brought online for the war effort they'd had _no _trust of adults left. None of them would have ever considered jumping into his arms, much less trusting him to stroke their armor.

His tone was friendly, as he didn't want to alarm the kid, but he didn't like nor trust the chemist. At all. Period. 'Regia caught Starscream's insinuation, too, in the reference to battle prowess, because his eyes narrowed. "Prism, come here."

"Crayons!" She said, wriggling free of Starscream's grasp. She ignored Aquaregia's request to come to him and jumped from Starscream's arm to the closest table, transformed into her tiny alt mode, zoomed along the top, and then turned her momentum into a leap that crossed the several feet from that table to the next. She transformed back in mid air and landed on her feet with catlike grace. She was far more agile than Starscream would have guessed; her light weight was combined with some fairly powerful drive systems and the ability to transform in a fraction of a second.

The crayons were scattered on the table, and she started to put them back into their box when she noticed something was missing. "Where's my drawing pad? 'Regia, my drawing pad's gone!"

Starscream started to volunteer that he had it, had tucked it into his subspace after looking at it, then muted his vocalizer. He wanted that drawing. He was so lonely, so _alone_, and she liked him, and he just plain didn't want to give it up.

"My drawing pad!" she peered over the edge of the table. "'Regia, where's my drawing pad? Did Fang take it maybe? Maybe he knew I'd want it?"

"When was the last time you saw it?" Aquaregia crouched, hydraulics whining and armor clattering as he did.

"This morning, when Fang and I left to see Percy."

"Mm. Fang hasn't been back here since, so I don't think he has it. Skywarp was down here earlier according to the security log. Maybe he picked it up for you. Weren't you working on a drawing of him last night?"

"It was of me," Starscream said, boasting. He really was all sorts of flattered that the sparkling had chosen to draw him. Plus, it had to piss off Fang and his entire posse of officers, given their general unanimously low opinion of him. "She drew the picture of _me_."

Prism turned to face him, optic shutters narrowing in suspicion. "You saw it?"

_Oh, crap, busted. _

"Err," he said, then denied it. "I don't know what happened to your drawing."

The sparkling's expression turned cold, and something twisted in his spark at that look. "You," she said, folding her long, spindly limbs acrossed her chest, "are a liar."

"Prism," Aquaregia said softly, with a worried look at Starscream, "let's go." He tried to pick her up, and she dodged him.

"I don't have all my crayons yet. And he's lying to me. He has my drawing pad. And I want it back. RIGHT NOW!"

"You don't know he took it," Aquaregia said, placatingly. "Starscream, sorry. She's just a little sparkling."

Prism snorted, sounding rather like a disgusted Lord Fangface. Her words were pure Ratchet, however, "This little sparkling knows a liar when she sees one."

"Yeah? How do you know?" Starscream challenged by pure reflex.

"I just do. You've got my drawings. I want them back. You fragger. No _wonder _people hate you. I WANT my DRAWINGS!" Fists balled, she actually took a step towards him and stomped her foot.

"I don't have them. Primus." Starscream rolled his optics. "Such a noise. You know, I could swat you flat ..."

"Do," Aquaregia said quietly, but with deadly intent, "and we'll send you back to the Pit you came from, Starscream. Prism, get your crayons."

She made a sniffing noise, sounding almost like an upset human child, and pushed the crayons away with her foot. "I don't have anything to draw on now. It's not fair. He stole them. He did, 'Regia! Make him give them back!" A softer wail followed, "I just want my drawings back. I worked so hard on them!"

Aquaregia picked her and the box of crayons up, gingerly subspacing the latter. "We'll find you some paper. I bet Sidney might have some in Fang's office. Would you like ..."

"I want my drawing pad," she sniffed. Then, to Starscream's shock, she started to keen quietly, curling into a tiny ball in 'Regia's hand.

Aquaregia stroked her armor with a finger that was nearly as thick around as her whole body, offering what little comfort he could. The kid was beyond distraught, by the noises she was making. He said softly, "Come, kiddo. We'll find you some paper for today, and then we can order you some new drawing pads off the internet. Any type you want. Maybe we can find you some really big ones and you can make us some art to hang in our quarters. I'd love it if you'd draw me."

"I want my _art_ I already drew!" she wailed helplessly. "I wasn't done with the drawing of Starscream, and now he's stolen it. I thought he was a nice mech! He's an aft! A fragger! I hate him! I hate him!"

"Shh, kiddo." He held her close as the headed for the door. As the door slid shut, 'Regia said to Starscream, _:If you did something with her drawing pad, you are every bit the miserable glitch that I remember.:_

He tried to respond with a denial, _:I didn't ...!: _However, Starscream heard the sharp beep of Aquaregia's voice mail instead of the faint static of a live connection. Apparently, Fangface wasn't the only one who didn't even care enough to listen to him. He'd never felt so unwanted in his life.

He slumped back against the wall, and unsubspaced the fragile pad of paper in question. On the top was the sketch of his own smiling features, but when he gently flipped back the pages with the lightest touch he could manage, he found she'd drawn other people:

Skywarp, laughing. Rivet, a wrench in one hand. Thundercracker, looking fierce.

Optimus, in his tractor alt mode, sketched in brilliant colors that would earn any Decepticon much teasing. Some mech that looked suspiciously like Prowl, but that couldn't be right ... though come to think of it, he hadn't seen Barricade around yet. A study of Fort Max, reflected in Jazz's silver helm. That twice-damned little yellow scout, with two humans leaning against his leg. A small human child, impossibly tiny next to Ironhide's foot.

The kid was good.

There were also many drawings of both Ratchet and Fang. Starscream, who'd had some rather intense run-ins with the formidable medic, found Ratchet a confusing choice for the kid to draw. Only when he came to a page that showed Fangface curled up, asleep, in Ratchet's arms, did he understand. Ratchet had Fang collected into his lap, one hand resting on the Decepticon Prime's helm, and a faint smile on his face. Fang appeared to be sound asleep, with every piston and gear relaxed, his optics dark, his ears drooping, and the clawed fingers of one hand trailing over Ratchet's arm. Fang's cheekplate was pressed against Ratchet's shoulder. The trust between them was striking.

It was an intimate, expressive drawing, made all the more powerful by the fact that she had chosen a simple black marker rather than crayons or pencils. There was no color in the picture, just bold, clean lines capturing what absolutely _had _to be two lovers. The child was too young to imagine a scene like that. It had to be something she'd seen.

For over a hundred thousand years, Starscream had tried to annihilate the Autobots.

The Decepticon Prime?

Was fragging the damned Autobot CMO.

He was a violation, an abomination, of everything that Starscream had fought for.

Starscream started to throw the drawing pad against the wall, but a better option caught his eye. There was a small forge in one corner of the room. He stomped over, snapped the gas on full blast, and in one violent, decisive moment, threw the fragile pad of paper into the flames. Acrid smoke rose up for a second until the ventilation system kicked on.

"I _hate _you!" he screamed, meaning Fang, meaning Ratchet, meaning everyone who'd ever defied him, wronged him, hated him back.

_I hate you_, the child had said. _I want my drawings! _the child had cried, bitter and sorrowful tears. _I _hate _you! I hate you!_

She had drawn him smiling. She had liked him. She had run into the room and leaped into his arms and greeted him with affection, ignoring the warnings of her elders. She had _liked _him.

He stared at the forge, where her art had burned to ash. He had made her cry, he had hurt her. It was only a cheap pad of paper, the drawing fragile and ephemeral, on paper that would crumble to dust in a few tens of years at most. He tried to tell himself the art had no value. Who wanted something that was so easily destroyed? And the drawing of him ... _smiling _... no.

Well, she'd never draw him again. She had to hate him now. Somehow, she had known he'd taken the art.

_I hate you_!

He shuttered his optics. He was alone. Nobody wanted him. He would have ended his own life, but ... he would be just as alone in the afterlife. Nobody wanted him, and his was a bitter and awful and terrible existence.

He flicked his optics back on. There was nothing left of the pad of paper now but a few glowing spirals of metal, the rings that had bound it together. She had worked so hard on that art, getting it just right, and had put love into it. She was so innocent, so young, so harmless. And he'd destroyed her artwork and truly hurt her in the process.

He'd hurt so many people, so pointlessly. He could have simply left the pad of paper on a table, and no one would have been able to prove he was the thief. He didn't even understand _why _he had destroyed it.

He had hurt so many people.

He couldn't end his life, and he no longer wanted to live in this world. He just wanted oblivion. He wanted the torment to end.

It suddenly occurred to him that there was one way ... one way to start over, to be a sparkling again, to give himself the second chance he craved. It was final, irrevocable, but it was possible. He stared at the forge, still roaring with heat and gas flames.

He could start over.

He leaned his back against the wall and turned his mind inwards, where he began to study the structure of his memory core. Autobot special ops mechs were notorious for self-reformatting themselves rather than spilling any intelligence they carried. It had to be possible to simply delete everything ... to start over ... to _end _this miserable existence ...

Yes.

It was a freeing thought. He would simply cease to exist as anything but the equivalent of a new sparkling.

_I wonder who will adopt me? _he wondered. _Better not be an Autobot. Or 'Regia. Primus. Or _Fang_._

He supposed it didn't really matter. He wouldn't be around in any recognizable form to care. Starscream would simply cease to be.

Yes. It was the answer he'd craved.

He would simply cease to be.


	106. Chapter 106

Chapter 106

* * *

Author's notes:

Sorry for the delay in posting, reality has been unkind to me lately. :-) I owe a bunch of responses to reviews, as well, and I am so sorry for not answering promptly.

I will probably have another chapter or two up in the near future. I just need to QC them.

* * *

_Whew. _Fang let his shoulders slump and rolled his neck, working lubrication through the joints of his spine, as he waited for the elevator. Perceptor's lab was across the complex, and to get there he needed to descend to the ground level, cross half the base past hordes of potentially hostile Autobots, then climb a couple ramps to the third level of the science floor.

After being trapped for hours in that meeting, he welcomed the hike. However, he was uneasy about the number of strange Autobots he'd need to pass. This was the last moment he'd have to relax before needing to be on guard in public.

"I am so glad to be out of that meeting," Ratchet's warm voice made him snap his optics back on. The other mech had followed him to the elevator, and now Ratchet was looking at him with an intense, sharp gaze. At that moment, the elevator doors slid open and they both stepped on. However, before the elevator car could start to descend, the medic requested, "Max, would you pause the lift for a moment?"

The doors slid shut, and the elevator didn't move. Max didn't comment, but the request might have been below his conscious threshold. A cityformer like Max had hundreds of thousands of subroutines to handle simple requests like this, most of which didn't require any more attention than Fang gave his autonomics.

"You did good in there, Fang."

Fang would have argued about the 'did good' bit if he had more energy, but his nervous buzz had evaporated the moment he left the meeting. He'd struggled not to fidget the entire time, and had also managed to offend or baffle the humans at least three or four times with ill-timed or simply incomprehensible jokes. Apparently, humans didn't get math humor. He just didn't know how to deal with the humans. Other mechs were easy. The humans thought so slagging slowly, and they had a culture that Fang found idiosyncratic at best and often downright illogical.

Ratchet dropped down to one knee and Fang managed not to flinch back when Ratchet reached for him. Suddenly, all he could think of was Ratchet's rage and anger earlier. They had been bantering a bit in the meeting, but they had also been surrounded by others. Fang had felt safer.

The medic read his body language, and hesitated, clearly seeing Fang's reluctance. He started to reach for Fang anyway, then shook his head and dropped his hands. "So it's like that," he said, gruffly.

Fang stepped forward, into Ratchet's space, forcing himself to trust that, right now, in this minute, Ratchet wasn't going to hurt him. The future was unknown, but he told himself he was safe right _now_. He rested his forehead against Ratchet's bumper, and raised both his hands up to rest on Ratchet's thick plating. Ratchet let out a small sigh of relief and wordlessly cupped both hands across the small of Fang's back and held him close. Ratchet didn't say anything, the medic was not likely to express his own emotions easily, but Fang could easily read Ratchet's uncertainty.

After a second, the elevator started moving again. Doubtless, there were others waiting to use it. Fang pulled free, gave Ratchet what was probably a rather hesitant smile, then said, "I'm going to check on Prism."

"Do you want me to take her the rest of the night?" Ratchet offered, a bit too quickly. He was trying to be helpful, to win his way back into Fang's good graces.

_He really does want me, _Fang realized.

Ratchet added, "Then after she goes into recharge, we can talk."

"Let's see how she's doing with Perceptor, first." He needed a change of subject. The thought of time alone with Ratchet left him wildly nervous, for reasons he could easily explain to himself but not disregard. He wasn't afraid of physical harm on a logical level, at least, not damage beyond a few dents, but his emotions were in complete turmoil. Emotionally, he was terrified. He'd seen rages like Ratchet's turn to deadly violence far too many times. Ratchet had never, to his knowledge, killed anyone, or even badly hurt them. It just didn't matter to his defensive subroutines.

_I never thought he'd turn that temper on me. I'd never seen him lose his cool quite to that degree. I'd heard stories and thought they were exaggerated. _

In an effort to redirect the conversation away from his deep-seated fears, Fang switched to his comm to ask, _:Ratch, what's the deal with Percy, anyway? Sometimes he seems normal - better than normal, really, he makes me smile every time I talk to him - and sometimes it's as if he's not really living in the present.:_

:He's not insane, or even close to it.: Ratchet relaxed a bit more, apparently also grateful for something else to talk about. As they walked towards the science lab, he shortened his stride, even as Fang transformed into his four-legged alt mode so he could trot more easily next to the taller medic. Their stride length in bipedal mode was too different and he couldn't easily keep up on two legs without running. It was a lot more efficient to trot beside Ratchet in quadrupedal mode. Ratchet glanced down at the noise of Fang's transformation, then the medic added, _:However, even as much as we try to protect him, he hurts. He's lost so much that he refuses to fully process it, because it would destroy him to think about it consciously.:_

:I guess that describes half our people. The hurt. The reluctance to face the truths of our situation. We've all had to do what we must to survive, and the price of that survival has been so very high.:   
_  
:More than half. Maybe all of us are hurt, deep inside, by what has happened. What we've done to each other, to our people, to our world. Percy does not handle it as well as others, however. He has a keen sense of justice coupled with profound levels of empathy.: _Ratchet accompanied these words by a memory-file of the sensation of holding Fang close. Fang jerked in surprise as he realized Ratchet was offering him the transmitted equivalent of a lover's hug of sympathy. He intended it to be a comforting gesture. He wasn't sure he had the nerve to return that file with one of his own, at least, not now, and wondered if Ratchet was expecting it of him.

Fang, thoroughly rattled, took a moment to process the memory that Ratchet had sent before responding. It included the tactile sensation of holding him and the fierce sense of protectiveness that went with embracing a partner, accompanied by a memory of Ratchet's emotions: warmth, hope, affection, and deep attachment. And _desire_. Ratchet wanted to be intimate with him, more than he'd guessed. The file was a bold thing to send over a comm, even if they were very heavily encrypted and using very low power and a high frequency on the transmission. Ratchet was watching him keenly, and then slowly looked away, with a disappointed expression on his face.

He was trying to be comforting. Percy was important to Fang, and Ratchet had to know Fang was hurting. Ratchet wasn't one to _say _a lot of gushy sympathetic things, but he had his own ways of making his caring known without actually _saying _anything. By his expression, Fang knew Ratchet had indeed been hoping Fang would send a file of some sort back.

He froze, uncertain and totally out of his comfort zone. He'd gotten somewhat used to letting people into his bubble of physical space, with Ratchet and Deathwheels both being touchy-feely in private, and interfacing itself seemed less overwhelming now that he'd done it a few times, but it was the little gestures of intimacy that threw him. It was one thing to swap thoughts during interface, when there was a pleasurable glow to go with it. It was entirely another to randomly select a memory and just _send _it to someone, and trust they'd react positively to it.

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to end the nascent relationship between them and to pretend his attraction to the medic had never existed. He wasn't sure if he could meet Ratchet's expectations.

_How _was he supposed to respond, he wondered? He didn't have a single memory that wasn't tinged with anxiety or uncertainty about their relationship. Ratchet felt so _sure_, so _solid. _He'd probably upset Ratchet with his own feelings if he responded with a memory file back, but it felt wrong, dishonest, to alter it. Everything he'd learned by his analysis of the matrix memories told him that a relationship required honesty between partners. Besides, sooner or later, Ratchet would catch any lie, given Ratch would have access to his true memories during interface.

Ratchet sighed softly, looked away, brushed his fingers across the top of Fang's head. Fang was just tall enough in quadrupedal mode for Ratchet to do that.

The desire, the love, in that brief transmission made Fang so very uneasy that he remained frozen, thoughts caught in a loop. He was so afraid that Ratchet's love could swiftly turn to anger if he didn't live up to Ratchet's expectations. He had seen how intolerant Ratchet was of mistakes, or even actions Ratchet _perceived _to be a mistake. Given the way Ratchet had blown up at him over Fang's answer to a Primus-sent _choice_, he hated to think what Ratchet's response might be to more ordinary decisions that Ratchet didn't like.

"You okay, Snowflake?" The teasing endearment was accompanied by one raised optic ridge. "You're pretty slagging quiet. Especially for you."

"Yeah. I'm okay." It was a lie, and while he hadn't wanted to be dishonest to Ratchet, he didn't want to face the questions that admitting his real feelings would cause. He finally found something suitable in his processor, which was the moment that Ratchet had said, _You can make me believe in you again_, what felt like half a lifetime ago, after his first real meeting with the Autobots. They hadn't even been friends again then, though Ratchet's interest in him - in retrospect - was clear.

"Hnnh." Ratchet didn't believe him. That was clear from his expression.

Embarrassed at being caught in a lie to his partner, no matter how minor, Fang averted his gaze. He transmitted the memory, including his feelings of surprise, followed by sudden glowing hope. He had always liked Ratchet, and had assumed Ratchet would never forgive him for betraying the Autobots. He'd taken Ratchet's words to mean he had a second chance to win Ratchet's friendship, and it had meant far more to him than he'd let on. He had started out with his feelings towards the Autobots locked up tight behind emotional armor, fully prepared to wipe them all out for what he saw as the greater good. Surely, he had thought, they would never trust him again, never accept him. The deaths of the mechs who had once been his friends would be an acceptable loss if he could _end _the war.

And in one sentence, Ratchet had changed his whole outlook. Winning back the trust of the Autobots wasn't hopeless. He might be able to end the war without more brutal bloodshed. Ratchet had said, _You can make me believe in you, _and that simple statement had mattered a great deal to him.

Ratchet sighed ... and transmitted _his _memory of those moments in the med bay. Ratchet's thoughts then had been full of so many mixed emotions. He had definitely wanted to talk to Fang alone, and offering to repair his hip had been a more than valid excuse. Ratchet, temper aside, was far older than Fang, and that age had given him wisdom and a pragmatic outlook on life. He wasn't one to be overly sentimental, and Fang saw, in those memories, that Ratchet's primary purpose had been an attempt to connect with Fangface for political reasons.

He was bitterly disappointed that it had not been more personal. He had thought it was a gesture between friends, not an Autobot officer being manipulative. He hissed a spit of static and shot Ratchet a wounded look.

Ratchet shrugged. Fang poked through Ratchet's memories a bit more, remembering that Ratchet was a politician, and he apparently played political games quite well when he chose to. He had seen an opportunity to earn a bit of trust and warm feelings from the Decepticon leader and had taken it. Ratchet was basically willing to do anything to end the war himself, short of outright surrender.

That hurt. He had assumed it was a more personal gesture and far less manipulative. Worse, Ratchet had intended him to assume it was personal. Ratchet had never expected Fang to respond so strongly, or that his supportive gesture to the Decepticon Prime would lead to something far more intimate than a political alliance.

And yet, mixed in with the pragmatic approach, there had been plenty of old anger and bitter disappointment to remind him that Ratchet _had _considered him a friend. He'd made the friendly overture with his teeth gritted. When Fang had chosen survival over honor and rejoined the Decepticons, his actions had led to the deaths of other Autobots. Ratchet had expected better of him.

However, Ratchet had also understood that Fang _had _been in a life or death position and Fang had not been with the Autobots long, and had never been accepted by many of them. Mixed among Ratchet's cold-sparked decision to try to manipulate Fang to help them, he also felt a tiny flare of hope in Ratchet's feelings, plus a lingering element of surprised pleasure that he was still even alive, and deep worry for his safety. Behind all of that had been affection and remembered, wistful, longing attraction, plus guilt for feeling desire for a known traitor.

He'd never known about the sense of guilt that Ratchet had felt when they had reunited. He'd never realized how angry Ratchet had been with him, or that Ratchet had forgiven him since.

He met Ratchet's gaze. As if reading his mind, Ratchet said softly, "I believe in you now, Fang."

"You didn't when I chose to bring Starscream back," he shot the words at Ratchet like a weapon, anger flashing to the surface. He bit back his fury now, forcing himself to calm, refusing to surrender to the impulse to rant and rave and rage.

Ratchet flinched, clearly unhappy. He said, in an oddly muted tone of voice, "You are living up to my expectations for you, and then some."

"Sorry," Fang pinned his ears flat and ducked his head, as his irritation vanished as quickly as it had come. The apology was mostly for being snarky but also for _not _being the mech Ratchet believed he was now. He had a crazy sense that he was failing Ratch, even though he couldn't define why. He wondered if Ratchet _really _loved him now, or was Ratchet still playing political games? Was he faking a good portion of his love for Fang? It was difficult, almost impossible, to fake emotions while interfacing, but they had only been lightly connected and Ratchet had kept most of his firewalls in place.

Ratchet stopped and turned to face him in the hall. The big medic crouched, gears clattering and hydraulics whining, so that they could look each other in the optics. Fang, on all fours, was still a few feet shorter than Ratchet crouching, but at least Ratchet wasn't towering over him.

The medic said, "Fang, I showed you that because I wanted to be honest with you. Your perception of that day was not the same as mine. I would rather you not discover something like that while we are interfacing."

Fangface sighed, and averted his gaze. "I'm sorry. Just ... I'm all out of sorts."

Ratchet's fingers touched his chin, encouraging him to look back. "We'll have a long talk tonight. Right now, I just want you to know that I'm proud of you, and who you have become. I want you in my life. I _love _you, Fang."

"I'm sorry." He couldn't bring himself to say anything other than that. Why did he feel so horribly guilty? It made no sense.

Ratchet regarded him for a moment, expression troubled, before simply saying, "I trust you now, Fang. I trust you, and I love you, and I am incredibly impressed by who you have become. We'll talk later." Then he let go as they could hear other mechs approaching, their footsteps echoing on Max's metal floors.

They didn't say anything else to each other for the walk to Perceptor's lab. Ratchet's face was set in a scowl, however. He probably had not believed Fang's lie. Partners weren't supposed to lie to each other, even kind social lies. That was one of the points of having a partner: they were someone you could be, even had to be, utterly honest with. They provided a balanced view.

He wanted to correct his words, to admit he felt pretty miserable, but he just couldn't summon the courage. He was afraid of provoking another rage from Ratchet, and now was _not _the time to deal with that.

When the door to Perceptor's lab slid open, the first thing both of them heard was Prism's miserable keening. He had a whole new reason to feel uncertain and anxious when he heard that. Prism, when she was at her worst, left him feeling more inadequate than running the entire Decepticon army plus dealing with Ratchet did.

At first, Fang thought that his kid was throwing one of her infamous tantrums and started to summon the calm needed to deal with a hysterical child, but he quickly realized it was more than that. There were several mechs in the lab: Percy, Aquaregia, Rivet (in his new, nearly Ratchet-sized form), two Autobot guards for the 'cons, and Mirage, who was probably guarding Perceptor personally given his position. He was very obviously positioned between Percy and the 'cons, and he had a plasma sword hanging from his hip.

"He took my art, he took my art, Fang!" Prism's wail relieved his immediate anxiety that she'd gotten hurt. Perceptor was holding her and clearly trying to comfort her, even as the others watched.

"What happened?" Fang said, holding his hands out for Prism.

She launched into his arms as soon as he was close enough, and clung to him, crying wordlessly.

Aquaregia pinged him, then wordlessly sent a transmission of video and audio. Fang reviewed the file, and watched as his sparkling accused a remarkably well behaved Starscream of stealing her artwork. Fang winced, having seen Starscream in a rage a few times and knowing he could have just as easily have tried to slag her. Starscream's sense of self-preservation was minimal at best when he lost his temper. He didn't believe any threat of future damage or even off-lining would deter Starscream from violence if he was in a true rage.

Truly concerned, he passed the file on to Ratchet, and told Prism, "Kiddo, I doubt Starscream took your drawing pad. It's probably in the cabinet with your other supplies."

Ratchet said over the comm to all of them, _:Why _would _he take it?:_

:Seriously, Ratch, it's probably in a cabinet. There's a couple mechs on my staff who make a habit of picking up after me and Prism, and one of them could have moved it._: _Fang was rather unimpressed by Prism's tantrum. He reviewed it a second time, and his scowl intensified. She had to learn not to scream at people. He wished she'd kept her fear of larger mechs.

Perceptor observed, _:She was pretty rude to him.:_

:It's Starscream. Can't say as I exactly blame her.: That came from Rivet, who scowled sullenly.

_:Starscream hasn't done anything to her personally.: _Fang sighed. Unlike Prism, Rivet had quite a few reasons to really hate Starscream on a personal level. To all of them, he said somewhat reluctantly, _:She owes him an apology. She has no proof, and she was very rude. And I want to strongly discourage this sort of behavior from her. Starscream restrained himself, but there are those who won't, including most of the virus-addled glitch heads we're going to have to deal with.:_

:If you say so, boss.: Aquaregia sounded a bit skeptical. _:It's Starscream, though. Given the number of times he's done slag to everyone I know, I hardly think being falsely accused of stealing a sparkling's artwork is even worth worrying about.:_

:Oh, it's not about Starscream. I could care less what Starscream thinks. This is about Prism.: Fang shook his head. To Prism he said, "Prism, kiddo, you don't have any proof he took your artwork. You can't tell people you hate them and be nasty to them if you don't have proof -"

_:Or even if she does,: _Ratchet snorted, _:she still shouldn't scream she hates someone over something this minor.: _

_:Like you're a fantastic example of good manners,: _Fang shot back at him, annoyed by Ratchet's apparent double standard. However, he added to Prism, "Or even if you do have proof, you can't be rude like that. You owe him an apology."

Ratchet scowled at him, but said nothing back in response.

"No!" Prism, by contrast, was happy to voice her opinion. "I hate him."

Fang held a hand out to Aquaregia. "May I have her crayons, please?"

"Fang, noooooo!" Prism wailed, correctly guessing his intent.

"What will it be, kiddo? Will you apologize to him for being rude, or do I keep your crayons until you do?" He held the box up between two fingers.

Reluctantly, she said, "Apology."

He handed her the box. "Write him a note. I'll have someone deliver it."

She muttered something under her breath that probably wasn't very polite, but it was low enough that he couldn't make the words out. He let that go. Louder, she said, "I'll need paper. Since he _took _mine."

"I'm sure your artwork will turn up," he patted her on the head, and then handed her off to Perceptor. _:Do you mind helping her with the note? It needs to be polite, but I don't think it has to be all that long.:_

:Sure, no problem. I'd have done the same thing if I was her mentor.:

He snorted. _:Remember the time you made me apologize to Shockwave for cussing him out? He took that doll away that you gave me because it wasn't an appropriate toy for a warrior.:_

:I could not tell you this then, but he vowed to reformat you if you continued to be difficult to work with,: Perceptor admitted. _:And likely, I would not have been allowed to directly interact with you - with the new sparkling who had been you - at all if that was done. He told me to make you mind, or else. That was very difficult for me. I agreed with your anger. You might have been sparked into a warrior frame, but you were only months old.:_

He shuddered, wondering what his life would have been like if he'd had no memory of Perceptor's affection, restrained though it had been, and his personal tutoring. Perceptor had also mentioned Shockwave's treatment of him on an open comm to everyone present. When he realized that, he looked up from Prism to realize that his Decepticons were staring at him puzzled looks and the Autobots with sympathy. He explained briefly, "For those who don't know yet, Perceptor was my mentor, a very long time ago. Which explains why I can sometimes speak nerd. - Percy, will you drop Prism off with Ratchet when he's done with his work this evening? 'Regia, if you would, have someone deliver Prism's apology note."

"Yes sir."

Fang turned to Ratchet, and after a glance at his audience of several other mechs simply said, "I need to go chase Skywarp down before meeting resumes -"

"Go. We'll talk later." Ratchet flashed him a quick smile. "And be careful, Snowflake."

"Oh, _don't _call me that."

"Snowflake?" Aquaregia said, puzzled.

"Special Snowflake," Ratchet said, and laughed.

Perceptor nodded and said brightly, "It fits him!"

Fang grinned. "I suppose it does. I'm so glad all of you acknowledge it."

Rivet stage-whispered, "He's modest, too."

"Oh, now I have to be humble and deny that I'm humble. That's a trait I've never possessed ..." he rolled his optics. "And now the Special Snowflake Prime needs to go pay a visit to his troops. Wish me luck."

Rivet, who was on the need-to-know list of who was in orbit because the medics had been told to put Onslaught's team on the maintenance rotation, smirked. "I'll wish you not to have your aft shot off. That'll count as luck."

"Gee, thanks, lots of faith in me ..."

"I have tons of faith in you, and none in them," Rivet chuckled. "But I'm sure Ratch'll be happy to kiss and make it better when you come back ..."

Ratchet smacked him, playfully, saying, "Hey. I am _not _going to kiss anyone's aft."

Near simultaneously, Mirage and Aquaregia both tensed, as if to go to the defense of their fellow officers. Fang waited, halfway expecting an incident, but Rivet just ignored that and said, "Hey, watch it, Autobot - you break me, you gotta fix me."

_:Be careful,: _Aquaregia murmured, to Fang, far more seriously, _:Are you sure you don't want me to go too?:_

:No. I don't expect any real trouble, but if there is, I don't want both of us in the line of fire. There's nobody else on Earth I'd trust to run our operations here but you.:

:Thanks, boss,: Aquaregia's smile was brilliant.

* * *

His next stop was to track down his ride into orbit. He briefly considered asking one of his other seekers, but he didn't trust them. Skywarp he trusted. It was funny to him that it had only been weeks since Skywarp had tried to kill him - twice - out of fear and rage. So much had happened between them, including the hand of their God guiding them to change the course of destiny for their people. The trust between them had grown until it felt unbreakable.

_At least I know that Skywarp doesn't play mind games. What you see is what you get with him, even now. _

Once inside the Decepticon base Fang comm'd Crowbar, who had monitor duty, and asked, _:Where's Skywarp?:_

:In his quarters. The neutral is down by the river and Starscream is in your _quarters.: _Crowbar sounded vaguely scandalized by that last tidbit. _:I wish you had security cameras inside, at least in the lab section. I can't see what he's doing.:_

_:Go ahead and have somebody wire in the cameras. It was lower priority than other things, but you're right about needing them now. Starscream is allowed access to my lab during the daytime shift. I'm not going to ask the medics to put up with him, so he'll work out of my lab when he does his shift of sparkling maintenance every day.:_

:Heh.: Crowbar snorted. _:Rivet hates him.:_

:Do you blame him?:

:Pit, no. I hate Screamer on general principles. It's personal for Rivet.:

:Nobody likes Starscream, but he's useful. Trust me, I don't much care for him either. I ask that you be polite to him, but you do not have to like _him. - Crowbar, I'm going to need you in a few minutes. Will you get Boomer, find a replacement for the rest of your shift on the monitors, and meet me down by the front entrance?:_

Sidney had left minutes earlier - Arrowhead had been voluntold by 'Regia to give her a ride home - so Boomer should be free now.

Crowbar acknowledged the order with a cheerful, _:Yes sir. What's up?:_

:Not over the radio. I'll fill you in later.:

That task taken care of, he walked up to Skywarp's quarters, and pinged Skywarp through the door.

_:Come on in, boss.:_

Skywarp's room was a double intended for 'Warp and Thundercracker, and Thundercracker's status as an officer meant they ranked one of the larger private rooms in the base. The room had one regular berth and one fold-down berth; the first berth had been shoved up against the latter, forming an extra-large platform. Fang realized that Skyfire had likely spent the night, an assumption born out by the fact that Skywarp's hands had been cleaned up and repaired. Skywarp also had shiny new paint nanytes where there had formerly been gouges down to the bare metal. Skyfire had been busy.__

"Boss?"

"Sorry," he realized he'd been standing in Skywarp's room without saying a word for slightly longer than socially acceptable. "Just admiring the work Skyfire did. He did clean you up, right?"

Skywarp grinned. "You like? He was here for a few hours this morning. Primus, I've missed him for the detailing alone."

There was something veiled in 'Warp's gaze, however. Something uncertain, a hint of shadows. Fang asked quietly, "How are you doing?"

The much larger mech sighed softly. "Good enough."

He wasn't good. Fang had spent enough time with 'Warp to recognize that the seeker was in a rather grim mood, despite his happy expression. Fang leaned casually against the wall, trying to signal to Skywarp that this wasn't strictly a work-related visit. He asked, "How's Skyfire?"

"He's down by his brother's grave. He asked for some time alone." Skywarp took his cue from Fang's body language and visibly relaxed a little bit.

"Oh." Fang honestly didn't have time to deal with grieving neutrals, but he tried to put in at least a little effort for Skywarp's sake. "Did you know Jetfire?"

"Yes."

"Uh ... I didn't realize that." Skywarp clearly wasn't in a talkative mood, even by Skywarp's normally somewhat antisocial standards. Fang tried again, somewhat tentatively, "I guess you would, them being twins."

"Not well." Skywarp sighed, finally relenting a bit and actually talking rather than evading Fang's concern. "He didn't appreciate my sense of humor much. And he and Starscream mixed like sulfur and water."

"Ah."

Skywarp shrugged. "Skyfire ... is very different from Jetfire. They're twins, but that was about all they had in common."

"Maybe you can tell me about them later," he said, in a real effort to understand Skywarp - this new Skywarp, who seemed so familiar and yet wasn't. There were odd little pauses and vague answers now that hadn't been there before.

"About them?" Skywarp asked for clarification.

"How you met them. I'm curious."

The seeker met his gaze with clear optics. This new, quiet, sober, Skywarp was going to take some getting used to. "Fang, what do you need from me?" Skywarp's tone wasn't impatient, or rude. He looked more worried than anything else. "I appreciate you're concerned, but I also know you're very busy. This isn't just a social call."

Fang nodded. "I _am _worried about you, but you're right. I don't have enough nanoklicks in the day to get everything done ... though even if I didn't need you I still would have at least comm'd you, I swear."

Brief gratitude lit Skywarp's optics. "I know. That sort of concern is why half the base follows you with complete loyalty and the other half thinks you're a soft-sparked glitch, though they're liking the new job benefits. You have no reason to like or trust me. It was only weeks ago I tried to kill you. Yet here you are ... what do you need?"

"We've got a battle to plan. Want to take me up to see Onslaught and his team?"

Skywarp rose again from his berth. "Sure. You gonna take some backup besides me, boss?"

"Crowbar and Boomer."

"Good." Skywarp nodded. "How soon?"

"Now, I'm afraid. Are you ready to go? I know you're off shift."

"Yeah. Don't worry about my shift, I wouldn't trust any other seeker with you and I'd be pissed if you did," Skywarp flashed him a brief, tired smile. He added, "My code vetted clean and I'm ready to get back to work."

Fang nodded, and reached up, and rested a hand on Skywarp's wrist. "'Warp, we'll get you back into the lab. I'm sure you want more than just the warrior's life you've had ..."

Skywarp shook his head sharply. "I'm a warrior, Fang. Let's leave it at that, for now."

"But ..."

"Warrior. It's what I'm good at. Let's go ..." Fang detected a quick comm transmission from Skywarp, which was swiftly answered by another mech. Skywarp nodded, "Boomer says they're ready. Let's go."

Fang's paranoia suddenly kicked into full gear. Why had Skywarp jumped the gun on him to comm Boomer? He was the commander, _he _should have been the one who checked their status ... he was just about to spit out a swift reprimand when Skywarp touched him on the arm, drawing his attention up to the seeker.

"I've got your back, boss," Skywarp said, softly.

He scrubbed at his faceplates with both hands. He was just so exhausted. If Skywarp had a problem with him, Skywarp tended to take the direct approach - and a faster processor speed wouldn't change that. He wasn't conspiring behind Fang's back, he was mother henning, as the humans said. Mildly, Fang said, "Don't circumvent my authority like that unless you're passing on _my _orders. And do you want to be in charge of my bodyguard detail? I really should have one, beyond just using Boomer, I'm just so busy - I can trust you not to go crazy and shoot at an Autobot now, right?"

"Depends on the Autobot." Skywarp smirked.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. I'm a lot more stable." Skywarp smiled with fainter amusement. "Let me ... let me think about it. Boomer's a good mech too, you know. He'd take care of you."

With complete and total honesty, Fang said, "He's nothing like Deathwheels, but having a big and looming bodyguard standing behind me gives me processor ghosts if I'm not paying close attention to my sensor feeds. It feels like Death's behind me. I've almost commed Death a few times, thinking Boomer's shadow belonged to Deathwheels, and it hurts."

It was the first time he'd admitted to anyone, even himself, that this was true. He was unsure what to think about the disappointment he felt each time he turned, expecting to see Deathwheels, and Boomer's scarred red abdominal plating was at eye level instead. Skywarp was a completely different shape, his systems sounded completely different, and he talked to Fang rather than just looming silently.

"Primus, I didn't think about that - I had the same reaction after we thought Skyfire was dead, whenever his twin was around, and they didn't look much alike either. Same frame, very different mods." Skywarp sighed, and then said in a tone that was, for Skywarp, quite sympathetic. "You really miss him, don't you? If it's bothering you that bad, I'll be happy to step in when I'm not needed as a flier. And you know, the other mech who'd be good for a bodyguard would be Punch ... he's not quite as looming as Boomer is, and he can hold his own in a fight ... bit rough around the edges, but not too bad ... and he's clever. Thinks fast on his feet."

Fang snorted. He wasn't about to have Punch be his guard. Aside from the mech's dubious loyalties, the Autobots knew too much about Fang's daily activities as it was. "We'll talk about it later. And I don't have time to get all emo, so let's get going." Fang took two steps towards the exit. He was glad when Skywarp followed without further comment.

* * *

Prism scowled fiercely. "Starscream should apologize too."

Perceptor picked through the box of her art supplies and found a pretty purple pen. "I know, sparklet. I know he made you mad." He tested the pen on a piece of paper, his fingers nimble despite the fact that the pen was a fraction of the diameter of each of his digits. It turned out to have bright, glittery neon purple ink.

"How come I need to apologize if he hasn't?" She was most displeased, that was clear. "He took my stuff. I'm mad at him."

"You don't know he took your art."

"Yeah he did." She held her hand out for the pen. "He took it."

"Why would he do that?" he asked, wondering if that was just her imagination speaking.

"'Cuz he wanted the picture I drew of him, but if he'd asked nice I could've made him a copy." When he gave her the pen she frowned at it. "I don't like this one. I want the red and blue and silver pens."

"And why do you want those colors?"

"I want black and dark silver too. I'm gonna draw Optimus and Fang on the apology letter 'cuz it'll frag him off." She blinked innocent eyes at Perceptor.

"I do believe you're not supposed to use that word," he said, though personally, he didn't see the point in actually banning use of obscenities. "And the point of an apology letter is to apologize because _you _are in the wrong. An apology is more than just words, it is intent."

"I don't want to intend to apologize. He should be apologizing to me."

"Were you rude to him?"

"... yes," she admitted, with a ferocious frown.

"Then you do need to say you're sorry for being rude. Maybe he will apologize to you, too. Or maybe not."

She frowned. "Fang's rude sometimes."

"I don't doubt it," he said, with a fond smile. "But that doesn't make it right."

"So I need to do the right thing even if he did the wrong thing. Perceptor, he took my art. I worked really hard on it, and it was mine, and he took it." She sounded absolutely miserable. "And nobody believes me. Nobody will make him give it back."

He ran a finger down her back. "Nobody believes you, sparklet, because you don't have any proof."

She glanced up at him, her ruby optics wide. "I don't know how to get proof. How do I get proof when I didn't really see it?"

"If you didn't see it," he said softly, "Are you quite sure it happened?"

Firmly, she said, "Yes. It happened."

"And how do you know?"

"Because it did."

"Okay. I'll believe you," he actually thought it was entirely possible, given Starscream's sheer glitchedness. He'd been a jerk even before the war. "But you still need to say you're sorry for calling him names."

She held a hand out for the marker. "Fine."

Well, at least she wasn't arguing any more. He supervised as she wrote a simple apology note:

_Dear Starscream,_

I'm sorry for calling you names. I shouldn't have sworn at you. It's wrong to swear at people, and wrong to be mean to people, and I was. So I'm sorry.

She signed her name with a flourish and then thrust the piece of paper at him with a sniff. "He needs to apologize, too."

"I know, sweetling." He carefully took the piece of paper from her. "That's a good apology note. Maybe he'll write one back. Though even if he doesn't, _you _did the right thing. That's more important than getting an apology from Starscream." Then, to reinforce what Fang really wanted her to learn, he added, "And you know, if you have good manners, you don't need to apologize to people that you don't think deserve it."

She huffed, "I guess."

"Now," he said, as he set the paper aside and summoned one of his bodyguards with a quick ping, "Why don't we do an art project together?"

"What kind of project?"

He considered, for a moment. "Have you done any sculptures?"

She frowned. "No."

He after a quick mental inventory of the contents of his of the lab, before deciding that they had everything he needed to make a lost wax casting. He routinely cast some of the metal parts for his specialized weapons - blades and hilts were forged, but many of the internal bits simply needed to be cast, which was certainly easier. It depended on the stress the part would take.

He retrieved a block of wax, some clay, and a small chunk of duryllium. After dropping the duryllium in a crucible he joined her at the table. "Okay, kiddo," he said, setting the wax down next to her, "Here's how this works ..."

For now, this was fun for her. Given what he'd seen of her artistic abilities, he expected she'd be quite good at making small sculptures. It would be a very short step from making art to making useful repair parts.

Primus knew she could be helpful, and would learn a handy skill, if he could get her working with him. With all the sparklings that needed massive amounts of maintenance and repairs, there was no shortage of work, and he suspected she'd enjoy it.

* * *

Trailbreaker padded into the med bay, a tiny piece of fragile paper carefully pinched between two fingers. Perceptor had casually asked him to deliver the note to the Decepticons, and he was a bit stumped as to how he was supposed to do that. Should he just find a random Decepticon out and about around the SOA, and ask them to deliver it? Request a meeting with Aquaregia or Fang? It wasn't like they had an inter-base mail system set up.

The note was supposed to go to Starscream. Given the fact that the Decepticons on Earth quite possibly hated and feared Starscream even more than the Autobots did, he wasn't sure a random 'con would actually deliver it. He'd overheard them in the SOA talking about Starscream's return. Primusly granted or not, the 'cons were not happy about it.

Well, that wasn't his problem to deal with. He was looking for someone with more experience dealing with the 'cons personally than he had. That had taken him in search of the medics. Ratchet was in the med bay, peering at something that Wheeljack was working on. Ratchet had been traveling with impunity between the bases for days. Only Ratchet would have the bearings to do that, to walk into a Decepticon Base and make himself at home, without half a dozen large bodyguards for backup. Ratchet, of course, was pretty much his own backup, given his formidable temper and notorious fighting ability, but still. Trailbreaker wouldn't have been caught alive or dead alone in the Decepticon base.

He didn't even want to _think _about the rumors that were spreading about Ratchet and the Decepticon Prime ...

"Sir," he said, drawing Ratchet's attention away from the widget the two big mechs were working on. "Perceptor has a note he wants delivered to Starscream. How do we do that?"

"Generally speaking, you drive over and hand the note to the mechanism in question and say, 'Here, this is for you.'"

Trailbreaker straightened up and said stiffly, "Sir. At which point Starscream could very well reply, 'Die, Autobot.'"

"He does have a point," Wheeljack interjected, with a laugh.

"Trailbreaker'd win," Ratchet replied, somewhat offhandedly. He was peering at the object on the table again. Trailbreaker recognized the guts of a plasma rifle. When neither of them said anything, he added, "Well, he would. Starscream's been neutered. No weapons."

"And the rest of the seekers would then slaughter me," Trailbreaker pointed out.

"I doubt it," Ratchet glanced up.

"I heard about Skywarp ..."

"Fang's got Skywarp on a pretty tight leash," Ratchet shook his head. "The rest of the Seekers wouldn't care."

"Might need another set of hands later," Wheeljack said, to Ratchet, "but Rivet's supposed to be here in a few minutes. He's going to help Hoist and I with the sparkling that's got the cracked spark chamber ..." he gestured with one hand at a very still human-sized mech laying on a table.

Trailbreaker did a mental double take. "You're working that closely with the 'con medics?"

Ratchet grunted, "Between the two factions, we _might _have an entire medical facility. Both sides are short on equipment and staff, Trailbreaker. And if you're that scared of the 'cons, I'll deliver the dang note."

_What happens when they turn on us? _he wondered, even as he said, "Thank you. I don't think anyone would dare mess with you. Sir." Though now he felt guilty. What if they _did_? Ratchet was a Prime. Ratchet was the CMO.

"... Ratchet will take any excuse to go see Fang," Wheeljack stage-whispered.

Ratchet threw a nearly fist-sized bolt at his head. Wheeljack ducked. The bolt sailed over his head, and First Aid neatly caught it out of the air.

"And you trust Fangface?" He couldn't help but ask. There were all the many rumors about Fang and Ratchet, but he really wasn't sure if he wanted to believe them.

Blue optics met his. Ratchet's expression was a frankly scornful reaction to his question. "There are times when I think Fangface is a complete and total glitch, but the same applies to Optimus."

Wheeljack barked a surprised laugh. First Aid, across the med bay, hid a smile behind one hand, even as he carried the bolt over to a berth that held something that looked like Grimlock's arm, though Grimlock himself wasn't in evidence.

Trailbreaker objected, a bit scandalized, "He's Optimus Prime!"

"And I'm a Prime too, and I'm walking evidence that we're mortal and imperfect." Ratchet snorted. Trailbreaker couldn't completely conceal his chagrin at that reminder; it was easy to forget that Ratchet - cranky, familiar Ratchet - was now in the same elite ranks as Optimus. He didn't appear to have changed much.

Ratchet continued, "To answer your question, yes. I trust Fang to do what he thinks is best for our people. I just can't guarantee I'll _agree _with his decisions. Megatron was motivated by greed and power lust. Fang certainly likes power, but it's for a variety of reasons that go beyond mere lust for power."

Wheeljack said, in a bright tone of voice, "He's easily thrilled by flattery and flattery certainly comes with a position of power."

Ratchet snorted. "And Fang would agree with you on that point. However, he also likes power because it gives him more opportunities to change things for the better ..."

"Which, of course, earns him even more praise ..." First Aid put in from across the room, making Wheeljack smirk in apparent agreement.

Ratchet held a hand out to Trailbreaker. "Here. I'll take the note. And for the record, I probably won't even _see _Fang, but I would like a chance to have a few polite words with Starscream myself."

Wheeljack snickered. "... Will you need to write an apology note after that discussion, too?"

"The only person I intend to apologize to will be Unicron if I kill the slagger." Ratchet snorted. "And then only because Unicron probably doesn't want him _back_."

"Heh." Wheeljack shook his head. "There is a certain consistency to his evil that might actually annoy the God of Chaos ..."

Ratchet laughed. "Too true. Trailbreaker, shoo. You're off duty according to the roster. Go find something to do that isn't taking up space in my med bay."

Thus dismissed, Trailbreaker, grinning because of the banter, headed for Fort Max's exit. It felt amazingly good to be able to go outside without being shot at by the Decepticons that had laid siege to Fortress Maximus for so many thousands of years ... he wondered if the officers who had not been stationed on Cybertron truly understood how nervous the close proximity of a base of Decepticons made the rank and file mechs like himself.

A few minutes later, Trailbreaker walked out the front gates. The Decepticon base in the distance was separated only by an expanse of flat ground. Brawn had guard duty. A large Decepticon Constructicon was grading the entrance to Fort Max, much to Trailbreaker's surprise.

"Hey Brawn, you think the war's over?" Trailbreaker said, suddenly feeling completely out of sorts, after the Constructicon moved away, and out of earshot. More 'cons were building a wide, well-paved road between the two bases and the SOA. He supposed it was both a practical and symbolic gesture. The close proximity of a very large Constructicon still made him uneasy.

Brawn snorted. "War's still going on up there." He stabbed a finger at the blue sky above their heads.

Still. He couldn't help but think that he'd just heard three medics - three officers - speak on familiar, affectionate terms about the Decepticon leader. Such a thing would never have happened with Megatron; Megatron's name had always been preceded by obscenities and generally issued with a snarl.

Maybe there was hope. Maybe.

He said, "We have to end it for the children."

"Mm."

Trying to encourage an actual conversation, Trailbreaker said, "Say, what's your number for the sparkling lottery?"

The Autobots who wanted children had been randomly assigned numbers to determine the order they'd receive their sparklings. He'd been very pleased to have a low number - he was number ninety-seven, and they estimated he'd have his kids within the month. He was adopting two, both human-sized mechs who would have street legal dirt-bike alt modes.

Brawn shrugged.

"I'm really looking forward to it," he said, as he imagined what it would be like. A huge responsibility, sure, and he wasn't entirely sure he'd be up to it, but it felt like both a duty and a blessing. As Optimus had told them, everyone who could raise sparklings should. The more they could bring online the better. What would it be like to be responsible for the welfare of a small child, a child who would love him and look up to him and someday be an adult he'd shaped and molded? Could he really do that?

"Yeah, well, some of us aren't so lucky," Brawn scowled.

He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly realizing why Brawn was less than enthusiastic about the conversation. Brawn was a good mech, but he had a stubborn, aggressive streak and scorn for anyone weaker than himself ... which was most of the universe. He wasn't particularly tall, perhaps Bee's height depending on how he held himself, but he was formidably stout, with thick armor concealing an out-sized power plant and a drive train. Once upon a time he'd been a miner, though he'd joined the war effort early, first as a Decepticon and then, after Nebulos, he'd switched sides in a horrified reaction to the destruction.

That contempt for the weak, and that dismissive attitude towards scientists, towards the army's nerds, could conceal something worse. Trailbreaker realized that Brawn had been disqualified from adopting a sparkling and said, somewhat awkwardly, "I'm sorry."

"Feh. Didn't want a brat anyway. What would _I _do with a sparkling?" Brawn's optics followed someone visible in the distance. "Unlike some. Sunny's got a real feedback loop going in his processors about the damned kids."

Trailbreaker focused on the golden twin visible in the distance. He was skating his way towards the SOA, all alone, lighting his path through the darkness with the headlights mounted on his shoulders. Sunstreaker was alone a lot, something that seemed odd to Trailbreaker. Sunny often spent time alone in his quarters, or went driving by himself. He'd been that way for as long as Trailbreaker knew him. Transformers were not normally solitary, but Sunstreaker wasn't quite normal.

_Of course, most of the army can't stand him. Never have figured out how Bluestreak gets along with him. Maybe it's just that Blue chatters so much Sunny can't get a word in edgewise to say something offensive ..._

"Is he on the schedule for the SOA?"

"No," Brawn said, "I just comm'd Jazz about it. Sunny's in trouble for fighting. He's supposed to be in solitary until tomorrow morning. Jazz said that they just had to put one of the Nebulan mechs in the brig because he got in a fight with his buddies, and then assaulted our medics. 'Sides is in town, and they share quarters, so Sunny's going to finish out his sentence in the storage hanger they put up behind the SOA building."

Trailbreaker wondered if solitary confinement was really that much of a punishment for a mech with as little need for socialization as Sunstreaker. Most mechs, when punished with a stint in the solitary cells in the brig, drove everyone within radio range nuts chatting away. Solitary did _not _include lack of a comm; isolating someone to that degree that wouldn't be punishment, it would be torture.

While Sunstreaker occasionally talked to his brother when he was being punished, he seldom spoke to anyone else.

On the other hand, who would he talk to, and about what? Sunny wasn't big on social chatter period. He didn't have many friends. Trailbreaker sighed, realizing Sunny might well be obsessing over the idea of having a sparkling because he was lonely. _And that's not the way to fix being lonely, _he thought, a bit sadly.

* * *

Ratchet pinged Aquaregia, since he figured Fang was probably very busy getting ready to see Onslaught. 'Regia sent a brief, _:Yes sir?: _back in English.

He replied with a snort, _:Sir?: _'Regia was not in his chain of command.

The Decepticon simply sent back a text file of an English-language dictionary entry defining the word _sir_, with the definition implying a simple address of respect highlighted. English could be so frustratingly imprecise at times. They almost all spoke in English because they all needed practice with the fine points, and this was a classic example of a 'fine point' in translation.

Aquaregia was being respectful, because Ratchet was a Prime and a medic. That gave Ratchet a moment's pause, as he realized the importance of that. However, he wasn't sure he was ready to deal with respectful Decepticons. With a snort, he said, _:Just call me Ratchet, 'Regia. Though I have to admit being called 'Sir' by a Decepticon beats hearing 'Die Autobot!':_

:As you wish. What do you need, Ratchet?:

:Mind if I give Prism's apology note to Starscream personally?:

:Not at all. The more people who threaten him into submission, the better.:

Ratchet laughed as he drove towards the base. _:Yes. My thoughts exactly.:_


	107. Chapter 107

Chapter 107

* * *

Author's Notes:

Action should pick up in the next few chapters. ;-)

* * *

The storage building was empty of all conscious mechs, and quite dark. Through the open door, Sunstreaker could see empty desert lit by a full moon and a starry sky. He heard someone land on the runaway; one of the seekers, by the sound. That made him twitch reflexively as he remembered too many battles with jets with those familiar engines.

The others were chattering over the radio, lightly encrypted streams of communication. The sun-warm rafters of the hastily constructed tin storage warehouse ticked and popped as they cooled. The cement beneath his aft was still damp from being poured.

He was unsurprised when Bluestreak pinged him. For a moment, he didn't respond, but his only company consisted of berths piled with the overhauled bodies of the sparklings. It was lonely, and creepy. The silent sparklings reminded him of dead bodies. Talking to someone else might chase away those terrible memories of so many dead.

_:Yeah, Bluestreak?: _he responded.

_:You doing okay?:_

:I'm in solitary. I'm doing just prime.:

:Well, you've got lots of practice with it, and I'm totally teasing you about having lots of practice, so don't get mad.:

He smirked. Bluestreak was one of the few people he really, genuinely liked, and this was one good reason why. Blue made a real effort to make sure that his intentions and feelings were crystal clear. It all stemmed back to that one interface in the prison camp, so long ago. It would be easy to assume comments like that, _and I'm totally teasing you_, were just part of Blue's chatter, but Blue made them consistently. He'd also seen just how very caring Bluestreak was. He mattered to Bluestreak.

Which wasn't to say he wasn't mad to Blue. He responded with a wordless growl of low-frequency static.

_:Ouch, I really am sorry, Sunny. I lost my cool and I shouldn't have, and I didn't mean to hurt you, or get you in trouble. You've been trying so hard to be good ...:_

He glanced at the silent sparklings, reminder of why he was being careful. Most of them were bigger mechs, destined to be sent to one of the storage facilities. Most were currently going to an old salt mine, deep underground, that had been turned into a secure base for top secret equipment ... and now baby Cybertronians.

_:Eh, screw it. It was hopeless, Blue. Jazz hates me.:_

:Ratchet does not hate you, Sunny. Really, he doesn't. He's worried about you, and he knows you sometimes get misunderstand people and get mad, or just plain get mad when the situation doesn't deserve it. He cares about you.:

:Meh. You want to do something when I get out of here?: He decided not to be mad at Bluestreak. _:Maybe go out to the salt flats?:_

:I'm going to have two days of solitary and two weeks of punishment detail. We can go race on the salt flats after that.: Bluestreak said this casually, but Sunstreaker winced in reaction anyway.

_:Pit, I thought he'd go easy on you. You never get in trouble!:_

:Eh. He told me to name my own punishment. I doubled yours. Quadrupled the solitary. It was my fault you got in trouble, so I figured I should be punished more than you were.:

He blinked his optics in the darkness, surprised by that. _:Blue, you probably could have gotten off with just a couple extra evenings of monitor duty. You never get in trouble, and Jazz takes that into account when he punishes people.:_

:Yes, but it wasn't fair,: Bluestreak sighed at him, baffling Sunstreaker. Fair or not he would have done everything in his power to lighten his sentence, not volunteer for more than the boss would have assigned! Bluestreak continued, _:Anyway. My solitary starts tomorrow morning. Guess our cells are full right now.:_

:Yeah, they kicked me out and made me finish my sentence out here behind the SOA. Apparently one of the Nebulans needed some time to cool off.:

:Yeah, I heard about that.:

:So what are you going to do with your last night of freedom?: he asked, trying to be social. He was _lonely_ by himself, not that he'd ever admit it. The silent, offline sparklings were no company at all, and it was such a painful reminder.

_:Eh, I have a ...: _Bluestreak paused, then giggled. _:A date.:_

A bit of jealousy flared in Sunstreaker's spark, enough to make Sidewswipe ping him with a wordless inquiry. He responded to Sideswipe, _not you_, knowing Sideswipe had picked the emotion up across their bond and was wondering if Sunny was jealous of something he had done. Still trying to be polite, Sunstreaker asked Bluestreak, _:Yeah? With who?:_

:... Jazz, actually. Sunny, he's hurting over Prowl something bad. You know they've loved each other forever. He sort've ... well, I guess we've always been friends, and once he didn't have to be the boss, he asked if I wanted to. And of course I do. It's been a real long time since I 'faced with anyone, but I'm good at it ...:

Sunstreaker could agree with that.

_:... and it's Jazz. Who wouldn't want to go with Jazz? I never thought he'd ask me and I didn't want to ask _him _because it would have hurt too much if _Jazz _didn't want me, Pit, even _you _didn't want to do it again, though I totally understand why, with Sideswipe and everything, but even if Jazz likes me and respects me I was afraid he wouldn't want to lower his firewalls to me because he can't know for sure what's in my head until he does and I could be way more unstable than I am, though I think people think I'm really a lot crazier than I really am, some of the way I come off is just _me _and we're so used to looking for crazies who've cracked because of the war that everyone thinks I'm emotional because I'm damaged, but I was this way even before ... anyway ... sorry, Sunstreaker, I'm babbling even by my standards, and ...:_

:I was going to get some recharge,: he lied. _:Mind if I sign off here?:_

:What? No. Figured you needed some company. I didn't say something to upset you, did I? If I did, I'm sorry ...:

:No.: Another lie. _:You didn't say anything. I'm tired.:_

:Sunny, are you sure?:

:Yes.:

:Because I care about you, buddy, I really do, don't ever doubt that.:

Bluestreak cared, but he was way more popular than Sunstreaker. Sunny had endured a fifteen minute lecture from an irritated Jazz. Bluestreak, who'd started the fight, had gotten to pick his own punishment and then been propositioned by the same mech.

Sometimes, life just wasn't fair.

He cut the connection, and then for good measure, he silenced his comm. Now completely alone, without even the background chatter of a base full of mechs to listen to, he sat and stared at the sparklings.

It just wasn't fair. It really wasn't. The double standard was so obvious to him. He wasn't sure _why _everyone thought he was a failure, considered incompetent and dangerous by nearly all who knew him, and why the officers were so strict with him and so lax with mechs like Blue, but it was a long-standing pattern. They wouldn't even give him a chance.

_I could raise one of these sparklings, _he thought, bitterly, _but they won't even let me try._

Primus, he wanted a child. He'd seen how the kids looked at their mentors, and the connection between them. He desperately wanted that, and he knew he could have it, but he was denied. No matter how well he behaved, no matter what he did, they would _never _give him the chance.

It just wasn't fair.

He scowled at the closest sparkling. The child had been sparked into a protoform that clearly turned into some sort of powerful ground vehicle. The kid had a spoiler, a big engine, and lines that hinted a sleek, low slung alt mode.

He wondered what they would do if he just claimed the child anyway ... surely, they wouldn't break up a child/mentor bond. It would be too cruel to the child.

_Probably be on punishment detail for the rest of my life ... _but any punishment would be worth it, to have someone who really loved him unconditionally, who looked up to him, who believed he was important.

With suddenly keen interest, he decided, _I want one that's been reformatted, so I can upload an operating system myself ... imprint myself on the kid from the very moment he comes online, so he'll be sure to trust me._

He didn't have a copy of an appropriate operating system, but surely, it wouldn't be that hard to create from a copy of his own ...

* * *

Ratchet pinged open Fang's lab door after charging his weapons capacitors and spinning his saw blade a few times in its housing. He wasn't overly afraid of Starscream, given that Starscream was unarmed. Ratchet had gone head-to-head with Starscream a few times in the past and had given as good as he got even when the seeker had been fulling in possession of all his weapons. There was something to be said for having layers of reinforced plating when dealing with seekers, who tended to be among the more lightly armed of mechs - and in close quarters such as Fang's lab, the advantage would entirely be on Ratchet's side.

That assumed a fair fight, of course. Starscream was nothing if not sneaky, cunning, and treacherous. He'd been in a reasonably well equipped machine shop for hours. The machine shop had no security cameras, and he wouldn't put it past Starscream to _try _to slag him just to make a point.

The room was completely quiet when he stepped through the door, aside from the low roar Fang's forge in one corner and the hum of Starscream's systems. Starscream didn't move, he just stared straight ahead with overly bright red optics.

"You know," Ratchet said, as he walked over to the furnace to see what Starscream was using it for, "a 'hello' would be polite." He did a systems check of his weapons, because Starscream appeared to be as high as a kite, to use the human vernacular. His optics had that peculiar unfocused look that Ratchet associated with a compromised mental state.

There was not a word from Starscream in response.

"What'd you do, overclock yourself into oblivion?" The forge smelled suspiciously like burning carbon and pigments and wax, and there was a glowing spiral ring of metal in it that was the right size to be from the spine of a pad of drawing paper. He'd destroyed evidence, Ratchet guessed, though only Unicron and Primus knew why. He wondered how the kid had known. A lucky guess, perhaps, or she might have overheard something.

Ratchet turned back to Starscream, "What, too intoxicated to even respond? You know that's not good for your processor, you'll overheat ..."

His optics flickered.

Ratchet cocked his head to one side, suddenly suspicious that he was dealing with more than just a seeker who'd sought oblivion through programm-based intoxication. He walked closer. Starscream made no response to his approach, not even when he poked the seeker in the face with a finger.

Slag. There was something actually _wrong _with him.

Ratchet's medical programming came online with swift urgency. Starscream's optics were lit, but they didn't contract when Ratchet flicked his headlights on and aimed the beam at them. He could detect a very high level of current going through Starscream's cores, and whatever was going on was enough to generate quite a bit of heat ... and his cooling systems appeared to be offline. None of his internals were actually working: not his power plant, not his comm system, not his motors or hydraulics or sensor networks.

Suspicion bloomed. Ratchet bolted for the supply cabinets and frantically rummaged through them. Where the _hell _did Fang keep his datapads?

Thirty seconds later he'd located the pad he needed. He shoved Starscream back from seated to a sprawled, ungraceful position flat on his back on the floor. The clatter of metal on concrete was tremendous. He then ripped open the cover to Starscream's dataport with urgent fingers. Starscream didn't even react reflexively to that, and when Ratchet slammed the cable home, the datapad displayed a long string of errors.

_Slag slag slag slag._

Virus or arc-out? Either was possible. Certain hardware failures could corrupt operating code beyond recognition. He considered summoning the Decepticon medics briefly, but this was flaming urgent and he knew they were busy in surgery on one of the sparklings. By the time they got here ...

For one brief nanoclick he very seriously considered, _This is Starscream. Do I want to bother?_

Then he savagely squashed that thought as a violation of every belief he had. He was a medic. He healed. Even Starscream, he would heal.

He replaced the datapad's cord with a cable to his own processor. After locking every firewall he had down as tightly as possible, he made the connection. It was immediately clear that Starscream had _no _firewalls up. None. Not a one. He was not conscious, but his processor core was working very hard.

One quick scan, and Ratchet realized what Starscream was doing to himself. In horror, he issued several rapid-fire commands that aborted the reformat.

_How much damage ...? _Ratchet wondered. He rocked back on his heels, the data cable swinging between them, and then he comm'd 'Regia, _:Aquaregia, you there?:_

:Yes, Ratchet?:

:Starscream just tried to reformat himself, the slagger. I managed to abort the process, but I'm not sure how much damage he's done to his cores.:

There was silence for a moment, then Aquaregia said, _:You hacked him?:_

:Wasn't exactly hacking, all his firewalls were down. He'd have had to have dropped them all before he initiate the reformat.:

:Why didn't you let him complete it?: Aquaregia sighed. _:That would have solved a few problems all the way around ...:_

:I'm a medic,: Ratchet growled at him. _:I can complete the repairs to his code, but I may see all of his secrets.:_

:Give me a moment. I take it this repair is urgent?:

:He's unstable, yes. His memory core files may overwrite themselves if we do not begin to correct the damage. I cannot simply shut him down as damage may also be done when he reboots. His directories are trashed.:

:Understood. Fang has already left the base. Please stand by.: Ratchet fidgeted in place, impatient and growing angrier by the moment as precious nanoclicks went by. After a few minutes, 'Regia finally said, _:Ratchet, please leave Starscream as he is and depart the base.:_

:I can't leave him, he'll end up so slagged there's no chance of recovery!:

:Please depart the base.: Aquaregia's words were firm.

_:Starcatcher and Rivet can't take over. They're in the middle of a spark transplant!:_

:Please depart, Ratchet.: Aquaregia was unwavering.

_:You are aware ...:_

:I am aware of the consequences to Starscream. I have little sympathy. It is self-inflicted damage. I respect your position as Healer Prime, Ratchet, but it is self-inflicted _and I cannot risk the security of our army because one glitch of a former commander decided to addle his own wits.:_

Ratchet ground his dental plates together for a moment. What Aquaregia said was reasonable and rational from a military standpoint. On the other hand, he was pretty sure that Fang would say, _Do it_. On the third hand, if he repaired Starscream and Fang backed him, it would make _both _leaders look weak: 'Regia for issuing an order that Fang countermanded, and Fang for being soft-sparked.

On the fourth hand, a very long time ago he'd sworn an oath to be a healer. He'd broken that oath every time he'd killed or maimed another in battle, but he'd never broken it in what the humans would term 'cold blood.' To simply let Starscream go would be the coldest of blood.

_Well, the oath wins. I'll deal with the political fallout later. _

Cybertronian operating systems automatically created backups of all important files. He quickly established that the reformat had wiped most live code, but the backups hadn't been touched yet. He promptly set a couple firewalls around Starscream's backups that the glitch wouldn't be able to hack through in a million years. He then reinstalled Starscream's operating system from the backup, and locked access to that, as well. As far as Ratchet was concerned, anyone who was crazy enough to try to delete themselves lost access to the relevant system files for _good_.

Reinstalling the operating system took surprisingly little time. Starscream had a far faster processor than Ratchet had expected. He was just wrapping up a reinstallation of Starscream's memory files (and yes, he was getting quite a head full of Decepticon secrets in the process, but he was too busy to think about that) when 'Regia burst through the door.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you to knock first?" Ratchet told him, irritably. He glared at the commander.

"I told you to _leave_."

"It's done. I won't have my _patient _compromised over politics - his, mine, or yours. Period. Deal," Ratchet snarled, even as he booted the routines that would bring Starscream to conscious awareness.

Aquaregia's weapons capacitors clicked on.

Ratchet snapped, "If you point that cannon of yours at me, I will take your arm off at the elbow, so help me. Then I'll present it to Fang on a golden platter and let you explain _why _you assaulted me when I was saving the life of a mech that Primus himself saw fit to send back to us with a note that we might _need _him. I seriously doubt that a sparkling will be anywhere near as useful as Starscream will be."

Starscream had heard that last bit. Ratchet detected a flicker of awareness. He had not meant to be connected when Starscream came around; he wanted to let the Decepticons do the medical interface needed to verify everything was functioning as it should. (And Primus help Starscream if Rivet was still on duty when Starscream arrived in the Decepticon med bay.)

However, he'd been delayed and distracted by 'Regia's arrival. Now, a sleepy-sounded voice said, _:Wah ... what?:_

He moved to withdraw, closing connections and backing out of his processor, but Starscream came to full consciousness too fast. _:What ... who ... this is an outrage!:_

:It's Ratchet,: Ratchet introduced himself, _:You tried to reformat your cores. Do you remember?:_

A wave of wordless, howling, inconsolable grief and rage and utter lonely hopelessness rolled over him. He was shocked by the intensity and bleakness of those emotions. Not one speck of light, of joy, of hope remained. He didn't trust anyone, and didn't believe anyone would ever like him again. He saw himself as an utter failure, as worthless, as needing to be ended ... and yet he couldn't find peace even in death, and he knew it.

Starscream should have been insane.

He wasn't.

Ratchet froze, stunned shaken. Never in his life, and he had medically interfaced with countless mechs, had he felt anything like this. Starscream stared at him with hopeless, bleak optics.

_:Did you take Prism's artwork?: _He demanded, partly because the reason behind that theft might let him understand this mech better. His compassion seemed to be failing him. He didn't feel particularly sorry for Starscream's rather accurate world view. Starscream had dug his own Pit.

A burst of anger, fear, rejection, grief, loneliness, and hopelessness washed over him, along with images of the act.

_:Of all the ... she's not even two weeks old!:_

That got him a response of _guilt-hopelessness-misery-rejection._

:Glitch!: Ratchet started to withdraw from the connection, truly angry. Starscream shut his optics off and the emotions battering Ratchet's processor changed from miserable to a sense of _giving up_. Something vital, something important, in the seeker was dying.

Ratchet had been a medic for a long time. He'd seen trauma before. Never, however, had he sensed such utter and absolute darkness from a mech. There was no hope, no curiosity, no dreams, no humor, no love, and not even the slightest shred of happiness. Starscream was _suffering_, in ways that Ratchet had never even imagined possible. Something had broken within the very core of his identity. It was almost unimaginable.

_:This goes through to your spark, Starscream,: _Ratchet said, very gently. _:Deleting yourself will not stop the suffering.:_

:I can't even die_!: _he wailed. _:Nobody met me, I was all alone, I was all alone ...:_

_Ah. _Rejection, shunning, was the worst punishment his kind could devise. It was enough to drive mechs truly insane on a spark-deep level, and to be shunned in the Well, when every expectation was that you would be welcomed by your friends and family who had passed before you, was horrifying almost beyond Ratchet's comprehension.

In that instant, Ratchet found sympathy for the seeker. He could not even imagine a reality where he would be utterly alone. Ratchet didn't even hesitate, he simply put his arm around the seeker's shoulders, offering comfort like he would to a sparkling. Ratchet had _never _felt pain like that before, and at his very core, he was hard wired to heal. He found himself saying, _:Shh. Let me help you, Starscream.:_

:You don't like me anymore than anyone else. I am all alone!: Starscream's response was a pure wail of disbelieving misery.

Ratchet's Matrix stirred. He sensed a presence surrounding them - the Order of the Primes, _many _Primes. Starscream, linked to Ratchet via the medical interface, jerked his head up as he, too, felt it very strongly. _:What ... what?: _he demanded in confusion.  
_  
:Oh, Starscream,: _a gentle voice said, a voice that was calm and mild yet full of vast power, _:Starscream, our child. You are loved. You are needed. Your destiny is far from completely. Starscream, child, we brought you back because we have faith in you.:_

:What?: Starscream said, confused and, by his tone of voice, awed.  
_  
:You are loved by us, if by no one else. We love without judgment, without conditions, without limits.: _The words were spoken not by one, but by many, speaking together, and were accompanied by a sense of deep, unwavering love.

Starscream burst into keening cries, covering his optics with his hands. _:I have done so much evil!:_

:Starscream,: a voice said, and now it _was _just one Prime speaking. _:Starscream, child, you are far older than almost all of the sparks in the Well. You have been among the greatest heroes of Cybertronian's history, a dozen times over. You have within you the seeds of greatness.:_

Ratchet reeled back at that. It was one thing to understand, theoretically, that sparks could be reborn. This Prime was speaking bluntly of reincarnation. Never one to mince words, Ratchet spoke up, _:He's wounded, deeply, sir ...:_

:Help him, Ratchet.:

:Me?:

:You, Ratchet.:

And then they were gone.  
_  
_Starscream didn't say anything, having suddenly grown very still and silent. Then, abruptly, something lit in his spark. It was the first positive emotion that Ratchet had felt out of him.

_Wonder_.

He sat there in awed silence, optics wide. Then hope bloomed within him, brilliant and fierce. For a moment, he seemed to turn inward, then Starscream finally ran a systems check to focus himself and said, dryly, _:Well, I always knew I _was _special.:_

Ratchet snorted a laugh, surprising himself with his own amusement at Starscream's comment, then asked the Primes politely, _:Do you have anything else to tell him before I break the connection with him?:_

:He has heard what he needs to.:

The awareness of _other _faded. They were not quite alone - Ratchet could still feel the Primes watching them, a warm presence at the edge of his sensor net, rippling faintly across the electromagnetic spectrum, giving off very low levels of radiation, the odd tachyon or neutron - but they'd backed off a bit.

Starscream brought his optics online with a groan, and waved a shaking hand at the cord that connected them. "Do you mind, medic? I believe you've poked and pried in my processor enough now."

Ratchet didn't withdraw quite yet. Instead, he looked Starscream in the optics with a level gaze. Soberly, he said, "Do you promise me you'll never do anything like this again?"

"Like my word means anything to you."

"Starscream," Ratchet said softly, "That message was for both of us. It was a reminder to _me _of what being a Prime truly means."

Skeptical red optics glared at him.

Ratchet reached a hand out and rested a hand on Starscream's arm. "You're not alone, Starscream. Not anymore. No matter what you've done ... it's the future that matters now, not the past. You are brilliantly intelligent, you have _always _had a keen sense of justice and a tendency to protest injustices strongly and with fervor, and you have the drive and the determination and the creativity to succeed where others will fail. It is what made you one of our worst enemies. Now, those same traits will be turned forward to our future. I will stand by you. You are _not _alone."

Starscream's expression softened, suddenly, the harshness disappearing. "You will ... stand by me?"

The medic nodded curtly. "You have medical training, correct?"

"Yes, some. I was a qualified field medic ... a very long time ago."

"That's what I thought. I imagine your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, but you wouldn't be the only 'con in my med bay if you want to join us tomorrow."

Oh, Primus, he was _not _looking forward to the drama that would result from _that _decision. Well, he was CMO. And a Prime. And his staff could shove it up their collective tailpipe if they didn't like it.

"... Fang said I was supposed to work here," Starscream gestured at Fang's lab, which was empty aside from a scowling Aquaregia. "Anyway, 'con medics are all bumbling idiots."

Aquaregia had remained silent, though scowling, for the last several minutes, finally spoke up, "I believe Rivet is among our more talented medics, and the most skilled we have on Earth."

Starscream froze, even his fans and pumps coming to a silent halt. He turned stricken optics back to Ratchet and stated softly, "I imagine Rivet carries a grudge."

"I would imagine he has good cause."

Starscream's spark flared with anger before drepression took over. Sounding weary, he said, "I've hurt a lot of people. It was me or him for Rivet. And my partners. You know, the reason ... the reason I hurt Skyfire ... is that he knows where Vector's Matrix is. I wanted ... I thought, I was arrogant enough to believe, that I could change everything were I to ... find it."

"A myth!" Ratchet protested, even as he sent a swift inquiry to his own Matrix for information about what he had always assumed to be a legendary artifact.

"Not a myth!" Starscream insisted, even as Ratchet realized it was no legend. "I wanted to change everything, and it would not have worked! The Matrix never would have accepted me."

"_Primus_." It was true. Vector Prime was _real_. Each Matrix had been forged by his own hand, so many millions of years and scores of generations ago that the details had been lost to legend even for long-lived Cybertronians. Lost to legend, perhaps, but the truth was in Ratchet's Matrix.

He sighed. "It wouldn't have worked even if the Matrix would have accepted you as a Prime, which it would not have. Starscream. I can show you the math if you want, but the amount of energy needed to go that far back into time would ... not have been feasible. It would have taken the energy of a ..." he trailed off, eyes suddenly widening.

Starscream. Starscream, the _scientist_.

Ratchet concluded, "... the energy of a sun."

Starscream pressed his lip plates together tightly for a moment, then said, "It would have worked."

Aquaregia snorted, "Few of your plans ever worked."

"Well, except the ones that slagged up half the Autobot army," Ratchet noted.

"Glad _somebody _noticed my genius," Starscream shot right back, with a brief smirk. Then, slowly, the expression slipped from his face. "I ... figured it out on my own, without Vector's Matrix. It would have _worked_, Ratchet. I could have changed the flow of the time stream itself! We could have changed everything and that _boy _went and ruined it!"

He thought about it for a second, then sent Starscream the relevant files that showed the correct formulas. Starscream clearly knew enough to be dangerous anyway. Having all the data wouldn't really change anything, since he'd gotten as far as nearly executing a flawed plan.

Starscream tilted his head as he crunched the numbers. Ratchet realized the exact instant that the mech reached the end of the calculations, because he reacted by shuttering his optics and hanging his head. His plan would never have worked. Somewhere, he'd made an error in his math. Yes, he could have gone back in time, but he would have been torn apart by the energy released. He wouldn't have survived the trip.

The seeker said, finally, "It doesn't matter. Everything hinged on that Matrix accepting me. I planned to steal it from the boy, and to become a Prime myself. The Solar Harvester could have been triggered by the Matrix alone, but to reprogram it required a Prime."

Aquaregia snorted his opinion of Starscream's plot.

Starscream cast him a sideways glance, and then said, "... oh, Skyfire."

"Yes," Ratchet agreed, sensing exactly what Starscream was thinking about.

"I really screwed Skyfire over, and I never even felt guilty about it." Starscream made a soft, shuddering sound. "He tried to tell me my math was flawed and I wouldn't listen. I was right! I was always right! He was just trying to take my plan away from me!"

_He's going to break, _Ratchet realized, surprised. Instinctively, he reached out for the seeker, offering the comfort of another's arms. Starscream, with a whimpered keen, came all apart.

_:Shh.: _Ratchet said. Seekers weren't very huggable, but Starscream made a good effort at making himself fit into Ratchet's arms. _:Shh.:_

Behind them, Ratchet was aware of 'Regia slipping out. The Decepticon officer had apparently decided to make himself scarce, perhaps uncomfortable with the unseemly show of emotion from the seeker. Now that they didn't have an audience, Starscream cried louder, strident wails laced with static and garbled, unintelligable syllables.

He was _broken_. He'd come apart that last little bit, and his pride, his dignity, his arrogance, all evaporated. Ratchet almost wanted to cry in response, for he had seen the horrors that the Decepticon had lived through.

Softly, he offered, "I could ... make you forget all of this. For a bit."

"_No_!" Starscream stiffened, and then whispered softly, "Not like Pounce, never like Pounce!"

"Okay," Ratchet said, and let the seeker cry some more. He didn't think it wise to point out that Starscream's attempt to erase his memory core had been rather similar to what they had done to Pounce.

_He has always believed himself to be the best, the most brilliant, infallable and perfect, _Ratchet realized. Starscream, whose pride had always been his downfall, had been _humbled _by the touch of something much greater than he was. The awareness that the ancient Primes were watching him had rocked his very universe to the core.

Slowly, gradually, Starscream found his equilibrium. It took a long time, but eventually, the mech simply slumped against Ratchet, optics off and arms and legs contracted close to his body. In a tiny, miserable voice, he said, "If it had worked ... what if we had followed the same path? What if I could not have changed things?"

"If it had worked," Ratchet said, "You would have potentially altered over a hundred thousand years of history for our entire universe. You did not have the right, Starscream, to do that to every system, every species, every corner of this universe, of this dimension."

Starscream flinched. Across the interface, Ratchet got a flash of guilt, and a horrible sick feeling, then he sensed a stubborn, fierce, astounding refusal to _ever _do anything like that again. There was something out there greater than Starscream, brighter than him, _better _than him ... and that something had faith in him and loved him despite knowing all of his sins. All he was feeling were Starscream's emotions, but they were as clear as words.

Starscream was determined to make the one force in the universe that loved him _proud_.

Ratchet vented a nearly silent sigh that could have been mistaken for a sound from his internals, and disconnected the cable. He had a suspicion that Starscream wouldn't be any easier to deal with, but at least he'd be _trying _to do Primus's work, and not Unicron's.

_Thank God it wasn't one of Unicron's minions, come to lavish praise upon him for the brilliant job he'd done so far, _Ratchet thought, as he rose again.

Starscream looked up at him and said, with a sneer, "So now you know everything about me. Guess you'll join those who hate me. Even my own partners can't stand the sight of me."

"Do you blame them?" Ratchet offered Starscream a hand up. "Come, I'll take you back to your quarters."

"Don't want to be alone." The admission was muttered quietly, as the seeker seemed to droop.

Meaning it honestly, Ratchet said, "I'd offer to keep you company, but I've got a meeting with the humans, and it's an issue greater than either of us."

"... tonight?" Starscream said, apparently having heard the truth in Ratchet's words, and so very lonely. "Tonight, maybe, you'll ... come?"

Ratchet considered Fang's likely reaction to _that_ idea. It wouldn't be pretty. Also, more immediately, that might test Aquaregia's patience to the breaking point. That was a very real political concern; one he could not overlook. At any rate, he judged Starscream was no longer suicidal, just fiercely lonely. He suggested a compromise, "If Fang clears it, I could use your help tomorrow. It'll be scut work, but it's better than being alone. I'll offline anyone who says a word to you."

"Don't want to be alone _tonight_."

"Starscream, I just reinstalled your operating system." Ratchet rested a hand on his arm. "You need to do a deep defrag and full systems scan. It'll take at least fourteen hours even with _your _cores. I have responsibilities until late this evening, and then I have a date with my lover. I will stay with you until you are in recharge, and then I will go. When you wake in the morning, comm me, and I'll send someone to escort you to our med bay and then put you to work on something useful."

Starscream, somewhat surprisingly to Ratchet, straightened up a bit and said, without too much rancor, "I presume the lover in question is our fearless leader?"

"I wasn't sure if you knew." He was concerned about Starscream's reaction to his relationship with Fang.

"The kid's drawings had you two together," Starscream muttered.

_Oh, Primus. She's so good at catching people's expressions ... and given Starscream's jealous tendencies, that explains why he burned the book. _ "You know, owe her an apology, by the way." Ratchet might be instinctively driven to heal, to ease pain, but he was a lot more sympathetic with Prism than Starscream. He'd dropped Prism's note, and the tiny piece of paper was lost on the floor somewhere, but he comm'd an image of it to Starscream.

"I ... will. I'll apologize." Starscream fell silent, for a moment, then said, "If Fangface really wants to end the war, he's going to need support. It's good he has you behind him. You are strong."

"We're both concerned about how your faction may react."

"Not yours?"

Ratchet smirked. "Any Autobot who has a problem with me and Fang can certainly bring their concerns to me."

Starscream snorted a laugh. "Somehow, I think you won't hear very many complaints. - As far as the Decepticons go, most assume their leaders are corrupt anyway. It won't be anything more than business as usual if they think Fang's not entirely loyal to their interests."

"Fang is, though." Ratchet reached out and touched Starscream's arm again. Starscream had gone from _enemy _to _patient _in a few shattering moments. "He is loyal to his people."

Starscream clearly started to argue, then looked down at the hand on his arm. "One of the hallmarks ..." he said, shakily, "... one of the hallmarks of a Prime is the ability to truly care about _all _sentient beings."

"That's right."

"I never would have been a Prime," Starscream muttered.

"Starscream," Ratchet said, "you can still be a hero."

Starscream darkened his optics. "I don't even know how."

"You're a smart mech. You'll figure it out." Ratchet patted his arm a couple of times, then sighed. "You have my support, Starscream."

Starscream's optics clicked back on, and that comment earned him a surprised look, then a slow, thoughtful nod. Finally, cautiously, Starscream seemed to relax. He offered, "... thank you."

"You're welcome."

As Ratchet walked the seeker to his quarters, he thought sourly, _Next, I'll find out that Megatron was the reincarnation of Vector himself._

Peals of laughter from a listening Ancient One made him nearly trip in surprise. _:Megatron was a young spark, Ratchet.:_

:Slag. Well, wait until after I'm dead before giving his spark another chance.:

The Ancient Prime laughed, then said, _:You know, we could bring him back. With the right guidance and supervision, he was a very intelligent mech in his own right, and he could be useful ...:_

:No,: Ratchet said, very firmly. _:Absolutely not. I have enough drama in my life as it is.: _

More laughter. Then the Prime surprised him by saying, _:Thank you, Ratchet.:_

:Eh. For what?:

:For Starscream. We would not have brought him back if we did not believe that the living Primes were ruthless enough to send him home to us should he turn again to darkness, and yet you are all compassionate enough to forgive him. He was once one of our most heroic leaders, and he is an old, old, spark with a history dating back to the very dawn of our race. That potential remains within him, untapped in this incarnation but very real.:

:I'm not sure that forgiveness _is in my spark. Tolerance, perhaps. He destroyed a world.: _Ratchet glanced over at the seeker, walking beside him.  
_  
:He followed orders, Ratchet. Knowingly, yes ... but would you blame Bluestreak for following orders to assassinate a Decepticon, Jazz for placing a bomb that blew up a building, or Silverbolt for dropping a thermonuclear weapon that leveled a city? Orders, Ratchet, and war, and it is terrible and all of you have done a great collective evil. Primus forgives. Primus loves. You are his children. He grieves for what has happened, but wants only to see our civilization rising from its ashes, and he does not favor one over another, or blame one soldier more or less than another soldier.:_

The Prime continued, _:Megatron could not have led the Decepticons without their willing same goes for Optimus Prime. Autobots killed more Cybertronians than Decepticons did by pure numbers, meaning each Autobot has taken more lives than each Decepticon.:_

Ratchet stopped short in the hall. He realized that hard math was _true_. The Decepticons had started the war with significantly larger numbers. In order to end up where they were, with fourteen thousand known Cybertronians living, the Autobots _had _racked up a higher body count than the Decepticons.

Starscream was staring at him. "Are you glitching or something?"

"No." Ratchet sighed. "Not any more than the rest of us, anyway."

_:Healer Prime,: _the ancient Prime said, _:Starscream's sins are many, but he is not beyond redemption. Thank you for helping him.:_

:Eh. I hope I don't regret this.:   
_  
_

* * *

It was clear that Onslaught had seen some rough fighting in recent years, and had not had the services of a medic available. Fang, used to the relative comforts of the Nemesis, was surprised by the appearance of the mech's the scarred, battered hull of the shuttle as they approached. There were roughly welded patches over the worst of the damage, black streaks of carbon, deep pits from projectile weapons, and one whole section of hull that was made of bare steel, uncolonized by paint nanytes.

Parts of Onslaught's hull were slightly oxidized, both the steel and the less-reactive duryllium. Fang remembered from a review of his file that Onslaught had been assigned to a planet with a rather nastily corrosive atmosphere more than a hundred years ago. The oxidization was probably from that ... and had never been fixed.

_:They're short on energon,: _he guessed, speaking to Skywarp, as 'Warp approached. 'Warp was holding him comfortably cradled in his arms; the seeker was fairly relaxed, at ease with Fang's proximity.

Fang had bolted a thruster pack to his back struts before they'd teleported into orbit, but he didn't have the right sort of processor to be a flyer, and he wasn't particularly comfortable navigating on his own in orbit. He was perfectly happy to let Skywarp carry him in his arms. Skywarp was _designed _for flight. It was undignified, but better than using half his processor to calculate vectors and thrust against gravitational pull and atmospheric drag. Seekers had a whole secondary processor and a pitload of extra sensors _just _for navigation, always running in the background.

_:Yeah, no auto-repairs on the little stuff.: _Skywarp sighed. _:That rust makes me twitch just looking at it.:_

:Not a problem I've ever had to deal with,: Fang said, honestly. His alloy, as much as he cursed it when he needed repairs, didn't oxidize easily. It had some significant issues with electrolysis when combined with other metals - which was why he was currently wearing a thick carbon fiber breast plate, rather than duryllium, since they didn't have the alloy needed to make a new plate of armor after the fight on Mars - but at least he didn't rust if he got wet.

_:Wait until Rivet sees that mess,: _Skywarp sent a response that contained a brief emotion-file of vast dark amusement. _:I bet he has a complete OCD fit about the rust.:_

Fang snickered. _:Yeah, probably.:_

Onslaught opened his hatch as they approached. Fang took one last look around before they entered, enjoying the view. The sun wasn't quite up over Earth's horizon, but it was nearly there. Directly below them, the lights of a major city gleamed - Hong Kong, he thought. The sunrise, as seen from above, was a brilliant arc of blue and gold in the distance.

Earth was a _beautiful _planet, all blue and white, with the occasional patch of tan land or deep green jungle. Some of his kind did not appreciate water worlds (see: rust) but Fang thought they looked welcoming. Water worlds, by definition, were a comfortable temperature, tended to have life (which meant sources of energy) and were just plain interesting. Earth was a world he could see making his home for a very long time.

The hatch slid shut with a clang, cutting off the view of the planet, and atmosphere flooded through the airlock doors. Fang's coolers promptly cycled on in reaction to the air, which, though a bit contaminated with particulates and mostly comprised of nitrogen, at least could carry heat away from his radiators. His systems always ran hot anyway, primed for rapid reflexes and sudden acceleration, and he therefore had trouble with rapid overheating in vacuum. He was not a mech really designed for space travel outside of a ship. That was a whole 'nother reason why he preferred to let Skywarp do the flying; he _had _a thruster pack on, but the chemical reaction from the pack gave off considerable radiant heat. Even with a heat shield in place he still picked up a lot of thermal energy from him, and it just increased the odds he'd overheat if he had to do anything strenuous.

Seconds after boarding, Onslaught's artificial gravity kicked on with a _thunk-rattle-clang _of shifting struts and internals that rattled the whole ship. Fang was floating at an angle to the pull, but he twisted neatly in mid air and landed on his feet with all the grace of the felinoid form he'd been modeled on. Skywarp was normally similarly agile, but his wing clipped Boomer in the optics. Boomer stumbled backwards and went down in a tangle of limbs with Crowbar.

Gravity normally wasn't brought up without warning people. Fang powered up his laser rifle with suspicion, worried that the Combaticons might be trying to literally throw him off balance. Skywarp's much heavier weapons hummed to life as well, and when Crowbar and Boomer found their feet they, too, were buzzing with a hot charge, ready to fire. When Fang watched them with his peripheral optics he got a glimpse of Boomer's optics, which were heavily dilated with battle focus.

_And the Combaticons are supposedly on my side. Primus, imagine how we'd react if this was a hostile meeting._

"Sorry," Onslaught said, his voice reverberating from several speakers, along with a squeal of feedback that made him wince. More evidence that this team had a desperate need for maintenance. "I'm not used to having anyone on board but my team. Forgot the warning."

Fang suspected it was a deliberate 'forgot' rather than an accidental 'forgot' but he straightened up from his defensive crouch and regarded the three Combaticons in the hold. They were all rising from their chairs. Vortex was unreadable, a looming and massive presence at the back of the room. Brawl was just as tall, and built large, with heavy struts and nearly impenatrable armor. Blast Off was a little smaller, with his backswept wings mounted on his arms - Fang assumed that configuration meant the wings would form the locus of a formidable force shield, because that was the only reason he could figure out for that otherwise awkward configuration. He absently reviewed Vortex's tech specs again and confirmed that guess. Yep. Force shield.

None of them looked particularly friendly. They stared at him. He realized he had to get a psychological upper edge _now_. Fang, with calm he didn't feel, said, "Do you normally forget to kneel to your Prime?"

"Didn't know that kneeling to a Prime was traditional," Blast Off said, slowly.

Fang snorted. "Optimus has his own beliefs. I'm the Decepticon Prime. You will kneel." _And be glad I'm not Megatron, who would have shot your legs off at the knee for that crack. _

If he'd not been _inside _everfragging Onslaught, he _would _have demonstrated to Blast Off just how he got his reputation as a warrior. Short didn't mean weak when one was built from the toes up for hand to hand combat, with no secondary function to compensate for!

After a moment of sullen scowling, Brawl dropped to one knee, and so did Vortex. This still meant they were a head and shoulders taller than him. He considered making them rest a hand on the ground and get a little lower, but decided that would draw more attention to his lack of height than he cared for, as well as making him look insecure.

_Megatron _had been insecure. Fang told himself he was high strung, hyperactive, and nervous, but he wasn't _insecure_. He was quite confident that he could lead these mechs, yes, he was.

Blast Off was still standing up, and he'd folded his arms. Fang was rapidly calculating the odds of an out-of-control negative reaction from the other Combaticons if he tried to force the point when, suddenly, pointedly, Blast Off dropped to one knee with a dramatically exaggerated motion, then bent further, sweeping both hands to the ground, bowing his head, and stating, "Oh, great Decepticon Prime, we are so honored by your ..."

Fang didn't let him finish. Instead, he snorted a laugh. "Oh, come off it, Blast Off. You think you're the shiniest suit of armor to ever walk amongst us, and we should all be honored by your presence. I know it, you know it. If you don't want to bow to me, fine, I'll just leave you out of the party. I'm far too busy to deal with you right now."

That earned him a foul look.

Fang jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Skywarp. "'Warp was just telling me a few minutes ago that he enjoys the work he does for me. We've got a tough battle coming up and I need good mechs for it, but what I _don't _need are idiots who don't understand the chain of command."

Blast Off scowled harder.

"Chain of command's real simple. I'm the boss. We don't have enough mechs here to be real formal, but I'm the boss, and I _will _put you out of commission if you don't understand that." Fang bared his teeth. "You might ask around about my reputation if you don't believe me. I'm sure Swindle can give you the whole run down."

Unexpectedly, Onslaught said, "He killed Starscream, _and _he just took out Astrotrain. Personally."

"Thank you, Onslaught," Fang wasn't exactly sure where to address his comment, since the sound seemed to be resonating from all around him. Most ships and shuttles had clear speakers and/or visible cameras to talk to. Onslaught didn't bother with that courtesy, quite possibly in a deliberate attempt to unsettle people. Somewhat grouchily, Fang added, "Starscream's back. Apparently, not even Unicron wanted him." He transmitted a fact-file after that, brief and to the point, with the important details. Because it would win him points, he included some comments on Autobot reactions to the news about Starscream's revival.

They snickered. That broke the ice, and Blast Off said, with a laugh, "Well, you're supposed to be the second coming of Primus, if the gossip in the fleet is right, so maybe you _can _handle him ..."

"I'd be happy if he just _muted _him," Brawl muttered ... then suddenly Vortex must have said something over their shared quantum link, because all three of the Combaticons inside Onslaught shot sharp looks at Skywarp after Brawl and Blast Off glanced in helicopter's direction.

Skywarp held both hands up defensively. "Don't look at me. I'm not saying anything."

Fang said calmly, "In all seriousness, we need his mind if we're ever going to recreate the Allspark."

"Hnh." Blast Off leaned against his chair, suddenly sounding interested. Simultaneously, the background hum of Onslaught's systems quieted. He'd gotten the shuttle's attention too. Blast Off asked, "Is that really possible?"

"Completely. I have the plans in my Matrix. After we establish safety and security for the sparklings we do have, that will be our next major priority." He was relaxing a bit, now that he was on a familiar, comfortable topic. "We have a major goal of accomplishing that within the next few decades."

Onslaught grunted, "And where will we _make _this Allspark, to keep the Autobots from knowing about it? Plans are one thing. We'll need infrastructure. Energy. Resources. Materials. Lab. Geeks. There's a couple Autobot nerds who might have the knowlege we need, but with Shockwave dead, nobody on our side has the knowledge of chemistry and metallurgy as it relates to quantum and interdimensional physics ... Starscream's an engineer, but he's not a quantum physicist on the level we'd need and I don't know if he has the patience to learn. I've seen him make some pretty significant math errors when he starts getting into really picky high levels of math. He's impatient, he doesn't check his work, doesn't account for all the variables ... which I'm sure you've figured out, sir, given you work with him. We could _possibly _snatch the Autobots that have the knowledge we need, but that would alert Optimus to our plans, and they guard their top minds pretty well."

Fang leaned back against a bulkhead, letting his tail casually wrap around one ankle, and folding his arms. He tried to look relaxed. Onslaught was _far _smarter than he'd been led to believe. In one brief monologue, the Decepticon commander had earned himself Fangface's keen respect. Fang was also wary of him, however; a smart mech who was conspiring against him could be very troublesome.

Cautiously, Fangface said, "We've got better plans than snatch, grab, hide, and try to do R&D while avoiding pissed off and desperate Autobots who fight best when they're fighting for their principles ... What's the rumor mill say about my history, Onslaught? I haven't been keeping up on the gossip."

Actually, he had followed the rumors up until Deathwheel's passing. He needed to try to figure out who Death's sources were, and see if he couldn't keep the info flowing. Swindle might be a good mech for that - or, Pit, since he was tolerating Punch amongst his troops, he might take advantage of Punch's talents there.

Onslaught rumbled, "According to rumor, you're either a Primus-sent God, the spawn of Unicron come to finish off what's left of our people, or a nervous little glitch who someone conned his way into the good graces of our officers, then killed them, and who now expects us to follow his skinny little aft just because he was a better assassin than my boss."

Onslaught's boss would be the Air Commander, Starscream. Right. Fang casually drummed the fingers of one hand on his other arm. "I've got a Matrix, so you can rule out me being sent by Unicron. The latter, the glitchwit bit, ... oh, that's completely true. And as far as being sent by Primus, I hope not. I'm much more of a special snowflake if I achieved everything all on my own up until I snagged myself a Matrix from a dead Prime." He flashed a toothy grin, baring all his formidable dental plates.

Skywarp's snort of laughter was his reward for _that _comment. He glanced up at the seeker, who had dark mirth in his optics. It was amazing how much Skywarp was still like Skywarp, just ... _more_.

"Look, I was absolutely sick of watching Megatron destroy our people. There are _fourteen thousand _Cybertronians left in the known universe that we can document for sure. That's far to close to being _no _Cybertronians, statistically speaking, given we started with a few billion when the war began. So, yeah, I planned and schemed and charmed my way into the right place to take over because I know for slagging sure I can do a better job than Megatron ever did. You'll note I do have substantial support - and if you don't believe that, you can ask any of the troops I directly work with, or use your own judgement."

The shuttle rumbled, not just with his voice, but with an ominous growl of his mechanical systems. "There's rumors you're making peace with the Autobots. We could wipe them all out on that mudball below, based on my analysis. They're vulnerable. Fortress Maximus is not well established yet, and many of their number still bear unrepaired injuries from the siege on Cybertron. I have enough nukes to take out the planet's infrastructure, then we have the high ground advantage and slag them from orbit with laser fire. Fort Max can't possibly have the fuel needed to support a long siege."

Fang knew that comment about fuel was incorrect, but if they were using the sparkling's energon to support Max's shields, they would be starving the sparklings.

"We could take them out." Fang shrugged, agreeing with Onslaught's assessment, which was mostly correct. "Easily. They know it, I know it, you know it. Everyone knows that. My initial plans seriously involved wiping them out simply to end the war - a loss of two thousand or so mechs to save several thousand on our side. Figured we would rebuild with those several thousand Decepticons left. But that won't get us a home, Onslaught. It won't save the half million children in stasis on Earth. There's a bigger picture now that I have to think about ..."

_Ratchet_, he thought, with a sudden stab of emotional pain through the center of his spark. And almost as painful was the thought of Optimus, who had been nothing but supportive and encouraging. The sudden fierce feeling of attachement to Optimus startled him. Optimus had called him _friend_. Optimus supported him. Optimus _believed _in him. Optimus cared about him enough that he had come right out and said that he would have sanctuary among the Autobots if he lost control of the Decepticons.

He could not let Optimus down, and then face the older mech's disappointment. He couldn't imagine resuming the war, and putting either of their lives at risk - or hurting them by killing their friends in battle. He _had _to make this work.

Onslaught rumbled again. "... Too many have died for peace to ever work. Too many hard feelings, too much anger. You'll never get our mechs to let the war go, even if the Autobots are soft-sparked enough to do it. Which I doubt. There's nothing soft about them anymore."

He was at an impasse. He did not know what to say. _Primus help me ..._

:You only needed to ask, Decepticon Prime.:

Not Primus, exactly but one of his own Ancient Primes. Fang recognized the voice as belonging to Vermillion from files in his Matrix, and he greeted him with a snarky, _:Vermin, just what I needed, a peanut gallery.:_

He was so not in the mood for having his attention distracted by a visit from the Primes.

A laugh from the ghost of the late Prime greeted that comment from Fang. Anyone who thought the Primes were sparkless drones preaching Primus's teachings without personality or humor just hadn't paid much attention to their personal history. The sort of mech that made a good Prime was one with strong beliefs, a firmly established sense of their own identity, and a ton of self respect. That also tended to mean a mech who wasn't afraid to express their opinions. For reasons known only to the Order they tended to be sparing with what advice they gave, but they all had distinct personalities and some, like Vermin, had great senses of humor.

Onslaught had gone totally silent. Then he said softly, "They're here? I can sense ... with us ..."

The shuttle would have hypersensitive sensors, Fang realized, because his original role had been that of an interstellar explorer. He was probably picking up minute deviations in the quantum

"Yeah, they tend to follow me around. I guess being a Prime must be pretty boring and I'm the most interesting thing ..."

_:Ratchet is funnier than you are.:_

:He is not!_: _He snapped back. _:Vermin, why don't you go bug Bee? He's your heir, not me.:_

Vermillion Prime laughed. _:Bee's currently having an interlude with his lovers. He needs his privacy.:_

:I so did not want to hear that.:  
  
Onslaught said flatly, "You are followed by the Order of the Primes."

Fang shrugged. "Yeah."

"They give you assistance and advice?"

"Sometimes. And the occasional miracle."

"That would be a ... powerful ... strategic advantage."

"Ah, but the strategy is to save our species, Onslaught, not continue a war." Fang chewed a nail for a second, as he thought through his words. Onslaught was _dangerous_. The question was, would the danger be to Fang, or to his enemie He decided to be honest, "Onslaught, we truly need your team's help. There's a battle coming up with an unknown threat to this world. This is home now, Onslaught. The Primes are behind us. We are making Earth our home, and we _must _defend it."

Onslaught didn't say anything to Fang for a long moment, and Fangface tensely waited for the Decepticon shuttle to come back with a denial. He was certain that Onslaught was about to reject any notion of working with him. Onslaught had a reputation for being difficult to work with. Fangface, who had been a couple pay grades below Megatron's inner circle for the last few hundred years, was well aware that Megatron had often struggled to keep Onslaught reined in and aimed in the right direction.

However, when the shuttle did speak, he sounded thoughtful. "I'd like to fight a winning battle, for once."

Vortex protested, "Oh, we won plenty!"

"Do you remember why this war began?" Onslaught growled at his gestalt member.

The rotary flier made a vague grunt that might have been assent.

Onslaught specified, "This war began because two factions could not agree on how to make a better future for our people. I rather enjoy killing Autobots, and Primus knows I'm good at it. However, I can't deny we need as many living mechs as possible to rebuild. It's not a victory when the end result is more dead. It just puts us that much closer to oblivion."

Fangface relaxed. Onslaught _got _it.

The shuttle added, with a low growl, "I don't trust the Autobots. I will _never _trust the Autobots. You're a fool if you do, because they will never trust us, and if it becomes expedient, they will betray us. However, _sir_, I would define 'victory' as 'survival' at this point, and I calculate our best chance of survival involves ending the war with the Autobots and building ourselves a new home on a suitable world."

"Earth's more than suitable." Fang flashed a genuine smile. He could live with _I don't trust Autobots_ if it was accompanied by a pragmatic choice to at least work with them. He trusted Optimus not to betray him without very good reasons; he trusted himself not to give Optimus those reasons. "I don't trust the humans myself, but they need us, and my goal is to get us so entrenched here that they couldn't get rid of us if they wanted to."

"This is a good solar system to settle in," Onslaught noted. "Very resource rich."

"Mmmhmm." Fang nodded happily. "We just need to secure it from invaders and external threats which, alas, include the Nebulans, who are less than thrilled with us."

"Nebulans? Alive?"

"And fragged off as hell ..." he shook his head. "Do I have your support, then?"

Onslaught growled, "Yes."

"Excellent." He pulled a blank data cube from his subspace, plugged it into one of the sockets on the back of his wrsit, and printed the sit rep report to it. He did not trust the security of the data to even the most encrypted of radio transmissions. He then held it up, "Where do you want this?"

A waldo emerged from a far wall. Fang handed the cube off to Onslaught's hand, and Onslaught slipped it into a pocket in his wall. After a moment he growled, "Follow _Jazz's _orders?"

"Someone needs to be the field commander, Vortex. Onslaught will be immediately under him, and in command of our forces, if you'll take the assignment."

"Follow the orders of an Autobot?" Vortex snarled, "What if he orders us on a suicide attack?"

"Then you'll follow those orders." Fang had no problems laying down that edict. War was hell. This was a seasoned bunch of warriors. They knew the score. Just to be sure they understood where he was coming from, he added, "_I _have sent soldiers knowingly to their death for strategic reasons."

"And he's gonna be a lot more likely to send _us _than one of _his _troops."

"No." Fang shook his head, certain of this, as well. "He is not. Given a choice between an Autobot and a Decepticon, Jazz will order the Autobot on that hypothetical suicide run. There are two reasons for this. One, Jazz can't be sure you will follow his orders. He doesn't know us the way he knows his Autobot, and he's not sure who the cowards are among us, and who the heroes are. He _knows _who will take that order and willingly go out in a blaze of glory among his own."

"And the other would be political," Onslaught noted, sounding a lot calmer than Vortex.

"Exactly so. I'd be supremely pissed if they didn't treat my soldiers fairly. You _are _my people, and I take your welfare personally." Fangface let some irritation into his voice. "I've got a reputation for low casualties. I don't intend to ever let that change. It's tactically stupid to lose more than necessary, and it upsets me on a personal level."

Onslaught grunted. "You've got a reputation for killing people, too, though."

Fangface shrugged. "As a friend of mine would say, the sanctity of all life includes the sanctity of my own aft."

"Wise friend," Onslaught grunted. "Very well. I want to review the plans and discuss a few matters with the Autobot command, but you have my conditional support."

"Conditional?" Fang said, though Onslaught's caution was actually a relief. He would have been much more worried if the mech had vowed undying loyalty. Blunt mistrust was honest, and he could work with it.

"Aww," Skywarp put in, "he's not yet ready to join the Lord Fangface Fan Club."

Fang smirked. Skywarp's humor was not inappropriate; 'Warp had accompanied it by stepping just a little closer to Fangface. The implication was that 'Warp _was _part of that fan club.

"Conditional on this not being a _completely _stupid plan or an imaginary threat." Onslaught growled and rattled a few gears in the wall. "Sir."

"Onslaught, I understand, and I don't require that you like me. I only require that you follow _my _orders as long as you are a part of this army. I will tell you this - I truly believe that settling here, and making a home on Earth, and _defending _this world from threats, is in our best interests as a race. So is ending the war."

"Hnnh. On that, we can agree." Onslaught mused, "Can I get some details on the overall situation?" He then added, "And - I assume I _will _retain my current rank under you?"

"I need an Air Commander who isn't a sociopath," Fangface studied his nails. "Impress me in this battle and I might make it permanent. As far as the specific details, beyond the information that I gave you, we can discuss matters in the coming days."

"You'll return to orbit?" Onslaught said cautiously.

Fang shook his head. "I want you four to land. I'm not sending you into battle without a complete medical checkup, routine maintenance, and any needed repairs."

The three mechs in Onslaught's hold traded glances. Onslaught rumbled, "You have the resources?"

"I do." Fang was pleased by their surprise. "Unfortunately, as morbid as it is, we have a very large amount of salvage parts. Onslaught, I'm not sure that there's anything in your size, but what don't have, we have the means to fabricate. About the only thing we can't do is create quantum cores or quantum drives."

Onslaught said unhappily, "My drive is not in the best of shape. I was hoping my next assignment would be to Cybertron. Straxus has a spare."

_:Give him Astrotrain's,: _Skywarp suggested. _:He won't need it. It's in decent shape, I was looking at it for parts for Skyfire, but Skyfire can't generate the power it requires. Other than the drive Straxus has, there probably are no other Cybertronian drives in existence that will fit Onslaught that aren't in an operational mech - he, Movar, and Astrotrain are the last of their kind.:_

Right. In a past life, Skywarp had once been a quantum engineer. Fang blinked back his surprise, then asked Onslaught, "How's Movar's drive?"

Onslaught grumbled, "He's not a combiner."

Which meant that Movar was having issues too. Fangface sighed. Here lay another minefield. "Neither are you, without Swindle," he pointed out. "Movar's under your command, Onslaught. That means _you _are responsible for his welfare. Just like I look out for my mechs, I expect my officers to look out for the mechs under them, as well. Now. Who needs the parts more, you or him?"

Very reluctantly, Onslaught said, "I was going to suggest leaving Movar here on Earth. He's not safe to jump any significant distance. It took forever getting here because he could only make short hops."

"Well, we do have some options. I'll have the medics look at you both and then give me a report." That was going to be a headache, deciding who got the part from Astrotrain and who got to wait at least two years to get a hypothetical repair part from Cybertron. He was not about to order either of them to Cybertron, out of fear that Straxus might be forming a rebellion.

Onslaught had rank, and the Decepticons had traditionally favored repairs and maintenance for officers first. Rank hath its privileges, and all that. Fang had learned that making sure his solders got their repairs before he did led to considerably increased morale and loyalty.

He needed Onslaught's cooperation.

Movor, by the sound of it, needed the parts more urgently.

"We'll come up with something," Fang said, finally. His chronometer pinged him, reminding him that he had the next half of the meeting to return to. "I have to return to the base. Onslaught, I'll have Commander 'Regia coordinate with the humans and get you a landing window arranged. Can you and Movor teleport closer to the surface safely?" They were not so big as to be a threat to the planet if they screwed the jump up.

"Yes, the problem is more with long-range jumps."

"Plan on landing tomorrow morning. I'll talk to the med bay and get you in ASAP. After you're cleared for duty by the medical staff ping me and I'll get you in to talk to the Autobots."

"That'll be interesting," Onslaught said, with a laugh. "Can I kill them if they annoy me?"

"If killing those who were simply annoying was allowed," Fang said, with a chuckle. "I'd have a ton of energon on my own claws from _both _factions. Be diplomatic. Vent at me later if you need to, but be diplomatic."

"Yes sir," Onslaught said, sounding reasonably respectful. "I'll behave. Just don't ask me to _like _them."  
_  
_

* * *

When Fang padded into the meeting room, most of the medics were already there. Ratchet had an empty seat next to him, and Fang hopped up into it. Ratchet twisted to look down at him and smiled briefly.

_:How did it go?: _Optimus asked

_:About as expected. Onslaught doesn't trust me yet, but he'll follow my orders. He wants to schedule a meeting to discuss the plans with us. He doesn't, mind, _like _you, but he sees the benefit to a cooperative arrangement.:_

:We will be happy to meet with him,: Optimus said, _:Onslaught has always been a formidable foe. He is one of your best tacticians. I look forward to hearing his insight into the coming fight.:_

Jazz put in, _:He knows he'll be reporting t' me?:_

:Yeah, he's not thrilled, but he understands the need for a unified command. I think he'd prefer that he _be the field commander, but that's _so _not happening.:_

Jazz flashed him a grin. _:Yah can trust me, and yah can't trust him.:_

:Sad, but true,: he replied, with a laugh. _:The question is, do you trust _me_?:_

:Not at all. You're the evil Decepticon Overlord and you're plotting terrible things behind our backs.:

He grinned broader. _:Of course I am. I'm always plotting something.:_

Jazz's snort confirmed that the Autobot completely believed and agreed with that statement. _:Prowl and ah were both glad you weren't prone to pranks when ya were under our command, because that would have been bad.:_

He inspected his talons. _:You sure I wasn't involved in the prank wars?:_

Jazz narrowed his optics, then glanced at Optimus. Optimus lifted a questioning eyebrow at Fang and said, _:Lord Fangface, I do believe the statute of limitation has expired on whatever it is you may have done. You have my triggered my curiosity.:_

He smirked. _:Ask Prowl about the beeper.:_

Jazz's smile slipped right off his face. He looked sharply away for a moment, then said, with forced good cheer, _:You worked with Prowl on a prank?:_

:His idea, no less, he just roped me in because you'd never expect ...: Fang started to explain, a bit uncertainly, but Jazz looked pained now. _:Well. I suppose we should pay attention to what the humans are saying, and I can spill the dirt on Prowl some other day.:_

:Thank you, Fang,: Optimus murmured. Jazz didn't say anything at all.  
_  
_The second half of the meeting went better than the first, though the humans still dragged everything out to the point that they ended up behind schedule. They would resume discussions and planning tomorrow. It seemed to take forever, however, and he still found himself fidgeting restlessly whenever his attention wandered.

Idly, he queried his Matrix to find out how the ancient ones had dealt with long, boring meetings. He was amused to find that some of them had struggled as much as he had ... but he found the memories of a long-lost Prime who had simply _accepted _the boredom.

He analyzed her moods, her feelings, at first idly interested and then with more curiosity. Could he find that center of calm? He studied how she'd centered herself, quieted her thoughts, and simply become a calm observer.

Hnnh.

He tried to do the same.

It ... helped._ Somewhat. I accept this is going to take forever, _he told himself. _I accept I'll be bored. I know it is a waste of time, and there are more productive things I could be doing, but it is necessary._

Across the table, Jazz started to drum two fingers on the table, then stopped himself. Their eyes met. Fang grinned, amused he'd caught the Autobot SIC fidgeting. Given Jazz's own energy levels meetings were probably torturous to him, too.

Dryly, Jazz acknowledged that he'd been caught, _:There are places ah'd _really _rather be than here.:_

:You and me both.:

:Ah got a friend waiting for me when this is over, an' we were planning some fun.: Jazz smirked, and cast a significant glance at Ratchet. _:You too, I'm betting.:_

:Mayyyyyybe.:

:Eh. Go have some fun. Live in t' moment for a bit. Worry about slag later.: Jazz shrugged, ever so faintly. _:Ratch ain't perfect, but who is? He's a good mech at his core an' - an' he loves ya an' he wants ya an' he's willin' t' take a chance on ya.:_

Prowl, Fang guessed, might have _loved _and might have _wanted_, but he had been truly resistant to _taking chances_. It couldn't possibly be Prowl that Jazz was planning time with now. Probably just, as he said, a friend.

Fang could not imagine trusting a mere _friend _to that degree, neither with his personal safety nor his innermost secrets. Bad enough that he wasn't sure he trusted the mech he wanted to call his partner.

Still, he wouldn't be Lord Fangface if he didn't response with a snarky, _:I didn't understand that he needed to 'take a chance' on me. You make it sound like he's buying weapons sight-unseen.:_

Jazz flashed him a smile. _:Isn't that what you are, though? A weapon on four legs?:_

:Well, yeah.: He beamed, flattered. _:I am that.:_

:Though that's not why he loves ya. He loves ya because you're so much more than just a soldier. It's everything else that makes up Lord Fangface that caught Ratchet's interest.: Jazz smiled.  
_  
_It was Fang's turn to force a strained smile to his face. Jazz's praise didn't feel right, for reasons he couldn't even begin to explain. He forced himself to say, _:Thank you, Jazz,: _and left it at that, all urge to banter gone.

He forced himself to turn to the humans, who were arguing loudly about media access again.

It was going to be a very, very, very long meeting.__


	108. Chapter 108

Author's notes:

* * *

The next chapter should follow soonish. :-)

* * *

Blue shared his apartment high up the tower with two other mechs.

Ironhide was one. He had firmly and stubbornly declined quarters of his own on the grounds that he expected to very rarely _use _them for anything but sleep. However, he could shoot nearly as accurately as Bluestreak did and Optimus had insisted that he at least _share _quarters towards the top of one of the towers.

The other was Silverbolt, who barely fit into their shared quarters. He usually ended up sitting on the floor of the common room with the others stepping over his legs. Silver had been assigned one of the cushy officer's rooms both because he _was _an officer, and because it was one of the few rooms he could fit into.

It was an odd mix of personalities, though it seemed to work. Silverbolt could get along with pretty much anyone; given the team he'd led, Bluestreak wasn't surprised by that. Ironhide considered himself difficult, but Blue didn't think he really was. He was gruff and prone to snark, but behind that attitude lurked a biting wit and keen intelligence. He was, as Ratchet sometimes teased, surprisingly well housebroken. Ratchet had often shared quarters with Ironhide when space was tight, and somehow, despite their mutual legendary tempers and stubborn dispositions, the two got along.

Bluestreak was completely unsurprised, however, that Ratchet had cheerfully accepted his own apartment, one floor below Bluestreak's, as his due. Ratchet had no problem accepting the privileges that came with his rank, unlike Ironhide, who was uncomfortable with anything resembling luxury.

Silverbolt was seated on the floor when Bluestreak entered, and Blue greeted him with a cheerful, "Hey, Bolts. You care if I have a guest tonight? 'Cuz I got someone coming over."

Silverbolt had been cleaning one of his chain guns. He looked up sharply at that. "Just a guest or a _guest_?" Silver's optics narrowed, and he sounded distinctly suspicious.

"I'm a grownup," Bluestreak laughed, though he was torn between amusement and irritation at Silverbolt's reaction. Silverbolt was being protective. He'd known him long enough to recognize that look easily. Silverbolt had used that same frowning expression on the members of his gestalt, long ago, when they'd had liasons with others that Silver didn't approve of.

"It's not that," Silverbolt said, though Blue knew Silver was probably skeptical of Bluestreak's romantic potential with others. They all were. Silver asked cautiously, "But ... who?"

With absolutely perfect timing, Jazz pinged them through the door.

Silverbolt's expression changed from concerned worry to a swift, approving, smile. "Ah, him. I didn't know you were one of his buddies."

"First ... first time." Suddenly, unaccountably, he was nervous.

"First time ever?" The worry was back.

Bluestreak laughed, "Primus, no, of course not! As social as I am, I was a bit precocious, Silver. Bet I changed my permissions before you changed yours."

Silverbolt chuckled. "I truly doubt that. However, I've just never seen you even seriously flirt with anyone ..."

Jazz pinged him again. A bit exasperated, Bluestreak interrupted, "... probably because people never react how I want them to react when I do try to flirt. Anyway. It's Jazz. So stop worrying about me." He walked over to the door and manually palmed the lock open.

The smaller mech was standing just outside the door, and he bounced on his toes when it slid open. "Hey, Blue. Sorry that th' meetin' took so long."

Bluestreak replied with a warm smile on his face, "I imagine you need this even more after that meeting. I hate meetings that last forever, and that one was a marathon. You guys were stuck in it all day. It had to be awful. I take it the humans had to deal with their slow processing speeds and you guys got stuck with it. It's a shame we can't give 'em upgrades yet to help them keep up with us."

"Primus, yeah, it's annoying." Jazz padded through the door, saw Silverbolt filling half the room, and said casually, "'Lo, Silver."

"Hi, Jazz." Silverbolt grinned at them, optics twinkling in merriment. "Have fun, Blue."

"Bye, Bolts," Jazz said, in exactly the same tone of chirpy cheerfulness, as they headed for the door to Blue's quarters. Both of them stepped over Silver's ankles.

As soon as the door slid shut, Jazz seemed to sag in on himself, however. His smile vanished., his armor flattened down, and the cheery light in his eyes was replaced by a somber, serious expression. He looked up at Bluestreak and said softly, "Ah'm always honest with my lovers, Blue, even if I'm not officially partnering with them. I want ya to know that ah'm _not _in the best of moods right now. Ah ran into Prowl in the hall on the way over here and he turned around and walked the other way. Ah get why he doesn't want to see me, but he didn't even say hello when ah tried to comm him."

"I'm sorry," Bluestreak said, shifting his weight slightly, from foot to foot. "If you don't want to ..."

"No!" Jazz shook his head, firmly. "Don't get that impression. Ah want to. Just, ah'm gonna be a bit needy, an' I don't know if that's what you want. Wanted to give ya a chance to back out. There's Jazz the officer, an' there's Jazz the party animal, and then there's Jazz who's just an ordinary mech who's had a slagging rough time lately, and you're about to meet that third Jazz. And that's the real me."

"Oh." Bluestreak smiled faintly. A little uncertainly, he said, "I'm ... I'm hurting too. You know that. It's okay."

"Ah know," Jazz said, stepping back to clear the way to the berth. "Ah figured we could help each other. Primus, ah need this."

Bluestreak sat down on the edge of his berth, then slid back to lean against the wall. He was half again Jazz's mass, and a good bit taller and wider. Most of the mechs he'd 'faced with in the past had been his size. Bluestreak's model was a common one, his height and mass typical of a warrior, or of the solidly middle-class worker mech he'd been before. Jazz, while on the small side for a warrior, was no microbot. Because of the slight size mismatch, wasn't quite sure how Jazz wanted to arrange himself. Surely, not like a sparkling, in Blue's lap ...

Jazz hopped up onto the berth and stood on it, clawed toes ticking on the metal surface. He took a step, then two, moving towards Bluestreak, and then reached down and rested a hand on Blue's shoulder armor for balance. Blue flashed him a nervous smile, unsure what he had in mind, until Jazz carefully stepped across Blue's legs and lowered himself to straddle Bluestreak's lap in one easy, graceful move.

_Oh_.

It was an intimate position that required trust from both of them. Bluestreak, who'd sparred with Jazz, and lived and worked shoulder to shoulder with Jazz for millenia, had no problem granting that trust. A clumsy mech Jazz's size might leave him with painful scratches and dents, but Jazz was nothing if not graceful. He neatly avoided all of Blue's sensors and hydraulic lines, and fit them together easily. He rested his weight on his own heels and across the thick armor of Blue's thighs, settling just far enough back to avoid stressing Bluestreak's hip joints.

_He's done this plenty of times before, _Bluestreak realized. However, Jazz had simply assumed Bluestreak would trust him. Blue was somehow reassured by that, even as Jazz put his arms around Blue as far as he could reach, shuttered his optics, and just _sat _there, joints slackening and internal systems audibly winding down as he relaxed.

Bluestreak realized that Jazz might come across as cheerful, playful, and everybody's friend, but that wasn't what Jazz was feeling right now. As he'd said, Bluestreak was going to meet the real Jazz tonight. Jazz closed his arms around the other mech and whispered, "I'm not your boss right now."

"No, you're my friend right now," Bluestreak, somehow, knew exactly what Jazz wanted to hear. "You're my friend, and I care about you, and I'm here for you, and I'll let you help me when you can't help someone else, and I can give you comfort too, because you need it. We need each other. It's good."

"Mmm." Jazz's voice had a smile to it again, though only the barest hint of one played around his mouth. "I've never understood why people assume you're naive or clueless."

"Always had the ability to talk and and listen and think at the same time," Bluestreak chuckled.

"Useful skill, ah suppose." Jazz's optics were still off. "Ah've always though we're a lot alike, you and I."

"... Me and you, really?"

"Yah, you. We both try so hard to make people like us. Mostly, it works." Jazz ran fingers up Bluestreak's side to his data port. He ran his long claws over the cover, then briefly lit his optics again and leaned back. Somewhat self-consciously, he said, "Perhaps you'd better be the one to plug us in."

Jazz was self-conscious about his hands, which had been long ago modded for combat. They were not particularly good at manipulating small objects, but he could fit those fingers in between the cracks of someone's armor - or just punch through - and rend their internals in one pulse of a spark. Before ever becoming SIC, he'd been a special ops spy, and he was modified for close-in, hand to hand combat, and quick, nearly silent kills. Firing a weapon, with the associated burst of electromagnetic radiation and heat, was a sure way to raise an alert. The act of ripping someone's spark out was a lot less noticeable to sensors.

Bluestreak nodded, and produced a data cable from his subspace. Jazz leaned against him again, and said softly, obviously thinking about his modified hands, "Before the war, I played the synth-harp. I'm not sure there's still a synth-harp left in existence, you know, but I could send you some of the files."

He chuckled, a little nervously, as he slid the end of the plug into Jazz's port. "I've heard them, already, I think. You were good."

"You've heard?" Jazz sounded pleased.

"After you died .. and we heard on the ship ... " And Primus, those were some horrible, sad memories, when they had gotten that message, "... there was one night when we sat around talking about you and sharing memories. Magnus had some files of you at parties from back before the war. Most of us didn't know ... didn't know how good you were. We shouldn't have been surprised, though. "

Jazz clicked his claws together for a second. He admitted, "I miss making analog music, Blue. I can still sing and synthesize but I can't play an analog instrument with my own hands, at least not with enough skill to satisfy myself."

The connection was live between them now. Bluestreak wondered how many firewalls Jazz expected him to take down, and what, specifically, Jazz had in mind. Should he have bluntly discussed this with Jazz first? Or did it matter? He'd had a few casual lovers who kept it to simple emotions and images, and others who went just a little deeper. He'd never had a _serious _lover, but before the war he'd certainly had his share of close friends and he'd always enjoyed 'facing casually with them.

Blue had been pretty easy-going about what his casual lovers in the past had wanted, and didn't really mind now if Jazz wanted to keep it extremely casual or a little more intimate. He decided he would just follow Jazz's lead. He trusted Jazz.

As he'd hoped, Jazz made the first move, transmitting his current emotional state. Bluestreak smiled, as Jazz's affection, warm regard, and respect for him came across, as well as a strong wave of desire. Jazz didn't see him as a few steps from crazy. Jazz didn't mind his chatter. Jazz thought he was funny, and kind. Jazz saw him as something more than a demon-ridden gunner who was probably going to spectacularly self-destruct someday.

Jazz _wanted _him.

It was possible to lie in this light of a connection, but what was the point? You'd have to be delusional, or sociopathic, to stroke somebody else's ego with forged warm fuzzies, then get off on the good feelings they sent back. Jazz was neither - of that, he was sure. Jazz's reactions to him were encouraging, felt incredibly good, and built his confidence up immediately.

Blue tightened his arms on the other mech, sending back his own thoughts and feelings. He had liked Jazz from the first moment that they'd met. Jazz's bright personality, his caring, the even-handed way he dealt out discipline, his fairness, had all earned him Blue's respect. Jazz's overtures of friendship to a lonely, uncertain, grieving young soldier had earned him Bluestreak's trust and friendship.

He adored Jazz. He loved him as a dear friend and trusted him as a commander. He would follow Jazz's orders as his commander right into the Pit, and as a friend he'd willingly enter the abyss to save Jazz's aft. He worried about him.

Jazz pulsed _love _across the connection - not the fierce love of one partner for another, but a fond enough substitute that Blue's own processor responded back with _love friendship affection trust. _Jazz's reaction was stronger, and Blue was surprised at how swift, how sure, his own feelings were. Very quickly, the feedback loop of bright emotions, each generated by the other's feelings, brought them together towards a climax. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by pleasure and a feeling of intense closeness to the other mech.

It was swift, it was simple, it was affirmation of the friendship they shared.

Jazz, with a chuckle, leaned against him, afterwards. The connection between them was still light. Neither had pried into the other's memories. For the first time, Jazz spoke, _:You always are enthusiastic in everything.:_

_:I've heard that before,: _Bluestreak giggled. He felt things very strongly, wasn't shy about showing his feelings to another, and most of his casual lovers commented on that. Most liked it. He felt better now, as he came down from the climactic high. Jazz's reactions were confirmation that someone _did _view him as an adult, and a friend, and valued him and accepted him for who he was. Windy was just an idiot.

_:Mmm.: _Jazz straightened up from his position curled against Blue's chassis. He was just the right size so that they fit together perfectly, with his bumper sliding under Blue's, and his cheek easily resting on Blue's grill. His elegant features looked suddenly melancholy, and just before he shut down the emotional feed between them, Bluestreak caught a wisp of very different, far darker, emotions, crowding out Jazz's pleasure and happiness.

Jazz had said he would meet the real Jazz tonight, but he was shutting Bluestreak out now.

"You okay?" He said, letting Jazz feel his worry.

"Mm. Ah needed that. Thank you, Blue. Maybe ... maybe it's best we end things now, on a good note. Hmm?"

"Do you need to talk?" Blue said, catching Jazz's hand as the other mech reached for his own dataport to disconnect.

Jazz shook his head swiftly. "Ah think we're both feeling pretty good. Maybe that's a good way to end the night." He tried to pull his hand free.

_Second thoughts, _Bluestreak realized, though he wasn't sure why.

"It's nothing ya did," Jazz had picked up on Blue's confusion. "Ah was going to dump on you, but honestly, ah feel a lot better. Ah don't need to impose on ya. It's more stuff ya'd share with a partner than a friend, anyway."

"You don't have a partner to share with." Bluestreak was worried. Impose? Jazz's sudden withdrawal concerned him. He wondered if he'd done something wrong, and he sent a little query across the connection to that effect. He still had his side open, even if Jazz had put all his firewalls back up.

"It's not you. It's something I guess I'd normally talk to Optimus about, if I needed an opinion from someone." Jazz sounded unhappy. "Except ah can't really talk t' Optimus about Prowl because he's got enough guilts."

"Smokescreen?" Bluestreak suggested, uncertainly. He let go of Jazz's hand.

"Smokie's slagging busy with the Nebulan code issues. And he's ... he's good with the technical stuff, you know, restrictive coding and analysis of thought patterns. Real good at intel, at forensic psych, that sort of thing. He's not so good t' actually _talk _to." Jazz, instead of pulling the cable out of his port, rested his long, clawed fingers across Bluestreak's bumper. He did a systems check, and Bluestreak could feel and hear the faint vibrations as his internals ran through a complicated dance of valves and sensors and tiny motors.

Slowly, hesitantly, Jazz leaned forward again. He shut his optics off with the faintest of clicks, and said, "One of the reasons I thought ... you might understand ... was that you know you can have issues, you can be hurt deep inside, and still be competent and sane. Bluestreak, I said we're both alike, and I mean it. I can _do _my job. I can be the SIC. I can lead troops into combat. I can handle the most sensitive of intelligence with discretion. I am good at what I do. We both hide our hurts behind a veil of good cheer and friendliness, however."

Blue slid a hand up Jazz's back, suddenly understanding why Jazz was hesitating. He said softly, "But you're still scared I won't see you as a leader if you tell me about it. It's okay. I will. I've known you all the war. I know what you can do. Hearing you talk about your own demons won't change that with me, because I've put my life in your hands so many times and I know just how good you are. I mean, I might understand you a little better, but that's it."

"Primus, Blue, I love him so very much, and there's not a thing I can do to help him." Jazz was suddenly clinging to Bluestreak, who shifted a bit to hold him more comfortably. He held tight to Bluestreak and added in a choked and static-laden voice, "The w-worst part is, I know he wants me, he _really _does, and it would do him so much good to be with me if ... if it weren't for Ranger. He waited the whole time he was locked in that prison in his mind for _me_. He told me that. He was sure I'd rescue him, figure it out, save him. He was waiting for me. And ... and I didn't. I let him down. I didn't have faith enough in him. Figured after a few days that he was either dead or glitched and didn't have the heart to get a glitchhead back who'd once been my Prowl ... _slag _it."

Bluestreak whispered, "I know. They always infected the Autobots they caught with a virus. Always, always." They were still connected, though Jazz had his firewalls up. Bluestreak pinged him softly, just a quick burst of code to remind him that he was willing to listen in a slightly more intimate form. It was one thing to talk about one's issues, and quite another to show and tell in interface, getting swift feedback from another mech.

Jazz looked up at him, then turned his head and sent a quick command to the room's lights. They dimmed. He was very still for a moment, then dropped multiple firewalls. Grief and sorrow and longing, all mixed in with boundless love for Prowl, came across at nearly overwhelming intensity levels. Jazz cried out softly, a wordless sound, and his emotions suddenly morphed to a sense of devastating loss.

_:Oh, Jazz.: _Bluestreak keened with him, nearly overwhelmed by Jazz's grief. Though Prowl was alive, Jazz's guilt was almost greater than if he'd died.

_:I've wanted him to be my partner, my other half, I've wanted him to be the focus of my world, for almost as long as I've known him, Blue. That has been a long, long, long time ..:_

And then the memories began to flow. They had spent three hundred thousand years of history as friends, and the war had only made them closer. Jazz had assumed that nothing but death could separate them. Yet, now that friendship was shattered as surely as if he had died, except that by Jazz's standards, it was a worse fate than death. Jazz knew there was a peaceful place to go to, after death, and loved ones to meet you there. Prowl was alive, miserable, with no escape, no solace, and Jazz could not comfort him, because it made everything worse when Prowl saw him.

_:Why did you never partner?: _Bluestreak asked.

Jazz shook his head slowly, joints creaking ever so slightly. _:There were so many reasons, some of them very good. And then the war began and I wanted to partner with him and slag all the consequences ... but I think Prowl was scared he'd lose me and it would hurt too much. I just wish he'd lived for the moment, instead of making promises for the future, just for a bit.:_

_:You love him so truly.:_

_:I've told him that, a thousand times.: _Jazz keened bitterly. _:He knows I love him. We love each other. And we cannot have each other. And it hurts, it hurts so bad ...:_

Jazz had taken far more firewalls down than one would normally lower for a casual interface. Bluestreak had respectfully stayed away from those private areas anyway, out of worry that Jazz might regret inviting him in. He was not Jazz's partner. He was just a friend.

_:Please, share with me ... please, ah cannot do this alone ...: _Jazz begged, sending Blue some files, pathways, folder addresses, to things he wanted Blue to see. _:Ah have to share how ah feel about him with someone. Ah am sorry to impose on you, Bluestreak, but you... you're here, and you're listening, and ah'm sorry, I am, but ah need someone so badly ...:_

_:Jazz, it's okay, really, it is, honest.: _Bluestreak lowered some of his own firewalls to match. It was Jazz, and he trusted Jazz, and Jazz _needed _him, and he couldn't imagine not helping ... though he was immensely stunned that Jazz had chosen him, of all the mechs in the army, to turn to. It was flattering, but he didn't understand _why_.

However, he had some memories of Prowl he thought Jazz might want to see. He directed Jazz to them, not minding what else Jazz might find. He really didn't have any secrets he felt he needed to hide from Jazz.

They clung to each other, sharing full memories, rich with their own emotional reactions. Bluestreak didn't love Prowl the way Jazz did, but he understood Jazz's grief and horror and guilt. Prowl was special to both of them, Prowl was a mech he had considered a friend as well as a commander.

Jazz seemed to catch himself and he asked, _:Is this ... amount of intimacy ... is this alright with ya?:_

_:Yeah, it's fine.: _It was Jazz. He didn't mind at all, and his rush of affection for Jazz made Jazz relax, both mentally and physically.

_:Primus, Blue.: _Jazz looked up at him, sudden realization written on his face. _:You'd make someone such a catch. Yet most of the army acts like they'd get a virus from you if they 'faced with you. They love you, but they're so damned patronizing towards you.:_

He couldn't stop the wave of bitter anger at that. Jazz was right. Bluestreak wasn't perfect, and his imperfections were somewhat obvious. Nobody ever gave him a chance. As a friend, as an army buddy, sure. As a lover? Never. He had been so stunned by Jazz's offer, so thrilled. He _loved _Jazz - not as a partner, but as a dear friend. He was so happy to offer Jazz whatever comfort he could.

Jazz was leaning back, looking at him, _really _looking at him. He said softly, _:Nobody in this universe is perfect. Primus, Blue, I'm sorry.:_

_:At least you're not telling me to stop chattering all the time, that people will see me as more desirable if I stop with the chatter, because I really can't stop it, it's a spark-deep glitch, and I'm not even sure it's a glitch, it's just how I am, and it's worse when I'm stressed and hurting, I can control it when I'm comfortable, but it's always there, was before the war, and ...:_

Jazz distracted him by sending a pulse of emotion to him, not the superficial affection of earlier, but keener gratitude and a suddenly deeper upwelling of real attraction. It wasn't anything like what he felt for Prowl, but it was very real. Bluestreak gasped, startled. That was completely unexpected.

To interface like this, with firewalls down, and _then_ to stimulate each other to climax with an extremely deep emotional connection ... it was beyond what mere friends did, for casual fun and affirmation of friendship. By the surprise he was feeling from Jazz, Jazz hadn't anticipated going this far either. Both of them pulled back, physically and emotionally, looking each other in the optics.

"We should stop," Jazz said, worried, "This isn't what we were intending."

"You need this," Bluestreak murmured, resting one hand against the elegant silver lines of Jazz's face. He repeated, letting all of his worry and affection and concern flow with the words, _:You needs this, and I'm willing.:_

Jazz sent quiet acceptance of Blue's offer. There was regret there, and a bit of guilt, but not enough to stop him.  
_  
_He lost himself in the connection, and they brought each other to a climax with feelings of affection and love, reassurance and affirmation, half a dozen times before Jazz finally slipped into exhausted recharge in Blue's arms. Bluestreak held him close, protectively, tightly. He felt tremendously better, more confident, happier with himself and with the world.

Jazz needed him.

He found he didn't mind taking care of Jazz at all. All things considered, Bluestreak decided, his own problems weren't so bad when compared to Jazz's level of shattering grief.

* * *

Starscream sat alone in his room, in pitch blackness, on the floor, with his back to the door.

"Are you listening to me?" he asked the silence.

Nothing spoke, but he felt a certain disturbance in the background level of electromagnetic radiation. He was not alone.

_He was not alone._

"I can't go on like this," he whispered. "I have to change. But I don't know how."

He was not alone.

"You said I was a hero. You said I could be a hero again. I _don't know how_."

He was not alone.

"Slag you!"

He was not alone.

He sighed, and leaned against the door. Folding his desk up and lowering his berth seemed like too much work. Maybe he'd just recharge on the floor.

He was not alone. He could feel them, watching.

He remembered the _love_.

Slowly, he picked himself up off the floor, and put his room to rights. The presence remained, even has he lay down on the berth and shuttered his optics against the darkness in his room.

"I'll make you proud," he said, aloud. "I promise."

He meant it. He craved their approval with something approaching physical pain.

After a moment, the presence left.

He powered down into recharge with surprising ease.

* * *

Mikaela yawned and rubbed at her eyes. She sat cross-legged on the medical berth, a sparkling's head in her lap. Just the head. Wheelie, a few feet away, was sitting in a nearly identical posture, with the sparkling's torso laid open before him.

He glanced up at the noise of her yawn, and said, "Goddess, it's late. Shouldn't you go home?"

She glanced at him. He was grinning at her, trying to push her buttons deliberately, because he found annoying her funny. With Wheelie's acceptance by the Autobots had come a certain growing cockiness.x Irritated, she snapped, "Can't you call me by my name?"

"Aww, you know I call you that 'cause I love ya." He grinned, baring dental plates that he'd enameled white the day before.

"I'm fine," she said, looking back down at her work as she carefully cleaned the contact points behind the sparkling's optics. A mech with functioning nanytes didn't have much problem with dirt and oxidization of electrical bits, because the nanytes kept things clean. These sparklings had been offline for so long that none of them had functioning nanytes left. There result was a huge amount of maintenance needed before they were safe to bring online.

"... Yeah, I guess. You look tired, though." His cocky attitude disappeared, replaced by real concern.

"I'll be _okay_." She hooked a modified palmtop computer - the human equivalent to a datapad - up to the sparkling's optics. The left eye reported a good contact, but the right gave her a string of errors. The shutter position sensor was defective. She sighed. "I need a new optic for this guy."

Wheelie glanced over. "There's none left here in the med bay. Might be a few in storage down by the SOA and I need some parts too. Want to tag along with me to look?"

That was a polite, _I don't want to go down there alone. _It was a long drive in the dark for one young mech.

"Yeah, sure." She stood up. It would be good to go outside for a bit.

"Here's a helmet," Wheelie produced one from his subpsace, a grin spreading across his face as he did. Until recently, he had not _had _a subspace field, but someone - First Aid, Mikaela thought - had installed a generator and upgraded his power supply to support it. "Promise I won't go too fast."

She shoved him affectionately, making him stumble sideways. He weighed more than she did, but not by much. "You'd better not. I can still kick your butt."

"Warrior Goddess, of that, I have no doubt."


	109. Chapter 109

Chapter 108

* * *

Author's Notes:

So I got to thinking about what Ratchet's likely reaction would be if anyone accused him of being like Megatron ...

* * *

At Fang's ping, Ratchet sent a quick command to open his door. Fang stepped through, and Ratchet saw he had Prism tucked to his chest, already soundly in recharge.

"I made a little berth for her in my spare room," Ratchet said, uncertainly.

Fang's gaze was hooded and wary, his optics revealing nothing but caution. At Ratchet's words, Fang nodded, and padded through the indicated door. Ratchet's sparkling was still half-disassembled and lying on the full-sized berth, but he'd bolted a shelf to the wall for Prism. The shelf was low enough that she could jump up and down, perhaps chest height to Fang. Ratchet watched from the doorway as Fang carefully transferred her there from his arms without waking her, then shut off the lights and slipped out. He left the sliding door propped open a few inches, and spoke for the first time, "She's doing a deep defrag cycle. She'll be out for hours. It was a rough day for her, so I jacked in and set the defrag up for her."

"Ah. Wise."

"She's ... coming along." Fang looked tired. "I was so worried for her, for a bit, but I think she'll be okay. She really enjoyed today with Percy, even with all the drama with Starscream. Perceptor wants more time with her. I talked it over with him, and I think that's a good idea."

Ratchet nodded. "It'll be good for her to get to know both factions, too. We don't want to spread the war to the next generation if we can help it ... And Fang, you're doing a good job with her, given what you have to work with."

"I should have waited ... I was too impulsive when I brought her online."

"No." Ratchet could see the guilt in Fang's expressive amber eyes, and he didn't think Fangface was right to feel guilty about bringing her online right now. "And if we're attacked tomorrow? At least she can run. Or the humans could betray us, take control of the sparklings we're storing with them. Offline sparklings are completely helpless. There are too many of them, too few of us, and we cannot begin to protect all of them."

Fang smirked. "I halfway think if we were attacked, she'd be fighting right alongside the rest of us. Clawing out the optics of anyone who _dared _threaten me." He curled his own formidable fingers and made a slashing gesture.

"True." Ratchet had to smile at that. "She's got a warrior's spark, that's certain. She's your child."

The smaller mech grew sober, then in an abrupt change of subject he said, "I spoke to Aquaregia. He told me about Starscream."

"I ... am sorry, Fang. I'm sure Aquaregia is ticked off, but I could _not _let him die."

Fangface made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "'Regia will get over it. He brought his concerns to me privately. It was never public knowledge. If it _was _a public incident I would be much more torqued off. I made Aquaregia aware that he is not to get in your way for medical matters. However, I'd like _you _to _try _to avoid stomping on his authority again in the near future."

Ratchet nodded, relieved. It sounded as if Aquaregia had kept the matter quiet. If he had made a public scene, as Decepticon officers tended to do when they were ticked off, Fang's response would need to be very different.

"Now," Fang folded his arms. "I'm a little _more _amused that you _interfaced _with Starscream."

"It wasn't like that!" he protested, knowing he was on dangerous ground. Then he sighed, and regained his dignity with a _harrumph _of disgust. "It was, however, necessarily more than a medical interface, Fang. The Primes got involved."

Ratchet remembered the darkness, the lack of hope, the lack of dreams, of curiosity, of desire, left in Starscream. He had felt only terrifying levels of fear, bleak anger, desperate loneliness, and a hatred of everything and anything. The only thing that kept Starscream from being truly dangerous was apathy.

Oh, yes, Fangface needed to know what he was dealing with.

Jealousy flashed in Fang's eyes, and he visibly bristled. "Primes? I assumed it _was _just medical. What the hell, Ratch?"

Ratchet had been expecting that reaction. He sighed. Next would come anger ...

"... first you throw a screaming _fit _at me because I dared to bring the slagger back from the dead when the Primes thought it was a good idea, and then you go and 'face with him?"

"... Fang."

"_Primus_." Fang swore at him. "I knew you had a few glitches, but I thought I could live with them. Good freaking grief, Ratchet! How much of a double standard do you expect me to accept?"

Well, he wasn't surprised. He'd hurt Fang's feelings pretty badly by not trusting him. He _still _wasn't sure that Fang had made the right call, particularly given what he now knew about Starscream's mental state. For the moment, Starscream lacked the energy to make trouble beyond briefly lashing out at someone. However, Ratchet was _well _acquainted with Starscream's temper and tendency towards flamboyant displays of histrionics. Combine a willingness to make a public spectacle with the level of hate, self-hatred, anger, and a belief that _nobody _wanted him or cared about him, and the result was potentially explosive. Particularly since Starscream, demonstrably, was not unwilling to destroy _worlds_.

Ratchet didn't trust that Starscream's extreme levels of depression would last.

"You're not saying anything," Fang had clearly been waiting for Ratchet's response to his irate question.

"Is there anything I can say that you wouldn't object to?" Ratchet asked, dryly.

Fang went very still for a moment. Ratchet had no clue what he was thinking. Finally, however, he said, in a quietly dangerous tone of voice, "You could try _talking _to me."

"What would you _like _me to say?" Ratchet said, then realized everything was spinning out of control. He didn't want to argue with Fang. He hadn't intended to respond with sarcasm. He then promptly failed at sounding more reasonable when he added, "Are you _looking _for a fight?"

"I'm looking for a partner I can trust." Fang bit the words out then clenched his jaw. His lip plates were pulled back, baring teeth in an expression that was entirely unfriendly. Ratchet had seen Fang turn that same expression on his own troops when they displeased him. "I _thought _that was you. Clearly, I was mistaken ..."

"Fang, no." Ratchet suddenly felt old, and more than a little irritated. "Look, I'm sorry I yelled at you, but you're overreacting ... really, how long have you known me? How many times have you seen me blow up? I am sorry I yelled at you, but I just want to put this past us and get on with whatever this is between us. Or not. If you're going to end it, end it."

Fang narrowed his optics, then glanced quickly at the mostly closed door to Prism's room. Ratchet assumed he was thinking about getting his child and stalking home in a snit. Ratchet snapped, "... Fang, what do you want out of me? I've said I was sorry. I don't know what else to do. You just made me furious and I lost my temper at _you _for a change."

Fang's head whipped around so fast that Ratchet jumped. "_Made _you mad? You chose to become angry. I didn't make you do anything. You _chose _to become angry, you _chose _to terrify me ..."

"Terrify you? Fang, you're my match in a fight."

"I'm not scared of physical harm from you, you glitch! I'm scared of worse! And I don't want to fight you!" Fangface stalked past Ratchet, towards Ratchet's room. Ratchet followed close on his heels, and pushed the door shut after him, guessing that Fang didn't want to argue next to Prism's door.

As soon as the door was shut, Fang hissed in a lower tone of voice, "What you just said - 'you make me so mad' - aughh!"

"Sorry. Perhaps not the best choice of words." Though it was completely true, Ratchet thought.

"The sentiment remains." Fang slammed a hand down on Ratchet's berth, the crack of metal on metal loud and echoing. Optics narrowed, shoulders squared with quivering outrage, he said in a low voice that sounded all the more deadly due to the lack of emotion in it, "I'm a 'con, Ratchet. I've spent the last hundred thousand years around mechs who thought like that. You were angry at me, so somehow _I _made _you _act like a complete jerk. Well, I didn't make you do anything. You didn't have the spinal struts to choke down that temper of yours for long enough to listen rather than to judge!"

He started to protest. Fang cut him off. Fang's trick of not raising his voice was effective; Optimus did the same thing, and Ratchet blinked in surprise as he found himself silenced by Fang's low, deep words as effectively as if it had been the Autobot leader who'd interrupted him. Fang said, "Allow me to finish, or I will walk out of here, and out of your life." He pointed a finger in the direction of Ratchet's front door. His claws were not extended. "Are you going to allow me to talk or are you going to yell at me again?"

It wasn't a threat, it was a promise. Ratchet could hear steely resolve in Fang's voice. Oh, Fang was pissed, and it was a different kind of pissed than what Ratchet had ever heard from him in the past.

Fangface waited, pointedly, for a response from Ratchet.

"I'm listening." He was also, suddenly, panicking. He hadn't realized Fang was anywhere near that upset with him. Fang had said he _needed _him, had somewhat desperately begged for a relationship. Ratchet had known Fang wanted them to be together. He had never expected Fang, who had been so needy, would suddenly be willing to walk away.

And ... he found he didn't want to lose the little glitch.

He _really _didn't want to lose him.

Fang did two full systems checks. His armor fluffed out, then rattled down. He extended his claws and chewed on one. He didn't say for a moment.

Patience was not one of Ratchet's traits. Irritated that Fang had demanded to speak, and now he wasn't speaking, he snapped, "Well? I figure you're going to break it off whatever I say, so let's get it over with. I'd remind you this was _your_ idea to begin with."

And then he winced at his own anger. He was so _angry_. Angry that Fang wouldn't give him another chance. Angry that Fang's attachment to him was so much less than he'd thought. A real partner would forgive an argument. Fang was ready to walk away just because he'd lost his cool _once_. He had truly thought Fang wanted him a _little _more than that.

Keen amber optics shifted to look up at him. "You're afraid."

"You're the one who's talking about breaking it off."

"Oh, I'm seriously considering it right now. Doesn't change the fact that you're scared like you were facing the mouth of the Pit itself and Unicron was behind you."

"I'm pissed off." He let just a hint of a growl touch his voice.

"Which," Fang noted, "is how you react to fear."

He started to snap something angry, then reconsidered when he realized that he was proving Fang's point. He was scared he'd lose Fang forever, and he was reacting with anger to the idea.

Fang simply turned his back and walked away, across the room to the window. Ratchet was left with the choice of an undignified rant at Fang's back, or silence. He chose the latter, mostly out of confusion. It was a moonless night, and Fang's optics tracked a satellite visible in orbit for a moment. Without looking at him, Fang said, "In that medical interface with Starscream, how much did you pick up about how Megatron treated him?"

Ratchet rocked back on his heels, even as his processor involuntarily pulled up some of the files.

_You make me so angry! _Followed by a tirade at Starscream that had lasted hours.

_Starscream, you glitch, this is your fault! _Followed by an object thrown at Starscream's head. It had connected - Starscream hadn't dared to duck - and shattered Starscream's optic.

_Idiot! Incompetent idiot! _Followed by a swift kick to Starscream's side, Starscream was already curled up on the floor in agony following a beating.

Starscream refusing to speak to Megatron in the med-bay, when Megatron came to visit him after the Decepticon leader had beaten him nearly to slag with his own dismembered leg. Megatron saying, _Starscream, you make me so angry sometimes. That failure was your fault. Don't screw up like that and I won't lose my temper at you like that. It's your choice, glitch._

And _that _had been followed by a touch to Starscream's faceplate, urging the seeker to look at him. _Are you still sulking?_

Starscream, hissing, "That failure was _your _fault, glorious leader! If you'd followed _my _plans this never would have happened!"

Megatron had _hit _him, knocking him offline. When Starscream had regained consciousness, far worse had followed.

Ratchet started to deny that he had anything in common with Megatron. He couldn't imagine striking Fang like that, much less _ever _doing the things to Starscream that Megatron had.

Fang said softly, "Starscream was not the only victim of that anger. Nor was Megatron the only glitch with a bad temper in the Decepticon army, as I'm sure you can imagine. When you blame _me _for your bad attitude, it reminds me of the worst I saw as a Decepticon."

Ratchet snarled with real anger, "You would compare me to _Megatron_?"

The comparison was stunningly offensive. Ratchet was shocked into insulted silence.

"How many times have I seen you throw an object at someone's head?" Fang said, voice deadly calm. "How many times have I seen you take some petty frustration out on your staff, on your peers, on your friends?"

"That's _different_! How _dare _you ..." Ratchet balled his fists. He was furious. Megatron was truly evil, and there were no words to describe how much Ratchet loathed the mech's very name. Megatron's charismastic insanity had led to the very destruction of their world. What Megatron had done to Starscream, over and over again, was _evil_, in the truest sense of the word, and was far more fresh in Ratchet's memories.

And Fang _dared _make that comparison?

Without even realizing it, he took a step towards Fang.

Fang's weapons capacitors whined to life, his pupils dilated, and his armor clamped tight to his frame even as his hydraulic pressure increased with a hiss and rumble of pumps. He crouched, bending at the knees, fingers touching the ground, and growled, "I didn't come here to fight with you, Ratch, but so help me, I am _not _one of your underlings and I will defend myself. I'm not in your chain of command."

"You're the one who started the fight." Ratchet balled his fists. His own combat routines activated with a rush of code in his processor and power to his systems. "Slaggit, Fang!"

That earned him a smile that bared sharp teeth. "Oh, no. I didn't start it. Happy to finish it, didn't start it."

"You compared me to _Megatron_!"

"Valid comparison, I'd say."

"You're really starting to piss me off," Ratchet growled at him.

"Ah. Yes. I'm making you mad. It's my fault. Right." Fang took a step towards the door. "Please move out of the way, Ratchet, or I will move you out of the way."

"You're just ... leaving?"

"You know," Fangface said, "I have too much drama in my life as it is. I wanted you to be my safe haven, not a source of more problems. Ratchet, I'm going to get Prism and go home."

It was ... over?

Ratchet straightened up, staring down at Fang. He had been dreading Fang's words, but the hurt that he felt still stunned him. Fang was fiercely tense, despite his calm tone of voice. There was fear in Fang's optics, as well as a good bit of anger. Every lover he'd ever had, had left more-or-less the same way. Oh, Fang had been particularly talented with his parting insults (and he was still seething over being compared to Megatron) but it had always ended with a fierce argument and his partner storming out.

He stepped aside, then walked to his berth and sat down. He off-lined his optics, waiting for Fang to leave. He'd smash something against the wall once Fang was out of his quarters, and out of his life. Then he figured he'd get thoroughly overclocked. Maybe call Ironhide up and see if Ironhide wanted to get overclocked with him.

Ironhide had never really approved of Fangface, though he hadn't said much. His best choice would definitely be Ironhide, if he was going to go get completely inebriated.

Fang.

Suddenly, he wasn't angry at all. He felt numb.

Fangface hadn't left yet.

Why hadn't Fang left yet?

In a sudden impulse to fill the silence, Ratchet said, "I'll compile a file on the intelligence I got from Starscream and have someone deliver it tomorrow on a datacube. I can be professional in public if you can, but perhaps it's best we avoid seeing each other privately."

Fang took a step, not towards the door, but towards Ratchet. Ratchet expected Fang to explode at him, to finally lose his temper and really blow. He brought his optics online in a hurry, not being suicidal, expecting to see rage.

The young Decepticon leader stood in the middle of Ratchet's bedroom, head tilted to one side, and a very strange expression on his face. He started to nibble on one claw, then abruptly pointed at Ratchet with the finger he'd been chewing on. "I thought you were going to go ballistic when I said it was over."

"What's the point?" Ratchet couldn't keep the complete depression he was feeling out of his voice. "That would be somewhat inane. If you're leaving because you think I'm just as bad as Megatron, throwing a fit at you is not going to change anything."

"I never said you were as bad as Megatron." Fang took two steps closer. "What I said was that you remind me of him when you blame _me _for your temper tantrum."

"Temper tantrum!"

Fang smirked. "Maybe comparing you to Prism in a bad mood would be less offensive?"

He should have lost his temper again. He gritted his teeth and managed to keep control. "What do you want? You said you were leaving."

Fang took one more step, closing the distance between them. He reached up and rested a hand on Ratchet's jaw, cradling his face in his long fingers. "Ratch, I thought you'd go crazy-mad when I said I was leaving."

He couldn't meet those level amber optics, but he was surprised by the sudden flare of _hope _in his very spark.

Fang said softly, "Do we want to try again, one more time?"

He wasn't sure what he felt. Wild hope warred with insult and anger. Fang's words had cut him to the core. They'd been intended to hurt, he was sure of it. "Were you deliberately testing me?"

"A little," Fang confessed, still gazing at him keenly. "I meant what I said, Ratchet. I won't put up with being blamed for your mood. When you're angry, you take it out on others - and usually justify it by claiming they did something to provoke you. The real reason is that they were a convenient target."

"I'm _not _like Megatron." He heard the truth in Fang's words. He wanted to deny it. He also didn't want Fang to spin around and leave.

"No." Fang slid between Ratchet's knees, his slim body pressing up against Ratchet. "No, no you're not. You can control your temper. Megatron never even tried."

Megatron had done far worse than that. He'd enjoyed making others afraid of him.

Slowly, he raised his hands up to the smaller mech's back, and just held him. "I ... don't want you to go, Fang."

Fang whispered, "There's so much good in you, Ratch. I don't want the drama. I want _you_, as I know you can be. You are one of the good guys."

"Glad you noticed." Ratchet replied, eyebrows rising.

Fang sighed, deeply and raggedly. "I ... don't know what to do. Part of me loves you very much, Ratch. Part of me just doesn't want to _deal _with that temper of yours. I honestly don't know what I want."

He tightened his grip on the smaller mech, as if he could keep him by simply never letting go. Roughly, gruffly, Ratchet said, "Well. If you're expecting me to have the patience of Optimus, it isn't going to happen. I've had a temper since the day I came online."

Fang chuckled, and said, "Can I at least have a safe word?"

That earned him a snorted laugh. Leave it to Fang to find humor in _any _situation. Ratchet met Fang's gaze again. "I will make you this promise - I can't guarantee I'll never lose my temper, Fang, but if you need to walk away, just simply tell me."

Fang seemed to mull that over, before nodding slowly. "That'll cover the big arguments." Knowing amber eyes met his. "I imagine you'll snap and snarl at me occasionally because you're pissed about something else and I'm the first available target."

"I'll ..." He trailed off. It was an unflattering and brutally honest assessment of one of the character flaws he was least proud of. He wasn't sure what to say in reaction to that.

Fang's smile turned wry. "You're not yelling at me right now. I thought this discussion would be a lot uglier."

Ratchet's sensitive fingers found an old weld mark on Fang's shoulder. He'd made that repair the first time they'd met, all those thousands of years ago. If the repair had been done to duryllium plating it would have been seamless, but Fang's alloy was so much harder to work with.

"Fang," he said slowly, rubbing the scar with the tips of two fingers. He remembered how close Fang had come to off-lining then, and how unsuspecting he'd been that critically injured little enemy soldier would someday become so important to his world. "Fang, one of the functions of a Cybertronian partner is to provide honest opinions. Sometimes those opinions are less than flattering. You are not wrong to say things like this to me, even if I don't particularly like to hear them."

There was the faintest of clicks as Fang opened his data port cover. Ratchet froze in surprise, then saw Fang's expression. His partner - his lover - looked terrified. Fang's irises were dilated as he likely struggled to keep combat routines from activating, and his mouth was set in a thin, hard line. There wasn't a lot that frightened Fang, but Ratchet guessed that intimacy with someone who might be furious at him would do it.

Fang craved approval from others. It would be devastating to him to argue with someone during an interface.

Ratchet trailed a hand suggestively down Fang's side until he reached that port, and then he cupped his fingers over the opening. He forced himself to smile gently, even as he struggled for control of his own emotions. He had, in fact, interfaced a few times where it had it turn into a raging argument. In the first instance, he'd left a partner devastated - he had been far younger himself, so sure of his own _righteousness_, and she had been even younger and very _unsure. _She had left him after that, but had been plagued by insecurity and self doubt for years later, and he was not proud of himself for that. His arrogance, his lack of sensitivity, had not confided well with her lack of confidence in her own ideas.

To his everlasting regret, she had eventually become a Decepticon. She had died in the opening shots of the war; he had found her name among the tallies of the dead. He still knew she was wrong, but he'd wasn't proud of himself. If only he'd been more persuasive and less blunt ...

In the second instance, the fight had turned from mental straight to the physical, with a partner every bit as stubborn as he was. They'd patched things up and that partnership had lasted for a few months after that, but neither of them had been willing to compromise, or accept the other's views were valid.

_Primus, I was an aft._

Fang craved approval, and Ratchet wondered if he was offering to interface now to get it. Thinking of the long-lost girlfriend made him suddenly realize that his relationship with Fang was perilously close to truly unequal. He had not understood, so long ago, when he had left a partner devastated by his blunt disapproval and pure conviction of the truth of his own convictions, that he had felt superior to her. She had felt his absolute conviction that he was better than she was, and had _believed _it, because she loved and trusted him.

He met Fang's gaze.

It would be so easy to see Fang as _not _being his equal. Perhaps he had made the mistake of treating Fang like a junior apprentice, complete with dressing him down because he was pissed off. Fang was, Ratchet mused, younger, emotionally vulnerable, and lacking in the education and training and experience that he had spent a very long lifetime amassing. Fang was neither as skilled at politics nor medicine as Ratchet. He didn't have the experience with leadership. He was a _Decepticon_, and right there was a whole universe of reasons to feel superior.

All that, and yet, he was a Prime. His talents were natural. He was a leader born, a medic by desire, and his brilliant mind was a true surprise given his tech specs and history. Despite being raised a Decepticon, despite being thrown into battle when he was just a sparkling, he had retained not just his sanity but a degree of empathy. He was kind, patient, with a clever, devious, delightfully dark sense of humor.

He was hurting, yes, but they all were. Ratchet certainly had his share of emotional wounds.

Uncertainly, he wondered, _Can I do this? Will I even be good for Fang?_

Maybe it would be best for both of them if Fang turned around and walked out that door. He loved the little glitch so much. Maybe Fang would be better off if he didn't have to deal with Ratchet's issues on top of his own. Offensive analogies aside, Fang was more-or-less right about Ratchet's foul temper and tendency to lash out when he was angry.

Fang was still watching him and waiting, patiently, for Ratchet to respond. When he didn't say anything - he was still trying to figure out if _he _wanted to try once more - Fang reached up and ran a hand along Ratchet's jaw. "You've believed in me a few times when no one else did. Maybe it's time for me to have some faith in you. I am _terrified _of this going badly wrong between us, but I also know you are brave, strong, stubborn, and noble. You will do the right thing."

Slaggit, he should say no ... but he couldn't. He _wanted _Fangface, probably as much as Fang wanted him.

Slowly, hesitantly, he pulled away from Fang, but only to scoot across the berth and lie down. He popped off the bulkiest bits of his armor, the thick chest plates that made snuggling difficult, and then patted the berth beside him. Gruffly, he said, "Come here. Let's do this properly, then."

Fang nestled against him with a small sigh, and just lay there for a long moment. Ratchet had begun to wonder if the predacon hadn't slipped into recharge when he moved again. He'd brought a cable out of subspace, and he rested his finger tips on Ratchet's port cover. "Shall we? I think I'm ready."

When Ratchet connected with him, he was rocked by the level of Fang's insecurity, palpable with even the lightest of connections. One argument had done _that_? Fang was shaken and miserable. He'd felt Fang be nervous about interfacing before, and once he'd overcompensated by granting Ratchet _way _too much access in an effort to prove to himself to Ratchet, but this was different. He was so unsure about everything, despite his brave words. He'd always known Fang could act, he _had _to be decent at it to survive in the Decepticon army, but he hadn't realized how much that Fang had been hiding during the conversation.

Ratchet's first reaction was instinctive irritation that Fang didn't trust him, apparently at all.

Fang felt the annoyance and said, _:Sorry,: _even as he grew more uncertain.

_:Don't be,: _Ratchet forced himself to calm down. He had done this to Fang. Fang could also sense the _rest _of Ratchet's feelings: guilt, sorrow, and love and concern. _:My fault.:_

_:Well, to be fair, I might be overreacting,: _a weak thread of humor reached Ratchet. _:Ratchet, you do realize that as a Decepticon, I don't even like to let people into my personal space? The first time - and this was thousands of years ago - you put a hand on me in comfort I just about bit you. Literally.:_

He sent a memory file of that brief incident. He'd been insulted and harassed by some of the Autobots, and was brooding off by himself in a med bay supply closet instead of organizing it as he'd been asked. Ratchet had realized he was in a foul mood by his body language, and had simply touched him on the shoulder and said, _It'll be okay. Some of us do care about you. It's our opinions that matter, not the idiots, right?_

He had managed not to react to the touch with violence, but it had been a near thing. He'd startled badly. Ratchet's words hadn't registered until moments later. Then he'd made a quick excuse to retreat, still not trusting himself not to lash out if Ratchet tried _touching _him again, and wildly confused about what Ratchet wanted. Was the medic coming on to him?

_:Primus.: _Ratchet's arms tightened, holding him close, as if he could protect him now from the hurts of the past. _:No, I wasn't hitting on you. I wouldn't have been the slightest bit interested in 'facing you then. Fang, you've come so far.:_

_:Some of the change in me is the Matrix,: _he confessed, _:I rely on it a lot. It's ... changing me. Some of it was, quite honestly, Death's influence.:_

_:All of that is very recent,: _Ratchet noted.

_:I was changing before that. Being with the Autobots showed me another way. It ... opened a door.: _Fang seemed to be mulling his words over before speaking, but he was transmitting his emotions loud and clear. He was very, very confused, and not feeling very much attraction to Ratchet at the moment.

The lack of desire disturbed Ratchet. _:Fang, why are you 'facing me if you don't feel the urge for it?:_

Fang lay very still for a moment. Finally, he confessed the obvious, which was, _:I'm so scared. It kind of kills any wish for intimacy.:_

_:Scared of me?: _Ratchet asked, also an obvious statement. They were going in circles. He felt frustrated and irritated because Fang wouldn't just _trust _him. The moment his annoyed emotions flashed across the connection, Fang flinched physically and mentally he flung up his firewalls. He disappeared from the connection, having completely cut it off.

Ratchet sighed. "This is going nowhere, Fang."

"I suppose I should leave, then," Fang said, sounding miserable. "This isn't working. Maybe it _can't _work. Maybe I was a fool to think this would work."

Ratchet had a terrible vision of Fang walking out of his life forever. Impulsively, he zipped up a file of every single break up he'd had, all seventeen of them.

Fang flinched again when he reviewed the files. All the ugly details were there; his former partners' harsh words, his own bitter feelings, and the reasons for the break-ups. He'd been wholly at fault about half the time, the rest had been mutual stupidity.

His people tended to partner for life. He'd had a lot of breakups, by Cybertronian standards.

"Was that supposed to convince me to stay?" Fang said, sounding puzzled.

"No." Ratchet started to sit up. "It was ... I don't know what it was." _A plea for understanding, _he thought, but didn't say.

Fangface started to unplug himself but then shook his head. "You were going to give me data on Starscream?"

"Better to give you that on a cube, Snowflake."

Fangface shrugged against Ratchet's chassis. "Faster this way."

"Fang ... you really don't want to be connected to me when you view those files." Ratchet had a strong suspicion that Fangface would not react well. Ratchet certainly found them troubling.

"I think I really would." Fang met Ratchet's gaze over the expense of Ratchet's chest. "If it's that bad."

This, too, was a test, Ratchet realized. He harrumphed again and sent the data he'd compiled. Fang would see soon enough what Ratchet meant.

The first file was a simply his analysis of Starscream's current mental state, with the high potential for explosive violence highlighted. The seeker was a grenade without a safety, as far as Ratchet was concerned, and the influence of the Primes was minimal. Potentially, they could have made Starscream worse by making him feel _righteous _in his rage. Ratchet's professional suggestion was restrictive coding, for everyone's safety, and very regular sessions with a psych trained medic ... which the Decepticons didn't have.

He felt Fangface wince at that. "That bad?"

"That bad," he said, grimly.

"I can't let Smokescreen in his head." Fang was tense, upset by Ratchet's assessment, though he didn't dispute it. "The political fallout ... Primus. Either way, we're screwed. Either he goes off on us and does something to hurt the humans or you Autobots, or he kills one of _my _mechs ... yet if I let the Autobots in his head to screw with his programming, my side will _not _like it."

"He's a loose cannon. We have to do something." Ratchet let out a long, slow sigh. "I've already told him that I will help him. Surprisingly, he's accepting my help. I do not know if just moral support will be enough. He's damaged, Fang. Badly. Spark deep."

"Which he probably did to himself," Fang noted.

"... no." Ratchet sat up, shifting around to lean against the wall, and not letting go of Fang as he did. The datalink cable swung between them, and Fangface didn't resist when he pulled the smaller mech into his lap. "No, Fang. This was not all Starscream's doing. He was abused by Megatron."

"So was nearly every other mech who worked under him, including myself," Fang replied, sourly.

"You do know that Megatron forced interfacing on him, right?" Ratchet stroked Fang's arm absently. He was disturbed by these memories, and wasn't entirely sure if showing Fangface the memory files was the right thing to do.

"How does that even _work_?" Fang demanded. "It can't be pleasurable to 'face with someone who's scared and angry, unless you were comforting them or something like that. I can't imagine _making _someone scared in interface."

Ratchet bowed his head. "Megatron was not normal."

"I'm not entirely sure I want to see this."

Ratchet said slowly, "You are responsible for him. You need to know the details, as his commanding officer and as a Prime and as a de facto member of your faction's medical staff."

Fangface nodded grimly. "Go ahead, then."

"This is one example ... I believe Megatron did this to him many, many times, Fang." He sent the file, reviewing it himself as he did.

It started with Starscream offending Megatron over some minor slight. Fang was probably not surprised when Megatron reacted by beating the slag out of Starscream, though he flinched at the pain and anger that were tied to the memory.

"Starscream would deliberately provoke him at times, I think to draw attention away from his trine and his troops," Fang said, quietly, as the memory continued to stream. Fang's expression was strained, and he jumped slightly as Megatron screamed and kicked Starscream after the seeker had tumbled to the ground. Starscream's memories were full of bitter anger, fear, and a strange sort of anticipation. "Starscream ... did care about them."

Ratchet nodded. "I think towards the end, his partners were all he had to care about. Given how he treated them, I don't believe they returned that care towards the end."

"Do you blame them?" Fang said. "Of course, you weren't there when he beat the everloving slag out of Thundercracker or called Skywarp names."

The memory file suddenly ended when Megatron raised his gun and blasted Starscream with a close range plasma burst. Both of them jumped this time.

"You know," Fang said dryly, "I have seen that behavior at close range. Thank you for the education on what Starscream was feeling, though I believe my imagination would have been sufficient ..."

"That was the foreplay," Ratchet snapped. "And did you note that Starscream wasn't even _surprised_? Nor did he feel betrayed. He was expecting it."

"Angry. Full of hate." Fang tilted his head, replaying the memory. "... he was also feeling anticipation."

Grimly, Ratchet jumped forward. Starscream woke to a whole world of pain. He brought his optics online and discovered he was in Megatron's quarters, not the med bay. They observed as he did a quick systems check, categorizing fairly severe injuries, and then said, with dark sarcasm, "Oh, fearless leader, better make it quick or I'll just offline on you again."

Megatron loomed into view. Starscream had known he would be there.

"Why do you make me so mad?" Megatron rumbled.

From Starscream, there was a mix of frustration, anger, and frightened expectation, mingled with a thread of anticipation and desire. He would have bolted if he'd been able to move. However, he was also expecting pleasure, and mixed with that expectation was a huge amount of guilt and self-hatred. "Oh, _Glorious _leader, I didn't know I could _make _you do anything," Starscream hissed at him. The provocation was shockingly deliberate.

Megatron smacked him hard enough to make Starscream's vision fritz. On top of existing injuries it was an agonizing blow. Starscream's fury peaked, even as Megatron's considerable mass came down on top of him. Starscream cried out, damage worsened by the weight. His cooling system was not working properly, vents blocked by crumpled metal, and the heat from Megatron's systems rapidly pushed him closer to overheating.

They watched the memory as Starscream tried to wriggle away but Megatron wrenched open his port with clawed fingers.

Fang whined static. Ratchet wrapped his arms around the predacon, knowing Fang was probably thinking about Deathwheels. He had known this would be disturbing to Fang. He stopped the transmission of the file for a moment and said softly, "The difference is that you could walk away, Fang, or failing that, beat Death to slag and back."

Since Fang had asked to watch it while they were connected, Ratchet had been deliberately streaming the file. Fang had his emotions locked up behind a firewall, but his expression was crystal clear. He was reliving his own traumas.

"He ... Death didn't mean it the same way Megatron likely did." Fang's words were confirmation of Ratchet's guess at Fang's thoughts. Fangface buried his face in Ratchet's shoulder. "Keep going. I'm not breakable."

Ratchet nodded. Reluctantly, he started streaming the file again. Fang hissed in abject horror as Megatron jacked into Starscream. Starscream fought - and his thoughts held clues that he fought _every _time. If he didn't, Megatron became even more enraged. Megatron wanted the fight. He wanted Starscream to battle him. Starscream put up an honest struggle, throwing up firewalls, changing permissions, altering file names.

The implication was that if Starscream ever stopped fighting, Megatron would move to someone else, likely Starscream's trine. Starscream never stopped fighting for _them._

Somewhere a few minutes in, Megatron hissed, "Are they worth it, Screamer? Really?"

... trying to break him.

Starscream responded with a string of obscenities and rage and obsessive, stubborn refusal to let _anyone _have what was _his_. Thundercracker and Skywarp were _his_. He would not let Megatron hurt them. He would do anything to prevent that violation to the mechs who were _his, _including fight tooth and nail against his commanding officer. The same applied to the troops underneath him. They were _his, _and Starscream would fight Megatron to the death before allowing Megatron to damage them.

It wasn't love.

It was sheer bloody-minded possessiveness.

Unfortunately, in order to protect his _possessions _he had to go up against the Slagmaker himself, time and again, give Megatron an honest fight, and then _lose_. Starscream was neither Megatron's physical equal in a fight nor his mental equal. He quite simply didn't have Megatron's processor power. Megatron's clock speed was faster, he had more RAM, he had creativity and raw intellect just as sharp as Starscream's.

Ratchet stopped the file. Fang was looking ill. Fangface said, softly, "Now I understand why Megatron reacted as he did to Rivet repairing Starscream. The only medics Starscream were allowed to use were those that Megatron approved - usually Hook. If he got a medic on his side and the medic upgraded his processor on the sly he could have caught Megatron unaware ... there was a very firm rule nobody else was to do Starscream's maintenance, not even his own partners."

"You think?" Ratchet snorted. "_We _always wondered why Megatron didn't just slag him given the number of times that Starscream tried to kill him."

Fangface shuttered his optic. "Megatron was getting off on the power trip."

In response, Ratchet rumbled, "Literally." And started streaming the memory to Fang again.

Fang hissed static in disgust as Megatron pounded away at Starscream's defenses. Megatron was just a little faster, and finally managed to hammer his way through Starscream's firewalls. He blasted Starscream's _pain _centers and Starscream howled in agony.

Ratchet, prepared, only set his jaw in grim disgust. Fangface literally recoiled away from Ratchet, scrambling to his feet, optics wide. The data cable hung between them, nearly all the slack gone, and Ratchet put a cautious hand on it. He didn't want to get hurt if Fang accidentally yanked on it. He stopped the file yet again.

Fang's vents where screaming, his pupils dilated, his capacitors whining with charge. Ratchet simply sent a pulse of concern and love and reassurance to the other mech. Fang wasn't letting Ratchet see his thoughts or feelings, but Ratchet could transmit.

The predacon physically jumped, startled by Ratchet's contact. Then he did a rapid systems check. "I might have seen enough," he murmured. "I don't know if I can continue with this."

"Consider this educational," Ratchet snorted. "Sit. You need to see the rest."

Fang did another systems check. He offlined his optics for a second as well, then slowly sank to the ground to sit crosslegged facing Ratchet. He buried his face in his hands and murmured, "Continue, then."

"Don't take off without disconnecting the cable, if this gets too intense," Ratchet cautioned, "you'll hurt yourself."

When they resumed, they felt Megatron's intense _desire_, transmitted to Starscream, even as he took over Starscream's sensory network and blasted him with more agony. Starscream screamed until his vocalizer glitched out and the errors from that were lost in the unimaginable pain. It was blinding, neverending, and all consuming. Starscream, already wounded, thrashed helplessly under Megatron's far greater weight. With it was Starscream's sense of utter violation, and Megatron's laughing _enjoyment _of Starscream's helplessness.

Megatron had the power. He had conquered Starscream. He _loved _it.

His gleeful delight at _winning_ hit Starscream's emotional center. By pure involuntary reflex, Starscream reacted with a wave of pleasure. It was a perversion of the sharing of love that was at the core of interfacing, as far as Ratchet was concerned.

Starscream's flare of unwilling enjoyment served to drive Megatron's lust higher, and he jabbed his clawed fingers into Starscream's wing and snarled an obscenity in Starscream's audio receiver.

Starscream reset his vocalizer and keened brokenly, exhausted and close to giving up.

"You're worthless even for this!" Megatron drove his fist into Starscream's chest. "Fight! Or I'll find someone who will!" Megatron transmitted an image of Thundercracker, screaming in pain and violation in Starscream's place.

Starscream thrashed feebly, tried to put up a firewall. Delighted, Megatron hit him harder and battered down his mental defenses. The joy that Megatron took in having power over Starscream made the seeker respond with both ecstasy from his pleasure centers and outraged horror as warring parts of his mind reacted.

_:I could end you here ...: _Megatron sent a swift command to Starscream's autonomics. Though this had happened many, many times before, Starscream still flinched with horror as Megatron, with free access to every system Starscream owned, shut down Starscream's spark containment system.

Critical errors flashed through Starscream's processor. He panicked, forcing his battered body to thrash, to fight, and his mind to struggle yet again against the tyrant. And Megatron won, yet again, beating him back. His glee was intoxicating, and despite Starscream's fear of offlining Megatron's terrible, intense _joy _at winning drove Starscream closer to an unwanted, ugly climax.

Apparently, it didn't matter _why _the other mech was happy when you interfaced ... Ratchet had never consciously realized this before seeing Starscream's memory, but the feedback loop of pleasure that built between two 'facing mechs was not a conscious response. It was pure reflex. Megatron was truly enjoying himself. Starscream couldn't help but respond with arousal, no matter how terrified and agonized he was. And then Megatron responded to that arousal with lust of his own ...

His spark containment field was still offline when, completely against his will, Starscream climaxed. The rush of power was enough to knock him offline. His last conscious thought a desperate desire to _live _... so that Skywarp and TC would not have to live through what he did. He could only hope that Megatron restored the integrity of his containment field before he offlined ... and there was always the chance that Megatron might decide to kill him.

In that instant, his thoughts were not possessive, nor selfishly motivated by a need to _own _another. For just an instant, they saw altruism and love in Starscream's mind. He truly loved them. He was willing to endure anything for them. He did not want to die. He wanted to live, even if it meant a thousand more rapes, a thousand more nights of torture, As long as he was alive he could protect them to the last pulse of his spark.

Fang was shivering when Ratchet ended the transmission. He tucked his knees to his chest and said softly, "Was it really necessary for me to see that?"

Ratchet responded, _:Yes, Snowflake, I think it was. That happened, by my count, several hundred times. I didn't see the full extent of Starscream's memories, but I did scan a large chunk when I was reinstalling them.:_

"I ... Primus. He _enjoyed _that."

Ratchet rested a hand on Fang's back. Fang tensed at the touch. Ratchet agreed, in as normal of a voice as he could manage, "I know. There was something broken in him. Something insane."

"... No wonder Starscream wanted him dead."

"And no wonder Megatron let him stay as his second in command. Megatron was getting his jollies from the power games." Ratchet pressed his lipplates together firmly, for a moment. "Very few mechs would have had the strength to withstand that kind of abuse and remain sane. Starscream is ... damaged ... but he remained strong to the end. Along the way, however, he destroyed every friendship he ever had. What Megatron did to him was reflected in his behavior towards others."

Fangface sighed softly. "... You think I need to be really aware of _why _he acts like he does."

"Yes. You needed to know in order to treat him with compassion and to understand his behavior. Yes. You did need to know." Ratchet leaned back against the wall, one hand still on Fang's backplating. The old weld mark was a ever-so-faintly rippled line of metal under his thumb. "You need to understand, in order to treat him with both respect and wariness. Megatron tortured him, Fang, though he was a glitch and a half even before he joined the Decepticons."

Fang was tense, capacitors humming, hydraulics whining. One wrong move and he'd explode off the berth, or lash out in an emotional outburst. Ratchet responded to the pain of others far differently; he'd dealt with abuse, and the memories of the abused, before. He'd seen similar memories before, though the sheer extent of Starscream's torture was among the worst he'd ever encountered.

"If ... these files were widely known, it would destroy Starscream." Fang's ears were flat to his head. "Primus, what they'd think of him ..."

"I trust you to keep his confidentiality."

"Do me a favor and don't give that memory to the medical staff. Just give them an overview. I don't trust them not to breach his privacy. Rivet, in particular, truly hates him." Fang rested his chin on his knees and stared out into the room for a moment.

Ratchet risked running a hand down Fang's back. "You doing okay there?"

"After watching that? No." Fang's armor moved away from Ratchet's touch, clamping to Fang's back. His ears were pinned, and he seemed to be trying to curl up into the smallest ball possible.

Ratchet traced the scar with one finger, then transferred his touch to a hinge visible through a thin seam in Fang's armor. Though the plate it was attached to was his special alloy, the hinge was composite, carbon fiber and ceramic. He'd made it himself to replace one that had been slagged beyond all repair. It seemed to be holding up well, though it wouldn't be as strong as the original. That worried him. Every time Fang was injured, he either had to scavenge metal from somewhere else in Fang's body or fabricate something to replace the original. Almost all other common metals reacted badly to Fang's alloy, or had undesirable attributes. Too soft, too brittle, too heavy, too low of a melting point.

He had a lot of carbon fiber, ceramic, and exotic polymer bits that Ratchet had fabricated for him over the years. Ratchet transferred a hand to Fang's shoulder, smoothing it over the shiny silver surface. Fang eschewed paint nanytes, preferring his metal's brilliant gloss. They'd had to replace a whole chest plate with carbon fiber after the fight on Mars, however, and they'd hidden that potential weakness - carbon fiber was more brittle - with shiny metallic nanytes. From a distance, you couldn't tell the difference.

When he moved a little closer, slid a hand around Fang's chest and ran it down his body, he could _feel _the difference. The carbon fiber plate was warmer - less conductive of thermal energy - to the touch. It vibrated dully, where Fang's alloy rang like a bell when struck just right.

He rested his other hand on Fang's right shoulder. Under Fang's armor, on the left shoulder, the his wiring was held in place by alloy clamps and guides. On the right side, under Ratchet's hand, he'd replaced the alloy parts with a hard, chemically non-reactive and non-conductive epoxy. He'd needed to scavenge a couple of pounds of Fang's alloy to repair his hip, and had done so when Fang had been in his med bay after the Mars fight.

He knew Fang's body possibly better than Fang did, after making so many creative repairs.

"How's your hip feeling?" he asked, quietly, not sure why that question had occurred to him. Maybe he was just making small talk to give Fang a chance to recover his equilibrium.

"It's fine." Fangface finally twisted back to face him. His eyes were finally back to normal, and his slit irises no longer dilated huge and nearly round. "Ratch, lover, I'm sorry."

"Hnnh?" Ratchet was in a mood to put the ugliness between Fang and himself behind them. "C'mere, then," he tugged at Fang's arm, hoping the smaller mech would snuggle back with him. He figured Fang would leave later, but his own spark was in turmoil. He wanted to hold Fang close before he did go, just for a moment.

Fang obliged, turning all the way around and crawling back into Ratchet's lap. "Oh, Ratchet," he breathed, "I am _sorry_."

"Shh." Enough was enough, Ratchet figured. He didn't need an apology, and wasn't entirely sure he deserved one from Fang. An apology for what?

"I am sorry I compared you to Megatron." Fang hooked his clawed fingers into the seams of Ratchet's armor and clung to him. "I am sorry. You are a _healer. _Both of you ... find a sense of power in holding another's life in your hands ..."

"I do _not_!" He straightened up, stung.

Fangface smacked Ratchet on the chest to get his attention. "Don't get your fuel lines kinked. Tell me you don't get a big huge rush when you pull someone back from the brink of the Pit."

"Autobots go to the Well," Ratchet said, suspiciously, but with a thread of humor sneaking in.

"Yeah, well, I seem to remember you've saved a few Decepticons over the centuries, too." Fang tapped a nail against Ratchet's plating over his spark, then leaned back against Ratchet's chassis.

"Hnnh. Maybe."

"Big huge slagging difference? You glory in a good fight against the forces of death, darkness, and evil. Megatron got his happy power rush by _being _a force of death, darkness, and evil."

"Hmm."

"He thrilled at having the power to hurt others and using it." Fang's normally deep, warm voice dropped lower. "You both have hot tempers, but Ratchet, you have lines you won't cross. Healing is integral to your spark. I ... didn't realize now, but you will cause pain unthinkingly, in a rage, but you do not have the capacity to be deliberately evil and enjoy it."

"Hnnh."

Fang sighed. "I _don't _like it when you get angry, and I swear to Primus I'll walk away and never look back if you _ever _treat me like you did yesterday. For my part ... I promise I'll talk to you, not as a partner, but as another Prime, before I make another decision like bringing back Starscream. I'll talk to _all _of you. That decision I made was too important to make alone, and I should have discussed it with the rest of you."

Ratchet stroked Fang's back. "Thank you," he said, simply, finally. Then he sighed. "If you're going to go back to your quarters, you should get moving. It's getting late and we both need recharge."

After a moment of sitting very still, Fang leaned back and regarded Ratchet thoughtfully. Then, almost shyly, he asked, "Can I stay here tonight?"

"Do you want to sleep in the the room with Prism?" Ratchet stroked Fang's cheek arch with his thumb. "I get that you're not sure about anything right now, much less your feelings for me."

"Would you hold me?" Fangface abruptly looked away. He sounded embarrassed when he admitted, "I don't want to be alone after that horrible memory file."

"Oh." Come to think of it, Ratchet was a little uneasy himself. Not that he would ever admit it, well, okay, maybe he should. It would make Fang feel a little better and he _did _need to learn to be honest with his partner. Ruefully, he said, "You're not alone in that." And then he added, also honestly, "Fang, you are more than welcome to spend the night in my berth. With or without 'facing."

Fang's firewalls were still up, seamlessly tight, but he transmitted a memory of his own to Ratchet, made just seconds before. He pinned his ears and ducked his head as he did it, and his grasp on Ratchet loosened.

Ratchet saw himself through Fang's eyes, his own face full of concern and caring. He felt his own hand stroke Fang's faceplates. He felt the warmth and soft vibrations of his systems against Fang's armor. He felt Fang's worry, and fear, and Fang's desperate spark-deep desire to please and his longing to be loved.

Among the memories was Fang's clear thought that he could trust Ratchet. That Ratchet wasn't perfect, that he had a temper that made Fang truly frightened when it was turned his way, but that those flaws were outweighed by everything Fang loved about Ratchet.

He cupped a hand along Fang's feline features. Fang rested his head against Ratchet's hand, optics shuttering. He drew his arms in close to his body, fists balling, and hugged himself even as Ratchet embraced him. He repeated quietly, "I don't want to be alone, Ratch."

Ratchet sent him a cautious ping, unsure if Fangface would be willing to lower his firewalls. "Let me in, Fang?" He was pleasantly surprised when Fang nodded against Ratchet's hand. Fang then lowered the barriers that were appropriate for a proper interface between lovers. He wasn't leaving himself wide open as he had the day before, but was letting Ratchet have plenty of access to his memories and all his feelings.

Fang then gave a soft sigh and pulsed _love _at Ratchet. That emotion was mixed with hesitant desire for Ratchet's affections.

_:Oh, Fang ...: _The response from Ratchet's spark was significantly more confident than that from Fang. He loved the little glitch, and wasn't shy about demonstrating it this way, which was so much simpler than trying to express himself in words. He transmitted _love attraction affection apology relief DESIRE!_

From Fang, _love _again. Fang had drawn his arms and legs in so that he was curled in a ball, but now he relaxed, and sent, _love, _and reached out again to rest one hand on Ratchet's chest, over his spark. Fang said, _:I don't want to fight with you, lover. I want to make this work between us.:_

Fang's words were accompanied by a feeling of _sureness_. Of rightness. Of _need _that was very real. Above and beyond all that, however, was simply a sense that Fang liked Ratchet for who he was. He was more aware of Ratchet's flaws now, but he'd weighed the good and the bad and decided that he was in love with the whole.

_:What changed?: _Ratchet said, in wonder.

_:... you didn't try to hold me. You would have let me go.: _Fang pulsed _love _at him again, clearly aiming it at Ratchet's pleasure centers. _:I thought you'd be possessive, I thought you'd be furious. You were just ...: _Fang hesitated, then asked uncertainly, _:Can I see? So I know ... know for sure I was reading you right?:_

Fang wanted to see Ratchet's memory files of the last few minutes.

_:Go ahead,: _he said, a little gruffly. He'd actually rather do it this way than talk it to death. It was faster, and more honest, and he didn't have to _discuss _his feelings.

Fang had a light touch, Ratchet realized. He swiftly slipped into Ratchet's memory core's directory, found the files he was looking for by date stamp then and accessed them, all without wasted searching or sloppy commands. Ratchet knew he was now seeing Ratchet's sense of guilt, of frustration, of irritation at Fang for not being tougher, and his desperate, lonely sense of _loss. _He had been so sure that Fang was simply going to walk away that he'd just been resigned to it, but the pain had been very real. He didn't want to lose the little glitch, but it had been his fault that he'd hurt Fang, and it was Fang's right to walk away.

He wanted Fang in his life for as long as they both lived. He was willing to let him go. Even though it would tear him apart to lose Fang, he respected him and that meant allowing Fang to make his own decisions.

Fang had caught that last thought, and looked up again. _:I never want to be _owned_,: _he said, quietly, _:I'm here of my free will, because I love you, and chose you. Thank you for the respect.:_

_:Hnnh. It's going to be easy for me to forget to respect you,: _Ratchet admitted, very honestly. Rather than waste words, he sent Fang the memory where he realized that he had been patronizing towards the predacon, at least to some extent. _:Pretty much, my default assumption is that I'm smarter than the entire rest of the world.: _

Fang's optics narrowed at Ratchet in irritation.

_:Sorry?: _Ratchet offered, actually a little amused. _:I'm not perfect, Snowflake. As you pointed out, we medics tend to be arrogant glitches who like power and think we're better than everyone else.: _He tapped Fang on the nose. _:That includes you, Decepticon Prime.:_

Fangface huffed a disgusted-sounding sigh. _:Okay, fine. Forgiven. I don't _even _think I need to defend my own virtues to you. I shall make a note to brag more.: A_nd here Fang hesitated, averting his gaze. His words were full of uncertainty and fear again when he asked,_ :Do you want to go all the way tonight, Ratch?:_

To tell the truth, Ratchet _desperately _wanted that. He wanted to see Fang really, truly, let go and lose himself in the experience; he wanted to see Fang's expression as he brought him to a climax and _kept _him there for longer than Fang would ever have believed possible. He knew if Fang would just trust him he could make it very, very good for him. However, he wasn't entirely certain that Fangface was ready. He was more aware than ever that Fang was very new to the whole idea of sharing his very mind and spark with someone else. He replied carefully, _:Fang, I will wait until you're ready. There's no pressure. I would be more than content to just hold you tonight. Do you _want _to take this farther?: _  
_  
:Maaaaaaaybe,: _Fang said, coyly, but sudden, swift, aching desire shot across the link along with those teasing words.  
_  
_Ratchet smirked. _:Maybe? And what can I do to help you decide?:_ And he let Fang know just how much he wanted to see him overload in his arms.

_:Primus, Ratch, I _want _this ...: _The raw desire that accompanied Fang's words nearly made Ratchet climax on the spot. It was unexpected and amazing.

He responded instantly with every bit of the love, and affection, and admiration, and relief he was feeling at that moment.

Fang's reaction was immediately and overwhelming ... a rush of emotions that the little predacon had likely kept bottled up for a very long time. Mixed among them was _trust trust trust _... and fierce, sudden, swift, _acceptance _that this was real.

Ratchet cried out in startled surprise and pleasure, not having expected anything so intense from Fang, given Fang's wary reserve. To tell the truth, one of the reasons he'd hesitated when Fang had asked him to partner was that he didn't know if Fang was really capable of returning Ratchet's love to this degree.

Fang clung to him, claws curling into the seams of Ratchet's armor. He keened aloud as an uncontrollable flood of emotions burst forth. _:Love you love you this is forever this is forever we belong to each other love you love you love ...:_

It was a shattering amount of trust, and attachment, and love. It had a desperate edge, but when Ratchet responded with _love _of his own, the desperation faded and was replaced with _joy _that seemed to leave a blinding trail of pure ecstasy straight through to Ratchet's spark.  
_  
_Ratchet lost it, going over the edge and taking Fang with him, vision whiting out, crying out in sheer ecstatic pleasure, "Love you ...!" he shouted aloud, even as Fang shuddered and sobbed in his own release. For a moment, he couldn't tell where his feelings ended and Fang's began. Perhaps it didn't matter. For a moment, they were of one mind. They _belonged _to each other.

Then Fang dropped offline, limbs going limp and presence abruptly fading from Ratchet's processor as he initiated a reboot sequence. Ratchet managed to stay aware, though it was a near thing. He rode the waves of pleasure for a moment longer, holding Fang's still, vulnerable form to his chest.

"Fang," he whispered, as he slid down to lay on the berth and then rolled over onto his side so he could tuck Fang close to his chest and put his arm around him. "Fangface ... Primus, Fang."

Fang mumbled something, and roused just enough to blink sleepily at Ratchet. Then, a little clearer, he said, "... see you'n morning, lover ..." and his optics blinked off as he powered down for the night.

Ratchet rubbed a scuff on Fang's cheekplate for a second, then shuttered his own optics and initiated a recharge cycle. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much hope.

Fang wasn't alone in the world anymore.

Neither was Ratchet.


	110. Chapter 110

Chapter 110

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Author's notes: Sorry for the lack of updates. I have around 50K words and several chapters to polish up and post, so I should be getting more new chapters up shortly.

Life remains a zoo.

* * *

"Where you going?" Brawn asked, suspiciously, as Wheelie rolled to a halt at the gate. He frowned at Wheelie, and a few relays in his gun arm clicked.

Mikaela stared up at him. He wasn't a big mech, as Cybetronians went, but he was very broad, and massive, and she thought she remembered seeing his tech specs at some point and being impressed by the size of his hydraulic pumps and the reinforcement of his joints. He was built for raw power, not energy efficiency, that was certain.

She was more comfortable around some of the 'cons than Brawn.

"Out to the SOA, sir. We need some parts from the storage warehouse." Wheelie spoke politely, but Mikaela thought she heard an uneasy edge to his voice. He glanced outside past Brawn. A gust of wind, warm, damp, and smelling of wet desert blew through the door. It was raining somewhere.

Wheelie might have been accepted by the officers and the med bay staff, but she knew he was still seen as a 'con by many of the rank and file. This was particularly true given his family ties to the Decepticon Prime. He got hazed occasionally, something he accepted with good grace in public and then grumbled about later, and he certainly wasn't part of the Autobot social scene.

Mikaela patted his "gas tank" in sudden sympathy. He still didn't have many friends. As social as the mechs were, she suspected it was hard on him to be a misfit.

Brawn tilted his head, and Mikaela assumed he was talking to security. He said, finally, "You've permission to go there, but nowhere else. Do _not _talk to Sunstreaker."

"Sunny's there?" Between her knees, Wheelie's engine's RPMs slowed, probably mirroring his reluctance to interact with Sunstreaker.

"He's on solitary confinement until six AM." Brawn snorted. "They ran out of cells and banished him to the warehouse for the end of his sentence. Sunstreaker's an idiot, but he generally follows orders. He'll stay put. Can't say the same for the damned Nebulans."

"Believe me, we'll stay away from him," Mikaela said. Sunstreaker was on her short list of Autobots she trusted less than certain Decepticons. She'd already had to bang out someone else's dents just this week after Sunny had whacked 'em one for unspecified reasons. Judy liked him, but that just proved Mikaela's longstanding suspicion that Judy wasn't entirely in touch with reality.

"Wise human," Brawn said.

"Wise _squishy,_" Mikaela corrected, with a laugh that Wheelie nervously echoed. She was well aware of her fragility around the giant alien robots, and joking about it helped her nerves. "C'mon, Wheelie. Let's go."

"Thank you, sir," Wheelie said to Brawn, before rolling forward.

Mikaela leaned forward, resting her hands on the handlebars. Riding Wheelie wasn't like riding any other bike she'd ever been on. He didn't weigh much, but he had an enormous amount of horsepower. He'd commented once that he liked carrying a passenger because he could go _faster _- the added weight increased his traction.

Ratchet had suggested sand bags in Wheelie's subspace would be just as effective and safer on the squishies when he'd overheard that comment. Wheelie had laughed. Mikaela was not worried, though. Wheelie had wiped out any number of times in the first few days after his upgrade, but he had since thoroughly mastered his new form. She envied Cybertronian learning curves, sometimes, though he _had _worked at it. She'd seen him jumping dunes down by the river for hours with Arcee coaching him, as he tweaked his balance until it was perfect.

Wheelie rolled out onto the road at a sedate pace, headlight cutting a bright beam through the darkness. Well aware that he was being polite, she lifted a foot off the rest and tapped him with her heel. "Giddyap. Show me what you got."

Wheelie's laughter was a lot more relaxed now that he was away from big, aggressive Autobot soldiers who were a lot more likely to squish _him _versus a human. "As you command, Goddess!"

He didn't ask if she had a good grip. He could tell by her balance and the tension of her fingers. His engine RPMs suddenly whined higher, and then a fraction of a second later he screeched his rear tire and accelerated so hard it startled her. She hunkered down behind his tiny windshield, trying to be small and well balanced. The thrill of the speed was amazing. She glanced down at his spedometer; it read a hundred and twenty miles an hour and he'd hit that in mere seconds.

She ... really ... didn't want to know what one of the bigger motorcycles, like Arcee, could do ... or maybe she did. Whatever Arcee had done to Sam had scared the _crap _out of him.

"Doing okay?" Wheelie asked her. The helmet she was wearing had speakers; she heard his voice over the howl of the wind and the scream of his engine.

"This the best you can do?"

His answer was to drop his transmission down a couple gears and smoke his tires doing a hundred-and-some miles an hour.

By the time they were within a few hundred yards of the SOA they'd passed two hundred. She was absolutely positive he was enveloping her in some sort of force field because that kind of wind should have ripped her right off his back. It was still enough to deafen her as it howled over her helmet, and whip her t-shirt so hard she wondered if the fabric was going to tear.

"Hold on!" Was her only warning. He braked so hard that she had to brace her hands against the steering wheel, turned sharply while doing at least fifty miles an hour, and then accelerated out of the turn. "Not afraid of heights, are ya?" He asked, as his path took him from the pavement onto dirt.

"Ohshit!" There was a _huge _pile of Martian dirt beside the SOA - some enterprising Cybertronians (led by Swindle) had been packaging it up and selling it by the pound, and the hadn't even begun to make a dent. That had to be his destination. She couldn't see it at first, and then suddenly she could. It loomed like a huge wall before them. The sides were _steep_.

At her exclamation he slowed, hesitating.

"Go go go go!" She held onto his handlebars with a death grip.

Wheelie's engine screamed. She was half convinced he was going to hit a rock and flip, but he didn't - he could see in the dark, even if she couldn't. He roared up the side of the dirt pile still doing at least forty or fifty miles an hour, zigging and zagging around obstacles that she could only guess at. Then, up ahead, she could see only stars. She had time to think, _he's going to go airborne ..._

Her stomach dropped away as he launched off the top of the hill. Wheelie cut his engine and they soared into the air in silence. For a fraction of a second she closed her eyes in a panic, sure they were about to crash badly. Then she forced herself to look around, the same way she might on a roller coaster. Off in the distance they could see the lights of Vegas. Closer, Fort Max's shining metallic structure was a hub of activity even at this late hour, and it was lit by spotlights and electric bulbs from top to bottom. In the other direction, visible over the uneven, fractured roof of the SOA building, the comparatively squat cement structure of the Decepticon base were equally well lit. She could see a seeker in alt mode on the roof.

He shifted beneath her, gyros whining, dropping his rear wheel and reaching for the ground. They were falling faster now. Abruptly, they were in the shadow of the hill, and she couldn't see anything, not even the dirt below them.

She almost screamed.

A fraction of a second before they hit the ground she felt a _bounce _- it was a weird sensation, a rapid slowing. She realized he'd flared his force shield downward to cushion his landing. His engine growled to life. His back tire hit the ground with enough force to rattle her teeth and they rocketed forward.

"Wahooo!"

He laughed. "You approve, Goddess?"

"So who installed that force shield? That's awesome!"

"Did it myself, with Rivet watching." He spun his tires in a tight turn and headed for the warehouse. "He upgraded my power plant for me, too. I can support a bigger gun now, too, though not at the same time as the force shield. Optimus says I can have a pulse cannon of my own in six months, if I stay out of trouble."

"You're going to stay out of trouble," she said, confidently, reaching down to pat his gas tank again. "You won't have a problem there."

"Well, yeah." She could envision his grin. "I'm too slagging busy to get in trouble. Anyway, I think the worst I've ever done is kick Grimlock and that was just stupid ..." he trailed off, suddenly. "... and insensitive, come to think of it."

"Hnnh?"

"You were calling your family. About your Dad. When I did that. I never did apologize ... I was so caught up in my own mess and not paying any attention to anyone else."

She sucked in a sharp breath. How long had it been? She wasn't even sure. It felt like a lifetime, but they weren't even out of September yet. She'd been working non-stop, with nearly non-stop drama, and had not had time to stop and _think _about anything.

"It's okay," she said, finally, when she could talk normally.

"_Are _you okay, Goddess?" His tone turned soft and thoughtful. "You work too much."

"Are you complaining about working with me?" She trailed a finger teasingly across his handlebars.

That earned her chuckle. However, Wheelie warned, "Watch it, woman. No, I'm not complaining, but your partners are _scary_."

"Awwww, you're such a chicken ..." she giggled.

"Primus. You're scarier than your men!"

She laughed aloud at that, and patted him in a far more platonic fashion. "Don't worry, kiddo. I'm just picking on you because I can get a rise out of you."

"Yeah, well, let's keep the _rise _to your _boyfriends_, thank you."

"Wheelie!" She pretended to be shocked. She was pretty deeply amused that he'd picked up earthly innuendo so quickly. With typical Cybertronian data crunching ability, he'd gotten himself up to speed on Earth culture in just mere weeks.

"What? You started it, Goddess." He snickered.

"Hey, who humped my boot! I'd say you started it." She was _never _going to let him live that down. Screw not flirting with him. She wasn't going to let him get the last word in!

"Oh, Primus, I will _never _live that down." Apparently he knew it, too.

At that moment he rolled up in front of the dark warehouse. There wasn't any power to it yet, but they'd been using it for storage. It was full of sparklings whose maintenance was incomplete, plus racks of spare parts. And, presumably, Sunstreaker.

"Sunny in there?" Mikaela asked, as she stepped off the bike.

Wheelie transformed with a swift, fluid motion and frowned at the structure. "Actually, I'm picking up two mechs ... one's upset."

"Upset?"

"It's running all over the place. Can't you hear the footsteps? And Sunny's chasing after it on his wheels."

The doors were closed. She shook her head. She couldn't hear a thing.

From inside, Sunstreaker screamed, "Slaggit, just hold still for a second!" _That _she could hear.

"I thought he was supposed to be in solitary?" Mikaela said.

"He is. Hold on a sec ..." Wheelie tilted his head sideways, and probably commed someone in Autobot security. Unfortunately, the transmission alerted Sunstreaker that someone was outside, even if Wheelie was transmitting encrypted.

Two nanoclicks later, Sunstreaker yanked the door open. His headlights blinded Mikaela, and made Wheelie iris his optics nearly shut. "I'm in solitary! Go away!"

Mikaela took a step back. Wheelie took a step _forward_, putting himself closer to her. His hand rested on her shoulder, very lightly. She suspected he planned to grab her and run if Sunstreaker got aggressive. She didn't actually mind ... she'd willingly allow herself to be grabbed. Anyone that could make Ratchet wary had her downright paranoid.

Wheelie said, cautiously, "Sunstreatker, you've got your comm off, according to Red Alert."

"What of it? Not a crime."

"He wants to know who's in there with you."

"No one!" Sunstreaker blatantly lied. Something went _crash _loudly behind him. He spun around, "Oh, slag!"

They saw a figure, perhaps two thirds of Sunny's height but towering over either of them, moving in the darkness. All Mikaela could make out was faint movement in the glare of Sunny's headlights, but Wheelie could clearly see more. He hissed, "That's Aquaregia's sparkling!"

"It is not!" Sunstreaker denied.

"Sunny, what have you _done_?" Wheelie said, in horror. "That one doesn't even have an operating system. He's running on machine code!"

Sunstreaker growled, "I'm trying to _fix _that. Get lost!"

"Security's on the way, they'll be here in three minutes!" Wheelie demanded, fear of Sunstreaker forgotten in his outrage. "You brought one of the sparklings online. Are you mad?"

"You called Red Alert?" Sunstreaker growled. Then he spun around, "Slag, slag, I can't do this nice anymore ... slaggitall, hold still!"

He lunged for the sparkling. The sparkling scrambled away in a panic, all long limbs and frantic motions. It lunged for the door, and Mikaela was struck by the sheer _unnaturalness _of the child's appearance. It had no expression on its face, no comprehension, no light of understanding in its optics. It was clear by the sparkling's behavior that it was terrified, but it didn't have the code yet to communicate that with a scared look on its faceplates.

Sunstreaker grabbed it by one arm.

It thrashed wildly, not striking at him, just trying to get away. However, it got a lucky blow in to Sunstreaker's optic and he let go, reaching reflexively for his energon sword as he did. "It's crazy!"

"Don't hurt it, you idiot!" Wheelie screamed, his outrage trumping his fear of Sunstreaker.

The sparkling saw the open door and dove for it, transforming as it did. Apparently, the ability to transform - and to move while in alt mode - was machine language. An engine roared to life as it moved into alt mode.

Mikaela realized belatedly that it was a flier. She saw a single propeller coming right at them from inside the building and started to duck, but Wheelie's hand closed around her upper arm with painful force.

The sparkling cracked both wings on the door, half-transformed back to fit through it, then darted out into the opening on two legs. Lightning quick it transformed back to the form of a small jet airplane. Its engines howled as it shot away from Sideswipe and towards them.

"NO!" Wheelie shouted, shoved Mikaela away from the sparkling with one hand, knocking her a good ten feet sideways. Then he lunged for it. Mikaela hit the ground, rolled, then looked up in time to see Wheelie caught the flier's wing with one hand. "No!"

The sparkling shot skyward, taking Wheelie with him. Both of them disappeared into the darkness of the night sky.

Sunstreaker stared up after them. "Oh, slag. That wasn't supposed to ... he was supposed to like me, love me, he wasn't supposed to do that!" Sunstreaker looked at her with huge, stricken optics. "They could die. It's all my fault. They could _die_. I thought ... I thought it would wake up and cuddle with me and I'd upload the operating system and he'd be mine and ... and ... it didn't work that way."

Mikaela sighed. There was no threat here right now from the big golden warrior. He looked like he was about to start crying. "No, Sunstreaker. It doesn't work that way. What's Wheelie saying? Can you turn your comm on?"

He blinked at her, then nodded. "He ... he's cussing me out." He grimaced. "So's Red Alert. And Ironhide. Skywarp's trying to get permission to take off after them ... Red Alert wants Silverbolt to lead the pursuit and Optimus just overrode that and told the tower to clear Skywarp ..." He slumped to the ground with his back to the wall. "Primus, Mikaela, I didn't want it to happen like this."

She honestly didn't know what to say to him. "Let me know what Wheelie's saying, okay?"

"He's cussing, mostly." Sunstreaker looked at her dubiously. "Do you want a translation? It's in Cybertronian."

"Let me know if he says anything important." She was so scared for the little mech who she'd come to consider a real friend. And the sparkling. Good god. And if the child crashed into something, _humans _could die.

Sunstreaker ducked his head down suddenly, and for a moment she thought he was actually going to transform to hide in alt mode. He didn't, but his fists wee balled, his shoulders hunched, his eyes shut tight. "Sideswipe is really pissed off at me."

"Yeah, I bet he is." Mikaela paused, then couldn't help but ask, "God. Why didn't you disable the kid's transformation circuits? I _know _that mentors do that, normally, before ever bringing a sparkling online."

"It seemed cruel ...?" Sunstreaker frowned. "Optimus is yelling at me too now. Guess I'm in a lot of trouble."

"Guess you are." She had never heard Optimus _yell _at anyone. She had no sympathy.

"... he just cut himself off." Sunstreaker's optics shut off. He leaned his head back against the wall. "... He's really mad ... oh, Primus, Prowl's yelling at me. He's never yelled at me before ... he's not even command staff, he's yelling at me _personally_ ... I really slagged up, didn't I?"

Pretty much, she figured, he had. She was a bit too scared of him to say that, though.


	111. Chapter 111

Chapter 111

Author's Notes: There will be more Sam/Bee/Mikaela in future chapters, for those who are asking. :-)

* * *

Wheelie clamped his fingers tight over the leading edge of the sparkling flier's wing, and shrilled into the radio, _:If you guys can't slagging catch up Primus better be watching because I'm gonnnnaa diiiieeeeeee here! Fuckit, where are you!:_

_:Skywarp's got you on his radar, kiddo,: _Jazz said. Wheelie blinked at the endearment. Since when had he been _kiddo _to anyone but Fang? _:He's doing circles around you. Junior there is not a fast flier.:_

_:So get us a fucking chopper!:  
_  
_:He's doing close to two hundred miles an hour, which is faster than any of our rotary fliers can move.: _Aquaregia spoke up. He sounded utterly calm. Hearing that cool, controlled voice, Wheelie relaxed a little. _:Windy is tailing you as well, but he's moving at a higher rate of speed than Windy can manage.:_

_:You said he was going slow!:_

_:I know a certain ground frame who exceeded his current speed. Recently.: _Aquaregia was actually teasing him. Then he sobered, _:Kiddo, we're concerned that if we approach him with a large flier he may spook further.:_

_:Fucktastic. I'm going to slag Sunstreaker.:_

_:When this is all over you'll have to listen to a recording of yourself,: _Aquaregia replied, _:All Cybertronian and then random words of human profanity. I'm amazed you can make the grammar work.:_

_:It's a gift. It's all in the variables. 'Regia, he's slowing down a bit. Can Manywinds catch up? If I have to bail at this height, it'll bend my fucking struts a bit.:_

He would _probably _survive a fall from any height the sparkling could manage, if he didn't land badly. That was a big "if" that he didn't want to gamble with. His body could survive, with some damage, a blunt force blow at terminal velocity. If he smacked into flat ground he'd be okay, albeit in need of body work. If he hit something pointy that punctured any of vital systems ... well. He didn't want to fall, on the off chance he might end up with a fence post through his spark chamber.  
_  
:Windy is more than fifty miles behind you.: _Aquaregia fell silent for a minute, probably checking radar. _:Do you see Skywarp? If you fall off he'll try to catch you.:_

He lifted his head up and peered about, finally spotting the heat signature of Skywarp's engines a few miles away, racing in a tight arc around them at high subsonic speeds. He couldn't hear the jet's engines over the rush of air across his own auditory sensors and the roar of the sparkling's propeller. _:Yeah, I see him.:_

Perhaps Skywarp could teleport to their position and grab the sparkling ...? No, he calculated the sparkling's power and mass against the lift that Skywarp could generate from his heel thrusters when he was transformed, and realized that was a wrestling match Skywarp wouldn't win. He couldn't make two back to back leaps, either; he had to wait a few moments between them.

Another voice broke in, _:Wheelie, this is First Aid. I need you to stay with the sparkling, if you can. He's headed on a vector that will take him straight to Las Vegas ...:_

_:No shit, I can see the lights ahead ... he's probably headed for 'em because they're shiny.:_

_:... and he'll probably go to ground as soon as he spots someplace that looks safe. We need you to tell us where he goes.:_

_:Okay.: _he considered that. He was now feeling weirdly calm. He speculated, _:I bet he goes someplace that looks dark, that he can hide in, when he decides to go to ground. I'll stay with him, sure. Poor baby's got to be scared to death. He can't understand any of this, just that someone was threatening him and he wants to get away and now somebody's hanging on his wing. Slaggit. 'Aid, does this sparkling have any sort of a fucking OS?:_

_:Afraid not. He's running solely on machine language. He was going to be a 'con sparkling and they've been reformatting theirs.: _There was a vague tone of censor in First Aid's voice. Wheelie, who had been brought online without the love of another to reassure him that he was not alone in the world, wasn't entirely sure that he agreed. How different his life might have been if he came to true awareness of the world in the arms of a mentor ...  
_  
:He's 'Regia's, I know,: _Wheelie said. _:Slaggit! We had him all ready for Aquaregia, too.:_  
_  
_Aquaregia growled, _:I'm going to do that psychopath some damage.:_

_:You'll have to wait in line behind me, but you can have the pieces when I'm done with him.: _Ironhide cut in. _:Wheelie, _be careful_, you hear me?:_

_:Me Grimlock go deal with Sunstreaker now.: _Grimlock said, _:Me first. Closest.:_

_:Grimlock!: _Wheelie laughed nervously. _:You know, I have to say, flying with sparklings is scarier than kicking Mustangs.:_

_:Me Grimlock try harder scare little 'bot next time.: _Grimlock snorted. _:Little 'bot be careful. Grimlock no want you dead, you too much fun to tease.:_

_:Wheelie no want to _be _dead!:_

The sparkling was, indeed, headed for Vegas. They'd reached the city limits, and now they had an unexpected escort of a traffic plane from a news station. The sparkling saw the plane and panicked again, diving away from it. His engine was racing so hard that it had to be redlining. Wheelie prayed that the kid didn't throw a piston.

Wheelie found the radio frequency that the pilot was using to communicate with the TV station after a quick scan and snarled _mostly _in English at the pilot, "Get the frag away before you cause us to crash! You're going to get us both sent to the Pit!"

_Pit _and _frag _came out in Cybertronian because he wasn't paying much attention to which lexicon he drew his adjectives from. Wheelie figured that, given the human tendency to _bleep _obscenities, a burst of what sounded like squealing static to human ears would convey the same intent. He didn't bother to correct himself.

After a moment's startled silence, the pilot asked, "Are you planning on landing at a local airport?"

He realized belatedly his words were being broadcast over a TV news network.

"That would be a slagtastically awesome idea," he snapped in Cybertronian, realized the pilot had no idea what he had just said, and switched to English. "Fuck that. You think this kid's gonna land on a runway, you're delusional."

"Kid?"

_:Watch the language, Wheelie,: _Ratchet said. _:You're on TV.:_

_:Yeah, yeah, my fifteen minutes of fame, and I said 'fuck'. Not the first time I've been rude and crude in public.:_

_:You do have a bad record for that, don't you?:_

_:I am _never _going to live that down, am I?:_

_:Just as long as your _last _words aren't 'oh fuck' - you be careful there, buddy.: _That was Skywarp, and the note of concern in his voice surprised Wheelie. Fang might have warm-fuzzy feelings for the seeker, but Wheelie was less than fond of him. He'd been the victim of one too many pranks.

Wheelie turned his attention back to the human, dismissing Skywarp's sudden benevolence as unimportant for the moment. He told the pilot, "You got a night scope? Yeah? You're talking to the little guy hanging on the kid's wing. The flier's a child. He's scared to death, he doesn't take orders, and you are too fucking _close_. You're gonna make him panic and I have no idea if he can successfully land even when he's _not _terrified. So back the fucking hell off!"

Oops, he was swearing again. The station managed to bleep out most of the profanity, though their timing was off on a few choice phrases. He imagined that most of the viewers could figure out what 'back the fuBEEPing hell off!' was.

_:You tell 'em, Wheelie,: _Skywarp put in, sounding amused.

The sparkling was rapidly losing altitude, trying to get away from the other aircraft. Wheelie couldn't decide if this was good or bad. It probably depended on what he hit when he landed. Sparklings couldn't tell a runway from a lake of water ... and anyway, he'd probably go for "dark and looks like a hole" and not necessarily realize he had to slow down to land.

_:A little more tact would be preferable, kiddo,: _Ratchet objected to his profanity. _:That's probably going to end up on the news worldwide.:_

Wheelie _so _didn't care about the media at the moment. _:Fuck tact. He's still not backing off.: _Wheelie had never been more terrified in his life. This was worse than the time Mikaela had caught him snooping at the garage, and he'd been reasonably convinced she was going to kill him then. He hadn't been scared for someone _else _then!

Still, he managed to say in a more rational tone of voice, _:The baby here's gonna go to ground and I really don't even know if he can land, Ratchet.:_

_:That's my sparkling!: _Regia said, the low volume of his reply not masking his very real distress. _:I picked him out because my sister had a frame just like his. Both of them died in the first few weeks of the war. He's got the last protoform in the universe like her.:_

Oh, Primus. Wheelie could only imagine how he would feel in 'Regia's position. He was scared enough for the kid without being _attached_.

"This is Major Lennox ..." Lennox was suddenly on the radio, addressing the pilot of the news plane. He introduced himself with his rank and then demanded, "What the _hell _do you think you're doing?"

"... covering the news? I have approval from the FAA for this course."

"Well, as Wheelie put it, back the fuck off a couple of miles, unless you'd like that sparkling to land somewhere ugly."

At that moment, an air traffic controller issued a curt order to the pilot to put some distance between himself and the fleeing sparkling. The reporter pulled up sharply, and then demanded of Lennox, "Can't you scramble something to follow him?"

"He's on radar," Lennox said, mildly. "And if you look to your left at nine o'clock you should see a F18 that's doing laps around both of you."

"... Why didn't you say that before?"

"Didn't you have him on visual?" Lennox managed to sound only puzzled rather than scathing. "Skywarp, do you have your running lights on?"

"Yes sir," Skywarp replied, promptly.

Wheelie _really _wished the human had a private comm so he could ask Lennox how it felt to have a Decepticon seeker refer to him as 'sir.' Skywarp was probably too distracted to realize what he'd just said, but on the other hand, Fang had been making it very clear to his troops that the human officers held authority over the 'con rank-and-file.

_:Wheelie, any chance you could access the sparkling's dataport?: _First Aid asked, distracting Wheelie from the byplay.  
_  
:Negative, he can't.: _Aquaregia said, before Wheelie even had a chance to look. _:It's not accessible when he's in alt. It's under way too much armor. I had that mod done deliberately for safety reasons.:_

_:Slag.: _Wheelie swore. _:Where's his port at?:_

_:Under his right arm. You got a cable with you, kiddo?: _Aquaregia asked.

_:I'm an apprentice medic,: _Wheelie snapped, figuring that should be an obvious question. Of course he had a cable. He didn't mention his data cable was was shiny, new and unused. They normally didn't let younglings do processor work until they'd interfaced recreationally a few times. The idea was that you needed to know what a normal mind was like, and get a little worldly experience, before you poked around doing repairs in a patient's head. Therefore, he understood the theory, but hadn't ever done any work personally.

Realizing what might be needed, he pulled some files up and started reviewing them. The concepts didn't sound too difficult. He'd gone over this information before a few times out of curiosity, knowing someday he _would _need to use it, either in the medical bay or when he adopted a sparkling of his own. There was always a chance he'd need to jack into a mech during an emergency to save someone's life, too.  
_  
:Wheelie, we've got bad weather rolling in. Can you reach his flaps and physically steer him down?: _That was First Aid. _:Otherwise you're gonna get wet.:_

_:No go, 'Aid.: _He glanced ahead. A roiling mass of clouds was a darker shadow against the night sky, visible mostly by the lack of stars and the occasional flash of lightning. Even if he could have straddled the kid's fuselage and reached both flaps he wasn't sure he could have managed to fight the wind and manipulate the kid's wings at the same time. Nevermind that he hadn't a clue how to fly! He elaborated, _:All I can do here is hold on ... ahh, whoops, this bird's going to roost!:_

The sparkling banked hard and dove steeply, engine whining and wing joints creaking as he did. They shook through a patch of rough turbulence and Wheelie muted his vocalizer to avoid screaming like a little girl as he was nearly thrown off. Then he saw the sparkling's goal, and forgot his dignity. He did howled over the radio, _:Ohslagohslagohslag ...:_

_:What? What?: _First Aid demanded.

_:Talk to us, Wheelie ...:_

_:Ohslag oh SLAG!: _He was gonna die.

Skywarp explained, because Wheelie was too scared to be articulate, _:Kid's heading for some sort of tunnel in the ground!:_

_:It's not big enough it's not big enough it's not big enough ...!: _the sparkling had spotted the dark safety of a giant storm drain. The entrance was at least twelve feet across, but the sparkling's wing span was closer to twenty. Wheelie howled in terror as the ground, and that too-small hole, rushed up at significantly greater speeds than mere terminal velocity.

_:Bail, kid!: _Skywarp shouted. _:I'll catch you!:_

He said a prayer to Primus and let go of the wing. He was falling, wind rushing around himself, _knowing _if he smacked into the pavement below he was going to badly injured, perhaps killed. He was no warrior frame, built for hard impacts at orbital reentry speeds. He was just a little youngling with lightweigh armor and thin struts and he was going to hit the ground ... if he hit badly and smashed his spark containment systems or destroyed his memory core ...

_Crack_.

Skywarp appeared below him, the thrusters in the seeker's feet spewing roaring flames. He slammed into Skywarp's reaching arms with enough force to send a cascade of errors from his sensors.

_:You okay?: _Skywarp asked, peering down at him. Wheelie couldn't respond immediately; the pain of the impact was overwhelming. He added to the listening teams, _:Got him, guys.:_

_:Skywarp, thank you,: _Fang said. It was the first time he'd heard Fangface on the radio. Wheelie figured Fangface had probably been in recharge, or sensibly staying off the radio waves. _:He's safe?:_

_:He's fine, boss.: _Skywarp correctly interpreted the 'he' to be Wheelie. Wheelie wasn't so sure; he'd bent at least one back strut. He'd worry about that later, however, as he remembered why he'd bailed.

_:The kid, the kid's gonna crash!: _He planted a hand in the middle of Skywarp's chest and pushed himself forward so he could see over the big seeker's wrists. More pain lanced through his abused frame. He impatiently used a few medical overrides to kill the errors. There was nothing he could do about it now, and none of the damage was serious.

The sparkling was only a fraction of a second from impact. He cringed as the kid tried to fit through the too-small opening and smacked both wings into the concrete entrance to the tunnel. There was a huge explosion of sparks as metal struck concrete. He saw the sparkling's right wing crumple backwards, and then the sparkling's momentum sent him skidding and tumbling into the tunnel. He couldn't hear the crash over the noise of Skywarp's thrusters but he _saw _it and could imagine that thunderous crunching smashing noise. Dust billowed up.

Skywarp hastily landed next to the entrance, and dropped Wheelie to the ground without any ceremony. Wheelie landed somewhat heavily on his feet and then turned on the headlight mounted on his chest for better illumination. His back had developed an odd click - he thought he'd fractured a joint. He'd deal with that _later_. A hot, damp wind blew from the oncoming storm, bringing with it the scents of damp desert and automobile exhaust in equal measures. From the tunnel came a matching gust of cooler air that smelled of damp concrete, mildew, human waste, unwashed bodies, and various other unsavory odors. He could smell spilled Cybertronian coolant as well, and hot metal and exhaust.

"There's humans in there," Skywarp shifted uneasily. The seeker had to crouch to see into the tunnel, which was just a little more than knee height to him.

Wheelie accessed the internet briefly for information about the location, then explained, "It's homeless humans. They live in these tunnels. And the sparkling couldn't have been hurt too bad, he got up and started running again." _Damnit_, he thought, frustrated by this. Retrieval would have been much easier if the kid had been immobilized by the crash. He was well aware that the clock was ticking. Array's problems were a sharp reminder that after a certain point, being online without an operating system could cause spark-deep mental damage. There were recorded cases of Cybertronians being left with no more functional intelligence than an animal after this sort of incident.

"He's leaking." Skywarp crouched awkwardly, his frame not really designed for it, and pointed out a trail of fluids. Skywarp obviously couldn't fit through the tunnel mouth. Wheelie cautiously walked towards the liquid that the seeker had pointed out. He ran a finger through it and identified the source of one of the odors he'd detected, "Coolant. Not leaking enough to be critical. He probably just severed a line and everything south of the closest valve is draining."

"I can't pick him up on sensors ... too much concrete and dirt." Skywarp scowled as Wheelie walked back to him. "Pit. No way I can get back in there ..."

A human figure stumbled into view in the darkness. The woman was bleeding from a head wound. She saw them through the glare of Wheelie's headlight, her eyes widened, and she bolted back into the darkness. Either she hadn't gotten the memo that Cybertronians were friendly, or she'd just had an encounter with one terrified Cybertronian child.

"Damnit. There's humans in there." Wheelie shifted from foot to foot uneasily. He commed a report in to the base, and Lennox responded that he'd let the authorities know to send ambulances and that he was trying to get the police to let the Cybertronian medical staff deal with the kid and to keep the humans away. Ironhide's response was far less professional and more creatively profane.

Not particulary surprising Wheelie, Aquaregia answered calmly and without swearing, _:How bad did my sparkling look after he crashed?:_

_:He'll survive. He'll need some body work.:_

Aquaregia switched to an encrypted transmission and told him, _:Wheelie, I'll probably have to reformat him. This sort of trauma ... it's horrible for sparkling psychological development. It could irreversibly scar him. If you have to put a shot through his memory core to take him down, do it. We can start over. No sense in endangering yourself or the humans.:_

Wheelie winced at the idea ... and didn't respond with profanity only because it was 'Regia and the mech scared him just a little. The way he figured it, his own early life had been pretty traumatic, with or without Fang's help. Fang hadn't been able to protect him from everything, and before Fang had selected him out of the creche of sparklings things had been bad indeed.

He'd turned out fine, he thought. He had no desire to be reformatted just because he had a rough start. He wasn't about to kill a kid simply because 'Regia was afraid of the kid having a little post-traumatic stress later.

"Think he attacked that human?" Skywarp said, drawing Wheelie's attention back to the present.

Wheelie gave Skywarp a dark look. "He doesn't know _how _to attack anything. He's pretty slagging stupid right now. I'm not entirely sure he could tell a human from a tree. He could have run over the top of her, however."

Thunder rumbled as he spoke.

Wheelie frowned as he superimposed a radar image of the storm with a topographic map of the region and a map of the tunnels. The storm was dumping quite a bit of rain a few miles away, upstream. "Skywarp, these tunnels are going to flood, and I'm not sure how bad he's hurt. His vitals might not be waterproof anymore."

"Hnnh."

Decisively, Wheelie smacked Skywarp on the knee. He'd have to go in after the kid before backup arrived. It could be dangerous, but he figured he'd rather risk his own plating than let the kid get hurt worse. The poor baby had to be terrified. "You get reinforcements. I'm going to go find Junior."

"What will you do if you find him?" Skywarp said, dubiously, and not getting.

"Go 'boogity boogity' at him and scare him so he runs outside?" Belatedly, Wheelie realized he'd just given an order to _Skywarp_. While no longer outranking Wheelie in his chain of command, Skywarp was still a seeker and he still had several thousand pounds and about sixteen feet of height on Wheelie. It had to be a medic thing. Ratchet's authoritarian attitude was contagious.

Skywarp, very much to Wheelie's astonishment, did not slap him flat. Instead he said dubiously, "... You sure that's safe, kiddo?"

"Probably not, but it's a lot more dangerous for the kid and the bystanders than for me. I had some great instructors in the art of dodging a blow, _Skywarp_ ..." Okay, now he was _teasing _the seeker. Was he crazy, he wondered? Skywarp _had _swung a few irritated slaps in his direction, occasionally even connecting. Wheelie shook his head at himself, wondering what was coming over him. He felt strangely confident.

Skywarp touched his back with one finger. With complete sincerity, he said, "Be careful, kiddo."

"Gee, almost sounds like you care." What was _wrong _with the seeker, Wheelie wondered? It couldn't just be his coding changes. He'd seen glimpses of this new person, the not-Skywarp that stood before him now, over the last few weeks. It was slagging weird.

"I just don't want to deal with Fang angst if you get squished." Skywarp grinned, ignoring Wheelie's snarky reaction - or, no, Wheelie realized. Skywarp was bantering _back._ Which meant he was accepting Wheelie as his equal, or his friend, or some such complete bizarreness.

"Oh, Primus. I wouldn't wish Fang angst any of you. I'll be sure to survive." His answer was automatic, and Skywarp chuckled. Wheelie turned back to face the tunnel. He could hear humans moving around, but the sparkling was long gone, probably miles away into the tunnels by now. He would run until he found a good hiding place or his injuries forced him to stop.

Skywarp took off with a roar of his thrusters, disappearing into the dark sky. A few drops of rain spattered down as Wheelie watched him lift off.

_:Wheelie, Skywarp just told me you're going to look for the sparkling.: _Optimus came on the comm, startling him. Optimus had been quiet until now.

He sent Optimus his data on the coming storms, the sparkling's condition, and the likelihood of the tunnels flooding. _:We need to find him right away. I guess I'm the closest medic so it's gotta be me to do it. I'll be careful ...:_

_:Agreed that we need to find him. I understand that the passageway is only about twelve feet wide and eight high?: _Optimus's calm acceptance of his plan to pursue the sparkling before backup arrived was reassuring. Optimus had faith in him. He'd been halfway afraid that the adults would tell him to wait solely because he was a youngling.

_I can do this. _He really did feel like he could handle it. He answered, _:Yes sir. According to the map some of the side tunnels are much smaller than that. The sparkling's a flier, but he's not very big and he smashed the heck out of his wings. If he heads back into a side tunnel only one of us little guys is going to be able to go in after him.:_  
_  
:Go. Be careful. Use your best judgment. I'll have Doc and Fang follow you in.: _Optimus hesitated, and Wheelie heard an uneasy note in the mech's voice now. _:I understand you have a datalink cable with you, correct?:_

_:Yes sir.: _He realized what Optimus was implying, that he should upload an operating system to the kid's processor. It _would _be the easiest way to get the sparkling out safely, and with the least amount of danger to innocent bystanders or the equally innocent child. The thought had crossed his mind already, though it felt like a terrible overstepping of boundaries. This was not his child. Aquaregia should be the one to upload his operating system, to bring him to true awareness of the world, to be the very first person the child ever knew.

Aquaregia broke in, _:Wheelie, do you have a datapad?:_

_:Yes sir. But I won't use _that_.: _Oh, Primus, he remembered that trauma. A cold, soulless, alien _thing _in his mind ... losing control of his processor to a _machine ..._

Aquaregia sighed. _:I will reformat him when we get back. He will doubtless be horrifically traumatized by this, and not sane.:_

Prime replied diplomatically, _:We can evaluate what needs to be done after we retrieve him. Wheelie, be careful.:_

_:Yes sir.: _He edged back into the tunnel, and switched the illumination from his headlight over to a UV spectrum. The drops of coolant on the ground fluoresced bright neon yellow. Most Cybertronian bodily fluids glowed under black light, and using that glow to track a wounded soldier was a trick that Fang had taught him a long time ago.

There were also splashes of pink lubricant and pink-purple hydraulic fluid. He hurried up the tunnel, alert to trouble. A rat scurried out of his way, and then, after a hundred yards, he saw the frightened, dirty face of a human woman peering at him from a side tunnel. She had bad skin, worse teeth, needle tracks, and stringy, matted hair and he smelled her two seconds after he saw her.

_Feral humans, _he thought, uneasily. _I hope they don't run in packs. They could be trouble if they do ...  
_  
The sparkling had taken the path of least resistance and continued in the main tunnel for a long distance. Wheelie's comm fuzzed out as he proceeded, clear reception blocked by many feet of earth and concrete. He caught the occasional word but couldn't really understand the conversation. From what he could make out, Doc was apparently on his way, and Ratchet.

_Which means Fang will be here too, _Wheelie thought, though it sounded as if Aquaregia would be the first on the scene. _And that's his right; it's Aquaregia's sparkling._

Part of him would welcome the arrival of Fangface. Fang was his mentor, and a responsible adult. He was small enough to enter the tunnels easily, though he'd have to bend over through the widest parts. On the other hand, it felt so very good to be asked by Optimus to handle this. The implications of what he might have to do scared him to death, but _Optimus _thought he could do it.

The sparkling was leaking less as he moved deeper into the tunnels. A spot here, a drip there. His autorepair systems were probably sealing off the worst of the damage, though Wheelie was afraid that he was in quite a bit of pain. He wouldn't understand the source of the pain, nor have the ability to block off the input from some of his damage sensors.

How terrible, Wheelie thought, it would be to be alone, uncomprehending, and _hurt_.

He hurried.

After a few hundred yards and a curve in the tunnel, he found the mangled wreckage of one of the sparkling's wings. He tried to radio his discovery in, but - while he could still detect the comforting transmissions from other Autobots, he didn't have the power to transmit a signal out. Fort Max was probably boosting their communications from his antenna.

Uneasily, he continued, after telling himself that it was completely illogical to be worried about dying down in these tunnels and never being found. Doc and Fang and other small mechs would probably follow him in as soon as he was found.

Another fifty feet and the tunnel branched. The sparkling had gone right, down a narrower passage. He'd left the occasional paint scrape on the walls. Around a curve and Fang found a camp belonging to some of the homeless humans: beds up on blocks to keep them dry when the tunnels flooded, a propane camp stove, canned food, beer bottles, dirty diapers in a pile. No humans. The sparkling had stumbled through their kitchen area and smashed their table. Toys were scattered everywhere, and infant cereal strewn on the ground.

_Primus, they're raising a baby down here._

He thought of Annabelle Lennox, chubby cheeks and a bright smile, holding a Barbie and asking to be picked up. Human children were so much more innocent and helpless than Cybertronian sparklings. Sarah Lennox was fiercely protective, fiercely loving, and full of so many dreams for her daughter. He couldn't imagine the desperation these parents must be feeling ... right? They had to be crazy with fear and concern for a child raised in this sort of environment.

There was a stained play pen set apart from the rest of the battered furniture. It was a good long way from the adult bed. He wondered what that meant, if anything.  
_  
_He shook his head and continued on at a quick jog. The metal of his feet crunched on the asphalt, making reverberating echoes against the tunnel walls. He didn't want to transform, fearing the sound of his engine might frighten the sparkling, but he was worried about what might happen if the sparkling ran into live humans ... what if the humans' child had been in that camp and the sparkling had simply plowed over the top of it?

_Primus, Primus, _stop_ baby, stop, you've got to stop running ...  
_  
The sparkling's trail turned up a side tunnel, so narrow that Wheelie could touch both sides with his extended arms. Had the kid not smashed his wings he would not have fit. The tunnel now passed under the occasional drain from the street above, and could hear traffic overhead when it did.

Then the storm drain ended abruptly, as it branched into half a dozen pipes that were no wider than the width of Wheelie's shoulders. The sparkling could go no further. The kid was huddled in the darkness, curled in a ball, rocking back and forth in his terror.

"Oh, baby." Wheelie sighed, stopping thirty feet away. His words - the sound, anyway - made the sparkling startle. Amber optics focused on him. His irises spiraled down to pinpoints, then blew wide open with hyperfocused intensity as the kid's autonomic systems reacted to his fear by reducing his field of focus to Wheelie alone. Wheelie crouched down, and didn't bother trying to say anything soothing. The sparkling didn't have the capacity to understand his words. He didn't even have the ability to understand _tone_. Though he certainly had emotions, the ability to read another's emotions relied on programming, as did the ability to express his own feelings in standard ways that others could read.

Wheelie just sat quietly, waiting. Inside, however, he was nearly frantic with worry.

_Where are the others? _He still couldn't hear them clearly on the radio. Water was trickling down the tunnel, however, from several side tunnels.

He studied the child, noting damage that needed to be urgently repaired. The collision with the walls had taken off one wing entirely, and crumpled the other. Only a few twisted bolts and a hinge held it in place. A fistful of wiring had pulled out, and was sparking occasionally. A chunk of his chest plate was also ripped back, exposing damaged motor circuitry and sensors. If those got wet, the kid was going to be in ten times the pain he was in now.

_He'll panic, _Wheelie realized. If that damage got wet, the pain would be so severe that the sparkling would be driven crazy with it. He would go over or through anything in his way to get away from it, doing himself additional damage in the process. He could also injure any humans who were unlucky enough to be in his way.

The sparkling was watching him.

Wheelie wasn't sure if the kid would react positively, given he was already hurting, but he was giving Wheelie a very intent stare. Hoping to make the kid even more curious, Wheelie flickered his headlight.

The sparkling stopped rocking and leaned forward, head tilted to one side.

_Yeah, that's right. Look at the shiny._

The sparkling stood up, and approached. Wheelie stood up as well. The sparkling stopped, optics flicking from Wheelie to the tunnel behind him and back. He was clearly thinking of making a break for it.

Wheelie stood very still and flashed his light again.

_There we go, baby ... look at the shiny light. Isn't it neat? It's bright and you don't quite understand it, but it's not hurting you, c'mon baby ..._

The sparkling padded closer. He was twice Wheelie's height, and Wheelie winced in sympathetic reaction when the sparkling bumped his head on the roof. The flier flinched and retreated a bit, then once again approached that fascinating light.

He didn't have the programming down to _reach _for things yet, but he squatted to see it better. Wheelie spotted his data port and hesitated, wondering if he really wanted to do this. However, knocking him offline wasn't an option - not with a storm coming, and the damage he'd sustained. It would be very unwise for the sparkling to be submerged in water.

_I've got to do this. I've got to give him an operating system so that we can communicate with him, reason with him_, _and convince him to walk back out._

The sparkling jumped when Wheelie pulled his data cable from subspace, but didn't run. He tensed when Wheelie connected them.

Wheelie had never 'faced with anyone, except for the sparkling uploads he'd gotten from Fangface. In theory, he knew how to access and install a sparkling's operating system. He'd reviewed the process on the way in. The reality, however, scared him. Badly.

He rested a hand on the kid's shoulder, found the right pathways, made sure his own firewall was locked tight to keep the sparkling from accessing anything he shouldn't see, and pinged the sparkling's processor core. In theory, everything was instinctive on the sparkling's end.

The sparkling jerked back in surprise, but reflexively granted Wheelie complete access to his cores. They were nearly empty ... just autonomic routines and a bare minimum of hard coded programming, one folder for memories - which were streamed to it without any sort of processing or sorting - and some very basic drivers for his sensors and motor systems.

And ... there were the emotions.

From the kid's spark he felt curiosity, fear, and desperate, wild loneliness. The sparkling did not actually realize that Wheelie was another person. He didn't have the analytical ability tell Wheelie from a dumb machine. He was completely alone, as far as he was concerned, and bad things had happened. His instincts told him to find other people, but he couldn't recognize them.

Wheelie felt a sudden rush of protective worry. The poor baby was so frightened. Working swiftly, he uploaded a copy of a sparkling operating system. After tucking the code into place he triggered a rapid reboot. The sparkling sagged briefly, though he didn't fall; reflex and inertia kept him on his feet for the time it took his processor to come back online.

The kid stared down at Wheelie. Wheelie was utterly unprepared for the sudden rush of relief, recognition, gratitude, affection, _love_. _Safe_, thought the sparkling, as fear was replaced by comprehension, recognition, and in a rapid sequence, trust. _Safe now. Safe. Safe. Safe._

He hurt, but the pain could be ignored for now. He was safe. Wheelie was, the sparkling thought, going to keep him safe.

Wheelie couldn't begin to help his own response. He reacted to that innocent trust with _love _back, but it was bittersweet. This was not his child, looking at him with those suddenly calm, loving eyes. He repeatedly reminded himself that this was not _his _child. He told himself this very firmly, though he kept those thoughts to himself. The sparkling was latching on to him with trust and love, and he didn't want the poor kid to feel rejected.

The sparkling said, with deep wonder, _:I did not even know I wanted to be loved by another person until you gave me ... you gave me thoughts.:_

Wheelie blinked at him. A name came, unbidden. He hadn't been looking for one, but he thought, :_You are Sage.:_

And then he mentally kicked himself. He didn't have the right to name the child, however appropriate the name felt. It was almost as if he'd plucked the name out of the child's own subconscious spark memories. It was _his _name, right and true and proper. Of that, Wheelie was certain. But he didn't have the right to voice that name. This was not his child.  
_  
_He wouldn't have guessed it from the sparkling's behavior earlier, but the sense he got now was of a deep well of patience and contemplation. With unhurried calm, the sparkling studied Wheelie carefully from head to toe.

While the sparkling looked him, he streamed his emotions to the kid via the sparkling channels, soothing the child's remaining fears without stimulating anything that the kid was nowhere near ready to deal with. It was impossible not to react to the child's innocence with anything but comforting affection and genuine worry and concern, and he let the child feel that. He finished the updates, seeing no reason not to do this right, though Aquaregia had indicated he'd reformat the kid later. 'Regia probably wanted to start over with a blank slate. He clearly didn't place much value on the few hours of memories, of _life_, that the kid had acquired.

Wheelie thought that there was no need for that. He wondered if he was taking this nascent personality back to his death ... to be reformatted, _killed, _because Aquaregia wanted a perfect child, one bonded to him first before all others, one without baggage or previous associations.

Wheelie could tell that the sparkling was not overly traumatized. Sage's personality was solid and stable and his fear had dissipated like mist. He seemed like a quiet sort, Wheelie though, steady and calm. Rational. Grounded. Now that the kid could understand what happened, even with only the simplistic understanding of a newly onlined sparkling, he would be just fine.

Doing a reformat would erase this nascent personality. Whoever Sage's spark became after that reformat might not be the same person as he was now and would become, as so much that made a person was influenced by early experiences.

It ... felt wrong.

_I am who I am, _Wheelie realized, _willing to fight for what I believe is right, because my own onlining was so traumatic, and then Fang saved me. I learned the difference between good and evil at such an early age ... and Fang taught me to fight for what I believe is right by his own actions._

Water was starting to flow around their ankles, foul with debris, mud, and organic waste.

Sage looked down and thought, _:Yuck. Right? Yucky?:_

_:Yeah, yucky.: _Wheelie sighed.

_:Why are you so sad?: _Sage asked, tilting his head to one side.

_:Because you're injured. I didn't want you to get hurt. Your first day in this world should have been a time of happiness, affection, discovery, all that slag. Not ... this.: _That was partially true, though he was far more upset that he couldn't keep this child. He wanted to, desperately. Something about Sage's quiet spark spoke to him. Wheelie was not quiet. Wheelie was hyperactive, enthusiastic, hot-tempered, and impulsive. Sage was very nearly his exact opposite.

And yet ... something about the sparkling made him desperately long to be the one to raise him. To see him grow, and learn, and fulfill the potential that deep, quiet presence promised.

He was _so _not a Decepticon.

And Aquaregia was his designated mentor.

Wheelie nearly keened aloud at that realization.

_:Don't be so sad.: _Sage tilted his head the other way. _:It doesn't hurt so bad anymore, and I'm glad you found me. I was so scared.: _The sparkling reached out and touched Wheelie's face. _:I want you to smile. It makes me happy. I'm happy now. You found me. You saved me.:_

Wheelie forced a smile that felt incredibly fake to his face, even as he marveled that the sparkling was trying to comfort him. Wasn't empathy supposed to be slow to develop? The Pit knew that Prism wasn't exactly good at it, and the other kids not much better. Pulsar and Array had gotten into a brawling fight over Legos the other day, when he was watching them, and they were quantum bound twins!

_:You'll fix me, right? Don't be so sad,: _the sparkling said.

_Primus ..._ He would _lose _this child. Sage, he sensed, would be destroyed by living among the Decepticons. That pure innocence would be lost. He would need to grow tough, grow emotional armor, learn to fight back and hold his own among the viciousness and savagery that the Decepticons displayed. His apparently natural empathy would be burned out of him. Aquaregia, rational though he was, had a cold, hard streak that Wheelie knew would not mesh well with this child's personality.

_:You're smiling with your mouth, but not your spark.: _Sage hugged him, suddenly, with the complete innocence and childish enthusiasm of a sparkling. His arms were thicker around than Wheelie's waist, and there was enough power in the sparkling's body to crush Wheelie instead of hug him if the sparkling wasn't careful. Still, he couldn't bring himself to be afraid. With the other sparklings he kept his distance, insisting on a few feet of personal space and always focusing an sensor in the directions of the larger ones.

Had this been planned, Wheelie knew, his sparkling would be significantly smaller than he was, for safety reasons. Likely, Wheelie would have upgraded into a bigger form first. Instead, Sage was so much bigger than he was ... but the sparkling was being careful, and seemed quite aware of his own power. Sage repeated, _:I'm so happy you saved me. Can't you be happy about that too? I want to stay with you forever. Doesn't that make you happy? I can feel you like me.:_

Wheelie managed to feel happy that Sage was alive, and pulsed that across the link. Then he finished a few last tasks. He locked Sage's transformation sequences so the kid couldn't transform and fly until he was a bit older. He shut off Sage's comm the same way, other than an emergency beacon that the kid could activate if he was completely lost. Sage had a cell card wired in; he restricted that to a handful of numbers - for now, his cel number, Ratchet's, Fangface's, and Aquaregia's. 'Regia could change those permissions later, or completely block access to the cell card. Most of the adults did not give their sparklings cell phone access at first because a clever sparkling could work around the restrictions and access things (like the internet) that weren't age appropriate. However, Wheelie _strongly _remembered being lost and alone, with no way to contact the Autobots, in the very recent past. He didn't want this child to be stranded somewhere with no way to phone home.

He firewalled off Sage's autonomics, since letting a sparkling adjust his own life support settings was just asking for trouble. After a few more minor tasks he backed out of the connection.

Sage regarded him quietly. The child's optics were calm. He stood stiffly, clearly still in pain but not distressed by it. He was patiently enduring the discomfort until it could be repaired, unlike most sparklings, who reacted to damage with drama. Aloud, for the first time, the sparkling said, "What is your name?"

He'd forgotten to tell the child his own name.

"Wheelie," he said.

"Wheelie," Sage repeated. The child modulated his voice an octave lower, producing a smooth tenor voice. He'd chosen a neutral accent for himself, with very crisp word pronunciation. It suited him, Wheelie thought. There was so much personality expressed by a person's words. "You will not leave me, will you?"

"I will take you to safety," he said, "and to the mech who will raise you."

_He is not going to be a good match for Aquaregia, or the 'cons, _Wheelie thought, miserably, as he watched the sparkling think about his words. _Optimus could raise him and he'd be happy, I think. Optimus has two, but Ranger's like an older youngling, not a baby. Pit, even Bumblebee would do okay with him. Or First Aid. 'Aid only has one child, he could take another. _But 'Regia? _Aquaregia is not a good match. _

Sage said softly, "You're not going to ... be my mentor? But I want _you_."

"I'm too young, they would never let me have you," Wheelie said, and he couldn't meet Sage's optics as he said this. "But you'll see me. We'll live on the same base. I babysit for everyone else. I'll ask them to let me watch you. It'll be okay, I promise. You'll see me all the time."

"Want _you_." Sage sounded miserable and distressed. It was the first time Wheelie had heard him slip into the clipped words and short phrases that impatient sparklings often resorted to.

"You'll get a mentor who will be good to you," Wheelie reached a hand up to stroke Sage's helm. "I promise they'll be good to you, or I'll kill 'em myself for you."

Sage gave him a horrified look. "You would _kill _them?"

Wheelie sighed and shook his head. "Figure if speech, scraplet. Can you let go of me? I want to patch up your damage a bit before we get moving."

"Will it hurt more?"

"Probably," he wasn't going to lie, particularly since this sparkling was inclined to be stoic. "But I'll be quick and it will hurt _less _when I'm done. You trust me, right?"

"Yes. Trust you." The short sparkling-style phrase reminded him, again, that this _was _a child.

"Trust me to do this for you, then. It'll hurt a lot more if those circuits get wet." He kept his tone soothing.

Sage set him down. Wheelie pulled his field repair kit - he had his _own _medical kit now - out of his subspace. He opened the box and, since they were standing in ankle deep water, handed the box up to Sage. "Hold this. Don't drop it."

"Okay."

He took out some quickset epoxy patch material, and several sheets of fiberglass. "Kneel, scraplet, so I can reach where your wing was."

Sage lowered himself to rest on his knees in the muck. Wheelie eyed the damage, and found the node he needed to clip off to kill sensation to the remnants of Sage's wings. Unfortunate, the node was behind a twisted bit of armor and damaged sensors and that was going to hurt like frag when he touched it. "Sage," Wheelie warned, as he retrieved a pair of wire cutters from the box, "This is gonna hurt really bad and then it'll feel a lot better. Okay?"

"Okay."

Wheelie braced one foot in the middle of Sage's back, grabbed the warped armor plate, and _yanked _with all his strength. It was only attached at two points, and one popped loose, exposing the node. Sage howled, then started keening miserably. All his joints were locked rigid, though he didn't pull away. Wheelie was impressed. He fought his own urge to keen in sympathy, reached through the gap he'd created, and snipped the ground to the node, effectively cutting off power to it.

Sage gasped in relief, then said quietly, "Better."

"Better. Good job, Sageling," Wheelie leaned against him, feeling a bit weak with his own relief. "I've known a lot of grown soldiers who'd have made a bigger fuss than you just did."

Sage said softly, "You said you'd make it better. You said it would be worth it." Unspoken, Wheelie heard, _And I trusted you._

Primus, letting this child go was going to be hard. However, Wheelie told himself, he was only thirteen. He didn't know enough himself to raise a kid. Someday, he'd have children of his own (though they wouldn't be _Sage_) and Sage would be raised by an adult who knew what he was doing far better than Wheelie did.

"Good boy," Wheelie patted him on an undamaged panel. "Bet you won't fly into small tunnels anymore, right?"

"I was scared," Sage said, softly. "I just wanted to hide, to get away. The bad mech hurt me, I was afraid he might come after me. And then you came. You made it better."

"That's my job, kiddo. Been making things better for others since I was just a little older than you."

Wheelie removed the piece of armor completely, now that Sage couldn't feel the damage, flipped it over, and used the concave underside to mix up a handful of epoxy. Sage would need a number of circuits replaced as he'd exposed quite a bit of delicate circuitry when he'd slammed into the wall and skinned off his armor and ripped away his wings. For now, Wheelie knew the big concern was keeping water out, and the epoxy would make a waterproof and non-conductive seal over the damage.

He tucked a piece of fiberglass around the worst of the damage, used human duct tape to hold it in place, then pulled a plastic glove over his hand and smeared epoxy over the whole mess to make a waterproof and impact-resistant shell. He repeated the process in several other places, occasionally using gobs of silicon caulking instead of epoxy, for points that needed flexibility.

"There, I'm done." He pulled his glove off, turned it inside out around the goopy hardening epoxy that was stuck to it, balled it up, and subspaced it for later disposal. He reclaimed his toolkit and stashed it as well. "You ready to go meet some more people, Sageling?"

Sage frowned. "Are they nice?"

"You'll like them, I promise." He held his hand out to Sage. "They're friends of mine."

Sage took his hand. The sparkling's fingers were twice Wheelie's in size, and his hand was engulfed by Sage's grasp. Wheelie tugged him forward, and the sparkling willingly followed, feet splashing through the muddy, nasty water.

After a few moments of walking, Sage asked, "Is the bad mech going to be there?"

"His name's Sunstreaker." Wheelie squeezed Sage's hand comfortingly. "He won't hurt you. I think he's going to be in a lot of trouble for this."

"He ... I didn't understand then, but he said he was going to be my mentor. He kept shouting it at me. It was loud. Scary. I didn't know what he wanted. He kept shouting at me to hold still, but I didn't know what he _wanted_. I didn't know what he was, but he was so loud! And then he grabbed me and it hurt. I got scared. I didn't understand. I didn't _understand_." Sage's voice grew soft, plaintive. There was no anger in it, only confusion. "Didn't he understand that I didn't understand?"

"I don't think he did."

"You ..." Sage smiled now. "You helped me understand the world. I want to stay with you. You helped me understand." Wheelie had touched something in that sparkling that he didn't understand, could barely comprehend. Even had someone offered to let him adopt, he thought he would refuse. He didn't want the responsibility of raising what he'd sensed. He didn't think he had the knowledge, the wisdom, or the experience to raise this child to his full potential.

_Optimus, _he thought against. This child needed someone like that to raise him. Not ... not another youngling. It wouldn't be right.

Wheelie also figured that as sure as the Pit was lonely, Sage sure didn't need ever-fragging _Aquaregia _as his mentor.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly. "I'm not very old myself, Sage. You need someone older, someone smarter than me."

Sage didn't answer that at all. He fell silent, but when Wheelie glanced up at him he looked very unhappy.

They backtracked down the tunnels, through water that was now knee deep to Wheelie. The storm was raging above them. Floodwater poured down from pipes and storm drains above their head.

And then he heard Doc's voice, ahead, and that made Wheelie hurry. "Doc! Hey!"

Starcatcher's voice echoed back, "Wheelie?" followed by the others.

Doc, it turned out, was talking to First Aid and Starcatcher. By their location - in a separate side tunnel - it appeared they'd overshot his position. The rising flood waters had erased evidence of Sage's passage. First Aid was crouched down and crawling, barely able to fit with them.

"You found him!" Doc said, bright relief on his face. "Is he okay?"

Sage answered for himself, "I was so scared and Wheelie found me."

"Oh, good, you installed an OS." Doc nodded approvingly. "That'll make getting him out of here a lot easier."

"Aquaregia is _pissed_." Starcatcher shook his head. "I don't think I've ever seen him angry like this before. - How's the kid's mood?"

"He's fine." Wheelie said. He switched to his comm, _:Guys, he's fine. He calmed down as soon as he could understand what was going on. He's not a panicky sort, at all.:_

_:You're one crazy little fragger,: _Starcatcher clapped him on the back as they turned to head for the exit. _:I heard what you did. Weren't you scared he'd crash?:_

_:I was scared he'd crash and find a place to hide and we wouldn't find him in time and he'd end up like Prism.: _He looked up at Sage, who responded with a completely innocent smile. _:He's ... he's a good kid. A real good kid.:_

_:Aquaregia's beside himself.: _Doc sighed. _:He's calling for Sunstreaker to be offlined.:_

_:Oh, Primus.: _Wheelie hadn't even thought about the political situation. _:There's no lasting harm done to Sage, Doc. He'll be fine. Did you guys find the injured human?:_

_:She'll be fine, she just hit her head running from him. She'll need a few stitches. Lennox and Hound are taking her to the hospital.:_

_:Good. Seriously. Sage will be okay.:_

_:Sage, hm?: _Doc glanced up at the sparkling, who smiled brightly at Doc's look. _:You named him?:_

_:He ... needed a name. He _needed _one.: _Wheelie looked sharply away. _:Aquaregia will change it, I guess, but it suits him. It ... it feels like it's his.: _He shook his head sharply, _:Sunstreaker needs to be punished, but offlining? No. That's not right.:_

_:I agree, though it is a severe crime he has committed. I am not sure he understands yet just how seriously we will take this.: _Doc sighed. He reached out and rubbed Wheelie's back, with the same sort of comfort that Wheelie had offered Sage. _:You're a good kid, Wheelie. I'm sorry we were so suspicious of you when you came to us. You've earned your place here.:_

_:Wish more people thought like that,: _he admitted. He supposed he should be happier about the praise than he was, but he was too focused on Sage. And Doc's touch, however well meant, was irritating. He said, however, _:I'm not sure I'll ever fit in completely. Brawn was giving me hell just this evening. I'll always be a 'con to the Autobots and a traitor to the 'cons. Most of them, anyway ...:  
_  
"Wheelie!" Fang splashed through the water towards them, running fast on all fours. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" he said, as Fang transformed, scooped him up and hugged him close. "Geeze, embarrass me, will you?"

Fang laughed and dropped him back into the rapidly flowing muck. "I was so worried about you! You little glitch, you find the most creative ways to get in trouble!"

Sage said, "Wheelie, is this another friend?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sage, this is my mentor, Fang. Fang, this is Sage."

"The sparkling." Fang was almost the same height as Sage. "You uploaded an OS?"

"Optimus suggested that would be the safest way to get him to safety, and that turned out to be the case."

_:Did you use a datapad? That must have been a bit of a rodeo to do by yourself. You're lucky you weren't hurt ...:_

_:I know how sparklings react to datapads,: _Wheelie said, shortly, a bit irritated that Fang would assume he would do something so cruel. There was something about the cold, emotionless, unfeeling touch of a machine accessing one's cores that creeped out adults. It made sparklings come unhinged. He knew that from _personal _experience.

_:Oh.: _Fang glanced up at the kid, standing several feet taller than Wheelie. _:Primus, Wheelie. You didn't have any problems?:_

_:No, it went smooth. I have been studying all the techniques. I think I have everything set up right, but we should have someone on the medical staff double check.:_

_:Or 'Regia. It's his kid.:_

_:Primus. Fang, he's not a good match for 'Regia.: _Wheelie shook his head. _:Or the Decepticon army.:_

Keen amber eyes regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. _:You want him.:_

_:I do, but I know I am not old enough, and he is _not _my child. I can't. I can't keep him.: _He let some of the grief into his voice, after encrypting his words. This was Fang he was talking to. He'd put a brave front on for other mechs, but for the moment, he and his mentor were on good terms and he was craving a little sympathy. _:I can't, Fang. I know that I can't, and particularly not this sparkling. But - not 'Regia. Not the 'cons. See if maybe one of the Autobot officers would take him, or First Aid. Or even Doc. Any of them. But not a 'con.:_

_:Kiddo, I'm sorry.: _Fang seemed to be deeply disturbed by something. _:I will talk to 'Regia. But the children ... the Decepticon army isn't a place for _any _child. We will adopt sparklings and raise them anyway, but ... it is a less than ideal situation for any of them. Don't you think the same thoughts keep me awake at night when it comes to Prism? Some of them will be raised by our - my - faction.: _Fang's gaze focused briefly on the Autobot insignia on Wheelie's chestplate. _:It is not ideal, but - you were raised by me in the 'con army. Would you rather have never existed at all?:_

Fangface had a point. The reason they were bringing the sparklings online as fast as their resources would allow was to protect them. However, Wheelie wanted _this _sparkling to have a better than average chance. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd touched something far greater than himself when he'd connected to the child and sensed who he was.  
_  
:I just want what's best for him.: _Wheelie glanced up at Sage, and then started walking for the exit. _:I'm beat. Let's get out of here before I have to ride out on somebody's shoulders.:_

* * *

It was pouring rain outside, but Optimus had arrived with a trailer in tow. Sage stopped short at the sensation of pounding water ringing on his armor, then spotted the shelter of the trailer and didn't need to be told to run for it. He scrambled inside, leaving wet footprints on the dry floor, and then sat down at the end. Wheelie hopped in after him, noting he looked frightened. He was hiding at the end of the trailer, not moving to the farthest point from the doors to make room for others.

_:Good job, Wheelie,: _Optimus praised, even as Aquaregia's looming bulk appeared in the entrance of the trailer.

The big Decepticon climbed in after Optimus granted him permission, and approached on his hands and knees. He filled the tight space with very little room to spare, and Wheelie couldn't keep from tensing up. 'Regia crouched down, completely ignoring Wheelie, and said in a soft, soothing tone to the sparkling, "Hey. Not how I meant to meet you, but my name's Aquaregia and I'm your mentor."

Sage stared at him with huge eyes. He was too close. Overbearing, Wheelie thought, for all that 'Regia was trying to be gentle. Aquaregia wasn't a loud or aggressive mech, but he was big and it was more than a little claustrophobic with the three of them in the small space. It would have been better if they'd waited until they got back to the base, Wheelie thought, and made their introductions tomorrow, after the kid had time to recharge, defrag, and process what had happened to him. Then they could have chosen a room with plenty of space so that Sage didn't feel cornered.

It was too much, too soon, and Wheelie could see that Sage was not really happy at all. Unfortunately, Aquaregia probably assumed that Sage's tense body language, wide optics, and balled fists were due to stress frp, his earlier trauma.

_I have to make this okay for him, _Wheelie thought. "It's okay, scraplet. Aquaregia will take care of you."

"I want to stay with Wheelie," Sage said, very clearly and very firmly. His fists bunched up tighter. His jaw clenched. He stated his wishes once, Wheelie noted, and did not repeat immediately himself.

"You'll see Wheelie." Aquaregia said, encouragingly. "He'll babysit for me, right Wheelie?"

"Sure, any time."

_He's a good mech, _Wheelie told himself uneasily. Aquaregia meant well. He was _not _a good match for Sage, but ... he meant well. Since sparklings were assigned randomly to mentors, this would not be the first nor the last time in the history of the universe that a mismatch between personalities happened. He tried to console himself with the thought that Aquaregia would really try to do what he thought was best for the kid.

"Your name," Aquaregia said, to Sage, "is Striker, and I am Aquaregia, and I will be your mentor."

"My name's Sage," Sage corrected, with a quick glance to Wheelie.

_:You named him?: _Aquaregia said, irritatedly.

_:He seemed to want to know what his name was and it helped calm him down. You can change it. I thought you'd have to reformat him, but that's not going to be necessary ... sorry for confusing the kid.:_

_:After a night like tonight? Hell yes I'll reformat ... best he doesn't remember any of this and starts over with a clean slate.: _Aquaregia's tone was dismissive.  
_  
:Striker doesn't suit him.: _Wheelie hunched miserably down, wrapping his arms around his knees. _:Not at all. At least get to know him. You'll see what I mean. There's no need to reformat him, 'Regia. Really. He'll be just fine.:_

"Why are you sad?" Sage touched Wheelie on the back, drawing his attention upwards.

"Grown-up things, kiddo." Wheelie forced himself to smile. "It'll be okay, I promise. Aquaregia will take good care of you. He cares about you and he wants what's best for you."

And that really was the truth, Wheelie thought. Aquaregia would do what he thought was the right thing for the kid. He just ... didn't agree. Sage wasn't his kid to make choices for, though.

Sage frowned. "I am sad too," he said, simply, and curled up in a ball on his side and shut his optics off.

_:He'll be fine?: _Aquaregia inquired, a bit sarcastically.

_:Sorrow is not irretrievable insanity,: _Wheelie shot back. He started to put a hand on Sage's shoulder, but Aquaregia beat him to it. The big mech reached past Wheelie and pulled Sage into his lap, sliding the somewhat startled sparkling cross the floor of the trailer. Wheelie scrambled aside, hopped over Sage's flailing legs, then gave Aquaregia a dirty look. He'd have said more than that, but 'Regia was between him and the exit and self preservation muted his vocalizer.

The amount of anger he felt surprised him.

"Shh, kiddo." Aquaregia folded Sage against his chest. The sparkling was rigid, resisting the embrace, eyes wide. He gave Wheelie a silent, pleading look. "I'm here, and it will be okay. I promise. It will be okay."

Sage whimpered faintly when Aquaregia stroked his head, and Wheelie fidgeted nervously, wanting to go to him too. Sage was stiff, not really resisting Aquaregia's touch, but not accepting any comfort from him.

"Shh, Striker. Shh. I'm so sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry." Aquaregia really was trying to be soothing. Wheelie told himself that if the mech was a cold-sparked glitch he wouldn't be trying to sooth the kid. He planned on reformatting Sage, so a truly cruel mech wouldn't care because the kid wouldn't remember any of this later. On the other hand, if he wasn't going to remember any of this, Wheelie wondered if it wouldn't be better for Sage to stay with him until they did the deed.

_Sage _would be dead. He wouldn't remember Wheelie, either. Wheelie shuttered his optics as he envisioned it. _I'd stay with him until the end, if that's what they decide, but I don't think 'Regia will let me. He's going to be so scared. I wonder if they'll tell him what they're going to do? It's a slagging execution ... he's fine, he _will _be fine._

Optimus's engine rumbled to life. They were getting ready to roll out. He sighed and told Aquaregia, "I'll leave you to it, then."

"Wheelie?" Sage - Striker - looked up at him. He begged, "Wheelie, don't go!"

"Shhh, it'll be okay," Aquaregia rocked him back and forth. _:Get out of here, Wheelie. As long as you're in here, he's distracted.:_

"You'll be fine. 'Regia will take care of you. And Striker's a good name."

"Don't leave me," the sparkling whispered, into Aquaregia's shoulder.

"Aww, you'll be okay." Turning away was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, Wheelie thought, as he hopped down out of the trailer and pushed the doors shut. The trailer was a human-made trailer, not anything Cybertronian. He banged on the closed door to make sure it was latched tight, and comm'd Optimus, _:You're all buttoned up back here.:_

_:Wheelie, good job.: _Optimus's praise was warm. _:I'm very proud of your courage and behavior today, though I would ask that you not put yourself at quite so much risk in the future.:_  
_  
:Thanks, Boss: _He couldn't keep the depression out of his voice.

Optimus popped his door open, up ahead. _:Would you like to ride back with me, Wheelie?:_

_:I'm all muddy and yucky and ...:_

_:And I am washable.: _Optimus's response was serene. _:However, would you prefer to ride with Ratchet and Fang? Or drive back yourself?:_

_:You don't mind the muck?:_

_:Not at all.:_

_:Ratchet would bitch me out about it.: _He scrambled up into the passenger seat. Optimus's cab seemed like a sanctuary, all at once. He leaned against the door and he could have kissed Optimus's dashboard when the leader of the Autobots didn't ask him any questions. Optimus just started driving home.

Wheelie tried to tell himself it was all for the best.

He realized he had never wanted anything more in his life than Sage.

But Sage would be better off with someone older, wiser, and more responsible.

_No. There is something I want more than Sage, _he realized, feeling almost numb. _I want what's best for him. And what is best for Sage is _not _to be raised by a half-grown half-pint youngling whose education is primarily the school of hard knocks, and who has almost no experience with kids._

It was for the best. It really was.

He kept telling himself that.


	112. Chapter 112

Author's Notes: Long chapter is long. This was a very difficult chapter to write on a technical level, and I'm still not entirely happy with it.

Building up towards the big battle ... which is going to be an interesting few chapters to write too, LOL. Sage's past identity is important, too.

* * *

Optimus drove in silence, watching Wheelie as he did. Without breaking the speed limit, the drive back to the base was going to be almost two hours, and he thought he might need that time to talk to the youngling.

Wheelie had done a good job of both recovering and patching up the sparkling. The child was stable, reasonably calm, and in no pain. Aquaregia reported that the child was asking for Wheelie, which seemed to disturb the Decepticon officer, but Optimus thought that was a very good sign that Wheelie had handled everything well. The sparkling had instinctively attached to Wheelie. It was easier to transfer attachment than to create it where none existed, as in the case of a sparkling brought online with a datapad.

_Sunstreaker, _he thought, with real sorrow. Sideswipe had recovered from an incredibly traumatic early life, and better than they'd hoped. While not normal, he was functional, both in relationships with others and in a job. Sunny ... was probably as good as he would ever get. It explained his behavior, but didn't excuse it.

He was inordinately proud of Wheelie, who had _also _been one of the many children who'd never known a mentor's love in those first critical hours - he had been strapped down to a work bench and code harshly uploaded to his processor without even a kind word to soothe his fears until days later when Fang had claimed him out of a creche. Despite that, Wheelie was flourishing, Optimus thought, as he shed his anger and his suspicion in place of hope and optimism.

He'd seen potential in the child from the very beginning, of course, but had not been sure that Wheelie would fulfill it. He was certain now. Wheelie would make all of them proud.

Unfortunately, that personal growth was not without a harsh cost. Wheelie was now huddled against Optimus's passenger side window, optics shuttered, arms folded tight across his chest. His expression was frankly miserable. Optimus waited, knowing the young mech would talk on his own when ready. It was a long drive, and Wheelie, he hoped, saw him as approachable.

"Optimus," Wheelie said, finally, "do you think he'll be okay?"

It wasn't exactly what he'd expected Wheelie to ask. It had been clear from Wheelie's body language and actions that he had cared about the sparkling. He had expected to hear something to the effect of, _I want him. I uploaded his OS, I want him. He should be mine._

Optimus had prepared arguments against that. Wheelie was too young, and while Optimus thought that Wheelie would do a fine job raising a sparkling, Wheelie himself would suffer. He was only thirteen human years old. He needed time to grow up more himself. There were other arguments, some rather cold and pragmatic. They couldn't risk an incident with the Decepticons, and Aquaregia clearly didn't want a different sparkling. He wanted _this _sparkling, likely because he liked the sparkling's alt mode. He'd specifically requested a small flier, and had picked this one - the only one like him - out of the SOA.

_Striker was Aquaregia's brother's name, _Optimus remembered suddenly, a factoid he'd culled from intelligence reports on the chemist. _And he had a sister who was a small flier._

_Oh._

Instead of saying, _I want him, _however, Wheelie was asking if he would be okay. There was honest pain in Wheelie's voice, and worry, and not one trace of the selfishness that Optimus knew was age-appropriate for Cybertronian children. He was putting the sparkling's welfare before his own.

Wheelie said plaintively, "I just want him to be okay. Happy, y'know?"

"Aquaregia will treat him well." Of that, Optimus had no doubt. 'Regia was a very uncompromising black-and-white thinker, but he was not cruel. Like many people who saw in absolutes, he had a fierce sense of honor. Moreover, Fangface wouldn't tolerate harm to a child, and Aquaregia was unconditionally loyal to Fangface. Aquaregia would follow Fang's lead on how to treat a sparkling.

"He's not a good match for 'Regia," Wheelie's voice was very low as he shifted into Cybertronian. He clicked rapidly a couple of times at the end, a reminder of his own young age. Most adult mechs grew out of sparkling chitter, but he wasn't surprised to hear Wheelie sound so young even when his actions were those of an adult. He was likely feeling very uncertain, and seeking approval and confirmation that his behavior and feelings were appropriate. Young sparklings clicked like that when they were unsure of themselves, as well as the occasional adult, when seeking reassurance from a friend.

Optimus wondered if Wheelie was about to make the argument that Striker should be _his _now, given that the sparkling had bonded to him, but Wheelie sighed heavily, composed himself, and simply said in far more adult tones, "He needs someone who isn't so uncompromising. 'Regia will raise him like he was a little soldier, not a little child. It won't be good for him. Some sparklings would do okay, Pit knows I probably could have used some more discipline myself - Pit knows I got in enough trouble! - and some kids _need _that kind of a mentor, but not Sage."

"How do you know that?" Optimus asked, genuinely curious about how Wheelie was coming to that conclusion. "It's true that Aquaregia will probably be a disciplinarian, but a firm hand combined with love and affection rarely hurts a child. I've never seen him be cruel to his troops, simply stern."

Optimus had been discretely watching the Decepticon commander and had been somewhat impressed. 'Regia's troops knew exactly where they stood with the officer, they were not frightened of him, they respected him, and they followed his orders with a minimum of protest. He was fair, both in the commands he gave and the punishments he meted out. When praise was earned, he gave it. He suspected that Aquaregia would handle raising sparklings in a similar fashion, and had few concerns about the commander as a parent.

"I just ..." Wheelie shrugged his thin shoulders, and shuttered his optics. "I just know, okay? It's a personality thing."

Optimus waited, for a minute, as Wheelie thought about what he was trying to say. He was unsurprised when his patient silence was rewarded by Wheelie adding, "... Sage ... he's a bit like me, I guess. I didn't think so at first, I didn't think we were at all alike, but I could feel that he liked to think about things for himself and come to his own conclusions. I could feel the shape of his mind, Optimus, and it was the most amazing thing. He was _thinking _about everything I was telling him, very quietly _thinking_ and then making his own decisions. He's not going to do good with Aquaregia because 'Regia will hate that his kid thinks for himself and examines problems from every angle he can think of."

"Most people are capable of analytical thought," Optimus said, suspecting that Wheelie had simply been surprised by the amount of intelligence the average sparkling possessed. "Sparklings less so, but most can."

"Not like this. His potential makes me feel stupid in comparison. And Optimus, you haven't served on a ship with 'Regia. You can't begin to know what a hard-aft he can be. He's not cruel and he's not violent but his word is law. He expects you to do what he says, and he is swift with the punishment if you cross him. I sorta like him, actually, because you always know exactly where you stand with him, but Boss ... not for this kid. No way, no how. He'd be great with Jazz, or First Aid, or even _you_. But not 'Regia."

Optimus considered what Wheelie was saying for a moment. Wheelie was so young. He was pretty sure the kid had never 'faced with _anyone_. He lacked experience in what another's mind felt like. It was entirely possible that Wheelie was wrong about the depth of the kid's analytical abilities ... though that was, as Wheelie had inidcated, an area that Wheelie himself was good at. It did stand to reason that Wheelie would recognize someone who outclassed him in the same area.

A faint click drew his attention back to Wheelie. He was making sparkling sounds of his own again. Wheelie quietly pulled a datacube from a port on his arm. He held it up and said softly, "... Here. You can decide for yourself what the kid's like. I know you won't believe me, but he's a special kid."

Optimus's curiosity was tweaked as well as his concern. He slid a receptacle open on his dash and Wheelie pushed the cube inside.

Wheelie was a _medic_, Optimus remembered immediately, as he scanned the data on the cube. What Wheelie had given him was a completely appropriate psych scan, with Wheelie's own feelings stripped out. It was simply a snapshot of the sparkling's personality and mood, spanning about a three minute interval. When Optimus felt that calm curiosity, relaxed comprehension, and quiet study, he was stunned. He'd never heard of anything like that from a sparkling before.

"You're right. That's an unusual sparkling," Optimus said, finally, resisting the urge to ask for more data. Wheelie probably didn't have that much information collected on him beyond what he'd shown. "I would wager a guess that he is a very ancient spark."

"Told ya," Wheelie smiled for the first time, a small, quiet smile. "He's something amazing."

"... Yes." Optimus agreed. "Yes, I believe you're right.

And Wheelie was _exactly _right about what the kid needed, too, and the likely conflict between him and Aquaregia. Optimus had no real issue with Aquaregia; he was stern with his troops, and deeply loyal to Fang, Optimus also thought he was a very good contrast to Fang's laissez-faire approach to leadership. (Jazz had summed them up recently by stating that Fang was the good cop, Aquaregia the bad cop, and that he thought this was _awesome_.)

The smile faded from Wheelie's face almost as fast as it had appeared. He sighed and stared out the window, saying nothing more. At least he'd stopped clicking.

"Wheelie," Optimus said gently, "I'll ... talk to Fang and 'Regia."

"Thanks." Wheelie hunched his shoulders up. "If I thought I could be his mentor I'd be fighting for him, you know. He needs someone _right _for him, though."

"Wheelie, why do you think you can't be his mentor?" Optimus asked, curious.

He expected to hear, 'You won't let me.'

"Because I don't know enough." Wheelie sighed. "I'm just a youngling myself."

Optimus reviewed Wheelie's behavior for a second, then told the young mech, "Wheelie, based on your behavior today, I will consider you an adult from here on out. We'll make it official as soon as I have time to send out the announcemen. Err, if you would prefer Fang to tell everyone, you can do so. You are young in years, but you've had to grow up rapidly, in a harsh environment. It would be unkind to continue to treat you as a child when you are not one."

Wheelie chuckled. "Let Fang make the announcement, or we'll all have to deal with Fang angst because he'll feel left out."

"True.

"Thanks, Boss."

"Being declared an adult is something you have earned, and worthy of a celebration. Would you like a party?" He wasn't the best person to plan a party, but all his own sparklings had celebrated their coming of age with a huge event. Perhaps he could convince Jazz to put it together. They could certainly use something to celebrate.

"I don't really feel like a big party. Thanks, though." Wheelie shuttered his optics again.

"Wheelie," Optimus tried again, "I know this is hard with Sage, though you have done a very good thing ..."

Wheelie said, sounding both tired and depressed. "It's not just how awful I feel about Sage ... Striker, as Aquaregia is calling him. Who would _come _to the party?"

"I don't believe there would be any shortage of attendees."

"I can count on two hands," he wiggled four fingers and a thumb in the air, "the number of people that really _like _me. The rest would just be there for the party, or because they feel sorry for me and don't actually _object _to me enough to boycott it."

"Wheelie ..."

"Boss, please. I'm really just not in the mood." Wheelie hunched his shoulders even further and slumped down in the seat.

Optimus dropped it. It wasn't the time, and Wheelie had a valid point.

* * *

The little sparkling flier barely came up to Ratchet's waist, and with one wing gone and the other crumpled back behind him, he looked even tinier. He was just over Fang's height, but nowhere near Fang's mass - which was saying a lot, as Fang wasn't exactly heavy. He was designed to be an acrobat in the air, with agility favored over speed, but way more power and a good bit more protective armor than a frame like Windy had. His wings could be folded back far enough to allow for substantial agility on the ground, and he was designed for a very rapid transformation sequence.

By his behavior, which was almost eerily calm and dignified, it was easy to forget that he was a brand new sparkling. He quietly followed Aquaregia into the Autobot med bay, alert but not frightened. Optimus had warned Ratchet that they were not dealing with a normal child, though Optimus had been unusually cagey about what he suspected.

"Where would you like him?" Aquaregia asked, resting a hand on the child's back. Striker tensed, and his facial plates grew very still, set in a neutral expression. That reaction reminded Ratchet of Wheelie's response when he was upset by something and trying not to show it, and he realized that Wheelie had likely configured the child's emotional language displays based on his own settings.

If 'Regia reconfigured the child's expressive language routines to suit his own preferences it might confuse Sage. He made a mental note to tell 'Regia not to do that. The kid could modify his own responses when he was old enough to figure out how to do it.

Well, that was a discussion for later. For now, he was more worried about the physical damage.

"Have a seat on the berth on the end," Ratchet indicated the one that had a rack of surgical instruments next to it, and bright overhead lights. The repairs didn't really look like they would be that complicated, despite the somewhat dramatic appearance. Aside from some sensor arrays that had taken a good hit, it was all going to be body work. If the sparkling would cooperate, he could do most of the basic repairs needed right now without putting the kid under - he'd just sever motor functions during the delicate bits. That would be far less traumatic than knocking the kid unconscious.

Aquaregia turned to Striker, pointed at the berth, and said, "Get up on that and sit down."

Silently, the sparkling did so. He definitely wasn't a talkative kid. Ratchet wondered if he was naturally quiet or traumatized. He found he preferred Prism's chatter or Ranger's constant questions in a case like this. It was easier to tell what the sparkling was thinking if he was talking!

"Good boy." Aquaregia backed off to lean against a wall.

Hmph. Ratchet would have preferred if 'Regia had held his kid, but the sparkling seemed to be willing to cooperate. He raised the table up so the kid was almost at eye level to him and said, "I'm Ratchet. What's your name?"

"Sage."

"_Striker_." Aquaregia corrected, firmly. "Your name is Striker."

"I like Sage."

_:Wheelie confused the kid,: _Aquaregia grumbled. _:He should have let me name him. Striker was my brother. It's a good name.:_

Optimus had warned him this might be an issue. Ratchet explained, _:Sparklings always want to know what their name is. He'd have felt rejected and unwanted if Wheelie hadn't called him something. Be persistent and he will eventually accept the new name unless he _really _hates it. And if he hates it that much, the name you chose probably wouldn't have stuck anyway.:_

This was not, actually, the first time in Ratchet's vast experience with sparklings that the name issue had come up. Sparklings were funny. Sometimes they accepted a name you gave them without question. Other times they chose to name themselves. If the mentor had sentimental attachment to the name, the end result was often a bit of drama.

The sparkling invariably won that fight, too. Trying to convince a sparkling to answer to a name he didn't like was generally fruitless.  
_  
:I suppose.: _Aquaregia sounded unconvinced. Ratchet decided this was something he would have to learn on his own.

For his part, Ratchet _liked _the name Sage - 'wise one' - though it seemed an odd choice coming from Wheelie. Wheelie had said something about sensing the name 'belonged' to the sparkling, which was possible. Some sparks retained more of their sense of self than others, particularly ones with a past life that had spanned a very long time, and it was entirely possible that the kid had a spark that had been sent forth from the Well a few times before.

However, the name question could be resolved later. Ratchet pointedly addressed the child with neither name. Instead he said, "Okay, scraplet, do you hurt now?"

The kid met his gaze with a calm, level expression. "Wheelie made most of the pain go away. My foot hurts."

Ratchet crouched down and inspected the child's leg. His ankle joint was out of alignment, and several tension wires were snapped. "Bet it hurts more when you walk on it."

"It does. Wheelie said that we had walk, though, or the water would hurt me even worse."

"Wheelie was right, and you're a brave kid." Ratchet tapped the kid's knee. "Can you release this plate of armor?"

The kid frowned, then shook his head. "I don't have access."

_:Wheelie probably locked access to all his motor functions, including armor locks,: _Ratchet said to Aquaregia, _:Which is a standard configuration. Wheelie's been studying the care and raising of sparklings - he wants one himself in several years.:_

_:He didn't think we might need access to the kid's internals?:_

_:He was probably in a bit of a hurry. You might as well jack in and update his permissions, though. I don't care if you pop the latches or he does.:_

Aquaregia nodded, produced a data cable, and approached the berth. Sage watched him with huge optics until he was within a couple of strides, then said, "What are you going to do?"

_Well-spoken kid, _Ratchet noted, even as he put a soothing hand on Sage's shoulder. "It's okay. He's your mentor. He's going to make it so we can get your armor off. I'm going to fix your foot so it doesn't hurt."

"Okay," the kid said, sounding a bit dubious. He didn't protest when Aquaregia hooked up the cable, though he did shutter his optics and tense when 'Regia made the connection.

"Hey," Aquaregia said aloud, sounding completely dismayed, "It's okay, kid. I'm your mentor ..."

"Don't like you." The kid didn't quite recoil, but all his joints were locked in place. "Get out!"

_:Pit! Ratchet, he's dang near crying. What ... what, what do I do?: _The Decepticon commander stayed connected only long enough to unlatch the armor plate. He hastily unhooked the cable and stepped back. _:Ratchet, he doesn't like me. He _really _doesn't like me.:_

_:He'll get over it in time,: _Ratchet said, though he was a bit worried by the kid's reaction. _:It's not that he hates you, it's that he's attached himself to Wheelie and you'll need to convince him to attach to you, too.:_

The child was now glaring at Aquaregia, clearly resenting 'Regia's intrusion into his mind. Ratchet suspect that 'Regia's emotions had been negative, and he might have been a bit too firm. It was a bad combination for dealing with a frightened, sensitive child who needed reassurance and affection.  
_  
:But he just made it real clear he doesn't _want _me.: _Aquaregia sounded hurt  
_  
:He's four hours old. Give him a chance.: _Ratchet stroked Sage's arm. "Kiddo, how come you don't like Aquaregia?"

"He won't _listen _to me. My name isn't Striker." Sage scowled and told Aquaregia directly, "And you made Wheelie go away. I like Wheelie. You made him leave and he didn't want to go. He'd have stayed with me. He made me feel safe. He loves me. _You _don't listen to me. You're angry. You don't love me."

_:Heh. There you have it. What are you going to do about it?: _Ratchet couldn't help get a dig in at Aquaregia. If this was the worst that 'Regia ever had to deal with from his sparkling, he'd be lucky. If he couldn't handle this, he was definitely going to have problems when the kid got older!

_:Slag. Ratch, why don't we just reformat him? This whole thing is a mess. Start over, clean slate, he ... Pit, Wheelie shouldn't love him. He barely knows him. We need to reformat him, start over. This is a mess I don't think we can fix any other way.:_

Aloud, Ratchet said, "No." He set the wrench he'd been holding down onto the berth with a loud click. "No, I will _not _do that."

"Do what?" Sage said, sounding curious. "Are you mad at me for something?"

"No, kiddo. Not at you." Ratchet put his arm around the flier's thin shoulders, protectively. "Shh. It's okay."

Ratchet wasn't one for warm-fuzzy emotional displays, but he suddenly felt fiercely protective of the child. He was gratified when Sage turned into his embrace and buried his face against his chest plating. He stroked an undamaged area of the child's backplating and coldly informed Aquaregia, _:Over my dead body, and I mean that literally, will I reformat this child. There is _no _need. None. The last sparkling I did humane reformat on bit his own hands half off when we tried to restrain him with stasis cuffs, and had no sanity left. He was terrified to the point of it being real suffering, and nothing we could do could get through to him. This child, by contrast, may be giving you reactions you do not like, but I strongly suspect he will _still _give you answers you don't like after a reformat. He does not even come close to meeting the medical criteria for humane reformat.:_

Sage glanced up at him, then curled once more against Ratchet's chest. Ratchet glowered over the top of his head. Sage was relaxing, clearly more at ease with Ratchet than with 'Regia.  
_  
:I will take this matter to Fang.:_

_:Oh, that'll be entertaining.: _Ratchet smirked. _:I want front row tickets when you try to convince Fang that one of the sparklings he saved from extermination should be reformatted because it would be more _convenient _for you.:_

_:That's not what I meant!:_

_:Like slag it was. You want to win this sparkling's trust and love? It'll take work, but you could do it. You want to take the easy route. Get _**out **_of my lab.: _He paused, then added at Aquaregia's retreating back, _:If you're as loyal to Fang as you claim you'll let Fang catch a few hours of recharge. We'd only had about forty-five minutes of down time. He's up in my quarters crashed out right now and isn't planning on getting up until about ten AM.:_  
_  
:I'll take my sparkling with me, then.: _The commander, now truly angry, spun back around. The sparkling in question cringed back against Ratchet's chest.

To his credit, Aquaregia saw the kid's reaction and smoothed his expression over. He flashed the kid a smile that showed altogether too much of his dental plating, and was patently false to Ratchet's eyes, but the kid relaxed a little and hid his face against Ratchet's arm.  
_  
:You'll do no such thing.: _Ratchet narrowed his optics. While a long way from critical, kid needed repairs and a pitload of body work, and besides that, he didn't trust 'Regia. It didn't take a medic to reformat a sparkling and Aquaregia had a background in the sciences. _And _the child clearly didn't trust him. The trauma would be enormous if Ratchet let Aquaregia haul the kid off, against his will.

Decisively, he growled, _:I am intervening in the best interests of this child. I will call a counsel of the Primes to decide his fate. _You_, get **out **of my med bay before I call security.:_

Aquaregia pulled himself up to his full height. _:I'm rather starting to dislike you, Autobot.:_

_:That's Medic Prime. Get lost.:_

As he stalked out, Ratchet slumped a bit. He hugged the kid close, careful of his injuries. Sage whimpered faintly, clearly scared by the disagreement between the adults. Fang would side with him, certainly, but he was well aware of the political ramifications of making Aquaregia his enemy. 'Regia was Fang's second in command on Earth, and Fangface really didn't need his commander warring with his lover.

He also knew that finding Sage a new mentor was going to be tricky, at least partly on political grounds. After the arrival of the army, they'd drawn lots to determine the order that mechs got their sparklings, and all of the mechs with numbers coming up soon had their sparklings selected already, based on preferences for body type and processor configuration. He supposed someone might be willing to change their mind, but nobody on the schedule in the next few weeks seemed ideal for a traumatized kid. It was going to take tact and a delicate touch to convince Sage to trust a new mentor.

There were a few mechs scheduled to receive their kids in a couple of weeks that might work, but Ratchet didn't want the child to do without a true mentor for that long. Maybe someone could just take unofficial custody, "babysitting duty" basically, and nobody would notice ... he mulled over the possibilities. Arcee was probably the best bet, though he wondered if she would have the patience for the job. And she wasn't scheduled to get her kid for almost six weeks.

"Did I do something wrong?" Sage asked. He was relaxing now, fingers curling into Ratchet's grill.

"No, sparklet." Ratchet stepped back and raised the table, so that he would be on eye level with the child. "You're a brave kid. I'm proud of you for not panicking. I could see you were really scared."

"I'm scared." Sage's words were very soft. "I want Wheelie and nobody will go get him. 'Regia made him go away."

"It's okay to be scared, but we will take care of you." Ratchet spoke slowly and firmly. "Any friend of Wheelie's is a friend of mine, and I understand he likes you a lot. He asked me to make sure everyone treated you right."

"Where is Wheelie? I want to see him. What if he's hurt? Is he hurt?" The child was well-spoken, Ratchet noted. Sparklings came online speaking in everything from monosyllables to soliloquies, but short, clipped phrases were most common. Eventually, most sparklings got tired of the negative social feedback for "sounding like a baby" and started using complete sentences, but sometimes that took time. However patient sparklings like this one would sound like adults.

Most sparklings had the attention span of gnats. This child was clearly a different sort of personality. Most sparklings let their emotions rule their behavior. This child had remained calm, despite being deeply frightened.

"Wheelie's fine. You'll see him later."

"You made Aquaregia go away. I didn't like him. He was _mad _at me and I didn't do anything wrong!"

"I think he was more mad at me than at you," Ratchet murmured.

"He got madder when I resisted him," the kid protested. "He was mad because I didn't want him connected to me. I didn't like how he felt. I don't want him to do that again. Please don't let him do that again. Please?"

"I promise," Ratchet ran soothing fingers over the child's cranial plating. "I promise I won't let him do that again."

"Thank you," the child said, clearly believing his promise. Ratchet relaxed a little at that. There was _nothing _wrong with this child, psychologically. If anything, he was probably in better mental shape than a few of the other kids, including Prism, and definitely Array.

As a physician he'd learned he could predict a sparkling's reactions to medical procedures, and their behavior in general, simply by how well they used language. Sage was going to be a very easy child to work with, he thought. He was the sort of kid that mentors dreamed of having: bright, obedient, insightful, with a pitload of potential. A patient mentor would be able to earn his trust swiftly.

_I could take him myself ... _Ratchet thought, and gave the idea some serious thought for a moment before, reluctantly, concluding that he was just too busy. A few months from now, maybe he'd have the time, but not right now. It wouldn't be fair to Sage, though he had a suspicion that Sage _would _handle being babysat b with far more aplomb than Prism had.

Wheelie had volunteered to work in the SOA today, after he caught a couple hours recharge. He had commented to Ratchet that he didn't think it would be good for Sage's potential attachment to Aquaregia if he hung around the med bay, plus it was completely true that Aquaregia had demanded that Wheelie stay away from his child. Wheelie's expression had been something Ratchet wasn't going to soon forget. The kid was _hurting. _He was trying to hard to do the right thing, to be grown-up and mature, and Ratchet couldn't help but think that Aquaregia wasn't handling his disappointment nearly as well as Wheelie was dealing with the wretched grief of giving up a child he _knew _he couldn't have.

"Wheelie's ... not here." Ratchet sighed. Wheelie was just too young. It wouldn't be fair to either of them, would it?

"I'm really scared. Wheelie makes me less scared." Sage folded his arms across his chest and stared at Ratchet with wide eyes. "I really want Wheelie. Please? Can you tell him I want him?"

Even frightened, Sage was going to be easy to work with, but he hated to think the kid was scared. Aquaregia was out of the picture, if Ratchet had any say about it. With patience and encouragement, Aquaregia could have won Sage's trust and love, but the mech clearly wanted to take the easy way. He wouldn't put it past the Decepticon to do a reformat himself, if the medical staff wouldn't do it.

With Aquaregia gone, someone needed to take responsibility for babysitting the sparkling until they figured out who was going to raise him. Well, at least for today, he thought he had a solution for the 'babysitting' that would make two younglings happy.

_:Wheelie,: _he commed, _:you busy?:_

_:Very, sir: _Wheelie included an image of a work bench covered in dozens of optical sensors. Wheelie was apparently cleaning and testing all of them. He sounded irritated, and upset, and Ratchet wondered if he should feel sorry for the sensors. Wheelie was probably slamming the repaired parts together pretty hard. He'd seen Wheelie take his anger out on inanimate objects before.

_:Get your aft up to the med bay. You've got a friend who keeps asking for you.:_

_:Ratchet,: _Wheelie said, tone completely serious, _:I don't want to get between 'Regia and ...:_

_:Commander Aquaregia suggested we reformat the kid and I said over my dead body and kicked him out.:_

_:Ratch, I could kiss you.:_

_:Do and I'll weld your lipplates together.:_

That provoked a snort of laughter over the comm from Wheelie. _:Though still, is it a good idea for him to see me? You're going to have to get him to bond to someone else now, and if he's attached to me that'll be harder.:_

_:He's already attached to you. Maybe if he trusts you, you can help him see someone else as a good mentor.: _Ratchet couldn't help but smile at Wheelie's earnest attempts to do the right thing. Had there ever been a time when he'd viewed the kid with suspicion and wariness? It seemed like that had been a million years ago. _:Get your aft up here. That's an order.:_

_:Yes sir.:_

When Wheelie walked through the med bay doors, Sage's optics lit up. He straightened up and held his arms out to the smaller mech. "Wheelie!"

That was all the invitation it took. Wheelie's own face transformed from a scowl to a genuine, open smile. He scrambled up onto the medical berth and leaned into the sparkling's relieved hug. "How ya doing, scraplet?"

"I didn't want you to leave me," the sparkling said, arms tight around Wheelie. "Aquaregia doesn't listen!"

Wheelie shuttered his optics briefly, then said, "Yeah, well, 'Regia took care of you, right?"

"He didn't like _me_." Sage frowned. "I don't like people who don't like me."

"Smart kid. But I don't think Aquaregia dislikes you ..." Wheelie patted him on the shoulder. "You can let go of me now, I'm feeling a bit squished here."

"Oh." Sage released him quickly. "I am supposed to say I am sorry, right? I did not mean to hurt you. If I hurt you, you might not want to be around me. I don't want to be around Sunstreaker because he hurt me. You might feel the same way about me."

Wheelie stood on the berth next to him and patted him on the arm. "'S okay. You can hug me, just not so hard. You're too big to be rough with little guys like me. And I wouldn't leave you even if you accidentally hurt me, okay?"

_He's too young for real nuanced empathy, _Ratchet thought. _But he's making basic comparisons between himself and the feelings of others. Pit, I'd be happy if Sunstreaker would do that much without being kicked in the aft and told to _think _with his _processor _instead of his spark!_

The sparkling frowned. "I would feel awfully bad if I hurt you."

_Old spark, probably. _Had Ratchet been human, he would have described the sensation he felt as 'hairs rising on the back of his neck.' The kid just wasn't natural.

_:Kid's amazing.: _Wheelie met Ratchet's eyes over the top of his head. _:Boss, I'd love to see _you _take him as yours.:_

_:I don't have time right now, Wheelie, and there's others who will be a good fit for this child.: Primus, _he didn't want that sort of responsibility. Not any kid, and particularly not _this _kid. However, he moved closer and rested a hand on Sage's knee. "Okay, sparklet, I'm going to fix your leg first, because that's the easiest, and you can see it won't hurt when I work."

"Okay."

"Do you want to watch or do you want to lay back?"

"Watch."

Ratchet nodded. "Then you can sit up, but you need to be very still. If you move I'll have to cut your motor functions and you won't be _able _to move. But I think you're a brave kid and you'll just sit here and watch me work, right?"

"Yes sir."

He told himself the kid was just using the behavior routines that Wheelie had provided him, and it was nothing more. However, there was an almost eerie level of comprehension in those bright red optics. It was unnerving, to say the least.  
_  
_After half an hour, he had finished with the kid's leg and had moved on to removing the mangled remnants of his right wing (Wheelie had already done a good job at isolating the pain receptors for it) when he Fang slouched into the med bay.

Ratchet couldn't help it. He flashed Fang a smile. Fang looked grumpy and half-awake, with a much more cheerful looking Prism riding on his shoulder. He'd had barely two hours of recharge, his shiny armor was covered in water spots and mud from the rain earlier, and Ratchet could have simply _looked _at him forever. That grouchy, tired, in-need-of-a-bath mech was _his_. It really was the most amazing thing to know that Fang had seen his flaws and wanted him still.

Fang looked up. Smiled faintly. Said, "I just had a discussion with Aquaregia."

"I told him not to wake you up." Ratchet was not happy about that. That explained the sour look on Fang's face.

"You're not in his chain of command." Fang's snark was a palpable thing. _:I told him I disapproved highly of his request to reformat the child, in terms that left it clear he disappointed me.:_

_:Figured you would. Wish I could have been a fly on the wall, as the humans say.:_

Prism, who had been sitting silently on Fang's shoulder, suddenly sprang to the sparkling's knee. Ratchet made a grab for her, but she neatly dodged his fingers and bounded up to the kid's shoulder, also avoiding Wheelie's attempt to snag her. Sage didn't even jump, he just looked at her curiously. "Hello."

Fang rolled his optics. He also moved several steps close, every system humming with restrained tension.

_:The kid won't deliberately hurt her, and I'd be surprised if he did it accidentally,: _Ratchet said, and shared a clip of Wheelie's discussion with Sage earlier.

Fang didn't relax. Ratchet didn't expect him to. _:That's it. I'm making her a leash today.:  
_  
"Hi." Oblivious to their discussion, Prism chewed on a finger for a moment in a gesture that was so like Fang's nervous tic that Ratchet nearly laughed aloud. He wasn't worried about Prism's safety, though Fang was probably having a silent internal conniption fit.

After a long, slow period of curious study, Sage replied to Prism's greeting. "Hello. I'm Sage."

"Prism." She cocked her head to one side, then said, "You're gonna help us."

Sage smiled at her. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you're reaaaaaaallly old." She settled comfortably on his shoulder, curling up against his helm. "You're a kid, but you're way older than anyone I've ever met."

"Kiddo, how do you know how old he is?" Fang said. He traded a look with Ratchet.

"I just know. He's old, old, old." Prism smiled happily, looking content with her position on Sage's shoulder. "Way old. Older than Optimus. Older than Ironhide. Older than Grimlock. Ancient. Older than Kup and Skyfire and Starscream. Old. Really old."

"Okay, I get it." Fang grinned. "He's really old. How old?"

"Millions and millions and millions and millions of years. And millions."

"Uh-huh. And how do you know that?"

"He feels old."

_:Ratch, what's his spark date? Out of curiosity.:_

Ratchet sent a quick query to the sparkling's medical file and frowned when he discovered the lack of a spark date in the records. First Aid, who'd done the kid's overhaul, had noted 'date not found.' _:I'll check. I need to access his internals to disconnect a few sensor nodes anyway.:_  
_  
:Need to take him offline?:_

_:Nah, I'll just disconnect his motor functions. I don't believe I need to tell you what sparklings think of being taken forcibly offline. I think he'll stay calm if Wheelie stays with him.:  
_  
He turned to Sage, who said promptly, "I'm six point four hours old. She's giving you wrong data."

Ratchet laughed. "Prism likes you. What do you think of Prism?"

"She's silly. I'm not old."

"I am not!" Prism objected. "And you're old!"

"I like silly," the sparkling said, without anything but honesty in that voice.

"Okay." Prism grinned. "I'm silly."

Ratchet caught her and handed her down to Fang, who headed off towards one of the work benches, very likely with 'leash fabrication' in mind. "Sage, I need to work on your wings and I need to access some of your internals. What I'd like to do is temporarily cut access to a bunch of sensors. You won't feel any pain at all after that, but you also won't be able to move."

The child stared at him with wide eyes.

"Wheelie will stay with you and I'll tell you everything I'm doing before I do it. I'll be as quick as I can."

That got him another moment of thought before the sparkling nodded.

Wheelie tugged at his arm. "You're going to need to lie down. On your back first, then we'll turn you over."

"Okay." The sparkling's voice was very soft and hesitant, but he did as he was told. Wheelie took a seat cross-legged by his head.

"Can you see me okay?" Wheelie said.

The sparkling whispered, "Yes."

"Good. I'm gonna stay right here. Are you scared?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's okay. It's okay to be scared. I would trust Ratchet to work on me, however, and if he hurts you I'll make him stop. Then when you're all fixed we can do something fun."

_:Odd kid.: _Fang commented from his position seated on a work bench stool. Then he added, _:Wheelie, I hope you didn't give him _your _social rules.:_

_:What was this I heard about Mikaela's ankle?: _Ratchet asked.

_:Primus. I will never live that down. And he has the standard social behavior guidelines. You know, don't cuss people out, respect your mentor, and follow adult orders.: _Wheelie's grin was enormous. _:Basically, he has all the rules I never followed.:_

Fang laughed and put an arm easily around Wheelie's shoulders. The sparkling looked up at both of them, optics very wide. Fang chuckled, _:You weren't that bad.:_

_:You can say that now.:_

Fang grinned at him and said something on a private comm channel to Wheelie that made Wheelie snort a brief laugh, point a finger back at him, and probably respond with a mock threat. Fang's optics grew wide and an expression of faux terror crossed his face. He backed up, hands held up defensively, pretending to cower in fear. Ratchet watched the two of them with a bit of amusement. It was very good to see Fang and Wheelie getting along.

Then he turned his attention back to the sparkling, who was observing the byplay with wide optics and no comments or questions. Ratchet wondered if the child realized they were just playing. Did he have the ability to tell teasing from truth yet? Probably not.

Wheelie realized that the child was alarmed. He leaned over and murmured something low, and stroked his fingers over the kid's back. Sage shuttered his optics.

Accessing his internals went easy, surprisingly so. Ratchet had dealt with adults who'd fussed more over repairs. The sparkling simply lay quietly with his head in Wheelie's lap while Ratchet worked. Wheelie kept him distracted by telling him about the other kids - names, descriptions, funny stories. Fang interjected with a few tales of his own. The child didn't laugh, but he did smile occasionally.

The sparkling's memory core and processor had dates stamped on them consistent with one of Megatron's army of midget minions. However, as First Aid had noted in the sparkling's medical file, his spark chamber had _no _date stamped on it. He checked thoroughly, using a fiber optic camera to reach areas he couldn't easy see. It wasn't in any of the usual, or unusual, points.

He could have assumed it had simply been a rare production error. The technicians assembling his protoform might have simply forgotten to stamp the chamber. Mistakes did happen. However, careful scrutiny that this was not the child's original spark chamber. He flicked his optics over to several times magnification and studied the attachment points. There were scuffs and scratches around the bolts, and the protoform itself had been altered to retrofit in a new spark chamber.

Ratchet frowned, and ran a quick spectrographic analysis of the spark chamber.

It wasn't a modern alloy.

His optic ridges rose. Aside from specialized applications such as Fang's exotic protoform, they'd been using the same alloy for spark chambers for millions of years.

He looked up at Fang. _:Your kid's psychic.:_

_:Tcha! I'd begun to suspect that. How old is he?:_

_:Spark chamber is truly ancient. Damned if I know what it means.: _Ratchet dug a small laser scalpel out of his kit. He trimmed off a piece of metal no larger than a human's pinky nail and dropped it into a sterile sample bottle.

Fang's usual detail of Autobot guards was outside the door. Ratchet summoned Beachcomber inside the med bay and handed the sample to him. "Run this up to Percy. Ask him to date it and bring his report to me personally on an encrypted datapad."

After Beachcomber had left, Ratchet got back to work. He would need to fabricate new wings, but that wasn't urgent. The sparkling wouldn't be allowed to fly for a good long while, not until they were assured he could follow directions and handle the responsibility. For now, Ratchet just rolled him over onto his front and carefully removed the remaining wing and the damaged circuits and sensors from his back. While he worked, Fang moved to the forge and shaped a couple plates of duryllium to cover the holes that removing the wings left.

By the time Ratchet was done with the temporary repairs to the kid's back, Fang had the armor plates completed. They bolted them in place, then Ratchet reconnected his motor functions.

The child sat up, tucking his legs to his chest. He said softly, "Thank you."

"Aww, you were great." Wheelie sat down next to him, in a more relaxed position.

"I'm very tired," the sparkling replied, in the same quiet tone.

_:I'm amazed he hasn't fallen into recharge spontaneously after all the excitement and stress. - Wheelie, I don't think you've had close to enough either.: _Ratchet thought that the sparkling wasn't the only young mech who looked exhausted.  
_  
:I'll be okay, I'm not having any errors yet.:_

_:Hnnh. We can spare you for now. Go take Junior here up to your quarters and put him down for a nap. You take one too. When he wakes up do a scan of his processor and make sure there aren't any major errors.: _Ratchet frowned. _:Stay right with him. Don't let him out of your sight, don't let anyone else babysit him even for a minute. If you need to go do anything without him comm me or Fang or one of the other Primes. We'll take over.:_  
_  
:He ... me? You want _me _to jack in and do the scan?: _Wheelie looked puzzled by the orders.

_:If he doesn't have a mentor, one of the medical staff has to do it. Young sparklings need to be scanned frequently for hardware or software glitches, but you know that. You've been studying this, right? Time you got some hands on practice.: _Ratchet felt his expression soften as he saw Wheelie's consternation. He sighed across the comm at him. _:Wheelie, he trusts you. Let's not confuse him any more than we have to by having multiple people poke around in his mind.:_

_:I know he does. It'll just make it harder to give him up, the more I mess around with him.: _Wheelie wouldn't meet his gaze, or Fang's either. _:I do ... I do want him, as mine. I can't help _wanting _and it's gonna hurt like the Pit already to let someone else be his mentor.:_

Ratchet really was sympathetic. _:Wheelie, I know it hurts. However, until we decide who will get the privilege of raising him, I want you to take care of him. He is comfortable with you, and that level of comfort and trust is important. I know you don't want to get too attached, but making sacrifices on behalf of the kiddies is part of being an adult, yes?:_

Wheelie made a face, mouth turning down in a frown and optics rolling. _:I know, you don't have to tell me! Just ... don't mind me if I mope about a bit. 'Cuz I like the kid and I'm gonna hate to see him go on to someone else.:_ Then he slid off the table and then held a hand up to the sparkling. "C'mon, Sage. Let's go."

Fang made an exaggerated wince and shuddered, rattling all his armor plates, after they'd left the med bay. "Primus. What are we dealing with, Ratch?"

"That sparkling's just plain not normal." Ratchet shuttered his optics and rubbed his nasal ridge. "Prism, kiddo, how did you know he was old?"

She frowned. "I just did. He felt old."

"His spark did?"

"Yah."

"You can sense sparks?"

She shrugged, and wriggled out of Fang's arms. While scampering away under some machinery she said, "Can't you? He felt really old. New and old at the same time."

"I can't feel them like I suspect you can." He and Fangface traded a look. Such gifts were not unheard of - Soundwave had been notoriously telepathic - and could be explained and defined by quantum mechanics. It had to do with the quantum resonance of a mech's spark and various dimensional mumbo-jumbo that Ratchet could explain only after a refresher review of some very esoteric research papers. It was, however, a rare gift, granted quite sparingly by the Allspark.

"Well, no duh!" She stuck her head out from behind his work bench. "You guys just don't _listen _right."

_:Primus, that's the last thing I need, a _psychic _Prism.: _Fangface facepalmed. _:I have way too many problems as it is.:_

_:It's not always a problem.:_

_:Not if you don't mind never keeping a secret from your kid.: _Fang groaned. _:Nevermind what it does to their social life and their general psychological development. I wonder what her range is? Pit slagging hell. She's enough of a handful as it is. I love her dearly, but ... Pit! How am I going to keep ahead of her if she can tell what I'm thinking?:_

_:You're not alone in dealing with this.: _Ratchet pointed out, softly, gently. They were alone in the med bay except for Prism. He decided a moment of mush wouldn't kill him, particularly since Prism was distracted for the moment with a crayon she'd just found under one of the tables. He accompanied his words by kneeling and reaching out for Fang. _:If you're my partner I am her secondary guardian.:_

_:Pit. She could be listening in to our thoughts right now ...:_

Ratchet doubted that. The crayon was a lot more interesting to Prism than anything the adults in her life might be thinking about. Over Fang's shoulder he could see that she was trying it out on the leg of a table, and normally he would have scolded her, but he supposed it was good she was distracted just now. Fang willingly leaned into his embrace and he said firmly,_ :Focus on how much you love her rather than rejecting her because of a gift Primus gave her.:_

_:I'm not rejecting her!: _Fang said, sounding a bit frantic. He stiffened, trying to push away. _:Pit, I wouldn't do that, I wouldn't! Never again, never!:_

_:And she's gonna know that, if she gets good enough to read thoughts rather than mere feelings. It _will _be okay. You love her, and you want her, and she'll know that.:_

_:I know that.: _He scowled, then his expression lightened and he relaxed. _:You're right. She'll probably be okay.: _Ratchet's spark soared at Fang's willingness to take comfort from him. Though he would never admit it aloud, he knew he had very nearly lost Fang forever - and he considered Fang's decision to trust him unconditionally a minor miracle.

Fang then admitted, quietly, _:Ratch, I'm so tired, and it puts me in a really nasty negative mood when I get this way. I don't just mean the physical tired. I just wish we could catch a break for a bit. There's too much going on and it would be nice if we could just make the universe stop until I got caught up.:_

Ratchet sighed. Fang was the eloquent one of the two of them. He kept his response simple and practical. _:I can't make the universe stop, but I can make sure nobody disturbs you unless it's an emergency. Do you want to try again for a nap in one of the exam rooms?:_

_:You haven't had any sleep either.:_

_:I have a bigger processor and it doesn't need to be defragged as often. I'll be fine.: _Actually, he felt like living slag, but he wasn't about to tell Fang that either. It would not be the first or last time he'd worked while severely deprived of recharge. His role in the clusterfuck of a battle coming up was routine. Fang's part wasn't nearly as simple, and Fang didn't emotionally or physically deal with stress and exhaustion anywhere near as well as Ratchet did.

Therefore, Ratchet had decided, he'd make _sure _the damned little glitch got a nap, for all their sakes.

Fang studied his expression for a moment, then nodded quiet acceptance. _:Thank you, Ratchet.:_

_:Mmmhmm. Go.: _He could hear people - several people - approaching in the hall. _:Room number four. It's got soundproofing. Turn the lights down, put some music on, and take a nap. You've damn well earned it. I'll watch Prism until Percy can take her.:_

Fang stretched up to his full height, which, since Ratchet was crouching as low as he could without actually sitting, put them at eye level. He leaned over Ratchet's bumper, and pressed his forehead to Ratchet's shoulder. Fang stroked the Ratchet's jaw for a second and then whispered, "I love you, you know."

"Yeah, likewise. Now, get." He suddenly wanted nothing more than to curl up in a berth with Fang, but that would have to wait until later. Fang did need the rest, and Ratchet did _not _have time.

He raised a hand from Fang's slim hips to Fang's shoulder, intending to push him away. Instead, when his sensitive fingers touch the body that he'd repaired so many times, he turned the gesture into a gentle caress. He just didn't want to let go, slaggitall. So much for 'Get!' - an order to get lost that Fang was completely ignoring.

People were coming. It might be an open secret, but flaunting their relationship was a bad idea. They needed to be discrete. He knew he should push Fang away. Fang had a tendency to hyper-focus during emotional moments, and he probably didn't even know someone was coming ... Fang's optics were focused on his face, his mouth slightly open, and a smile on his lips. Fang started to lean into him.

Before he could shoo his lover away, however, the door slid open. With the secondary optics mounted on his back, Ratchet identified Starscream, and an accompanying pack of Autobot guards. He groaned mentally. Fangface stiffened and hastily retreated from the intimate touch, eyes narrowing at Autobots and seeker indiscriminately. "Breathe _one word _of mockery and I will have your plating," Fang promised all and sundry.

Starscream smirked at him and held both hands up, imitating defensiveness. "I'm not feeling suicidal today."

Ratchet mimicked Fang's earlier facepalm.

Fang's expression morphed from indignant embarrassment at being caught in an unguarded moment straight to real, honest worry for Starscream. Ratchet could read him like a book; Fang was thinking about those horrible memories Ratchet had shown him. Ratchet, by contrast, was relieved by Starscream's snarky comment. A long recharge and time to think about what had happened and replay a few memories had probably done the seeker a world of good. Starscream being Starscream, he was now trying for a reaction.

Fang being Fang, Starscream _probably _wasn't going to get the reaction he was angling for. Ratchet was pretty sure that the Starscream thought he knew Fang, having commanded him for many years. However, Fang had been keeping his head down and his nose clean, intent primarily on survival, for most of that time. He had not been carrying a Matrix. His priorities were different now, and Starscream was going to need to adjust his assumptions.

After flicking a glance at the Autobots accompanying him, Fang simply said, "Starscream, we need to talk."

Starscream blinked at the complete lack of irritation or defensiveness from Fang. He gave Ratchet a narrow-eyed suspicious look, most likely correctly assuming that Ratchet had discussed the events of yesterday with Fang, then demanded, "Why?"

"Follow me," Fang said, making it a firm order. He padded off into the exam room that Ratchet had previously indicated had a privacy shield. Starscream scowled, but followed.

Ratchet thought the reaction of the guards was interesting as the two disappeared into the room. It said something about Starscream's reputation that Grimlock was leading the security detail, and every single Autobot on it was of the large, heavily armored, viciously aggressive type. All six of them ... _twitched _... when Fang disappeared into the room and the door slid shut. By their expressions and body language they didn't like leaving Fang alone with Starscream.

For his own part, he wasn't concerned about Fang's safety. Starscream wasn't armed, and Fangface could rip him apart in a physical fight.

Ratchet looked up at Grim when the big dinosaur shifted his weight slightly. Grimlock grinned toothily but didn't say a word. Ratchet snorted.

Grimlock then said, in the brightest, perkiest voice that Ratchet had ever heard come out of the crusty old warrior's vocalizer, "Me, Grimlock, think Fang _cute_."

There were lots of mechs he'd expected to be teased by. Grimlock was not on the list. Ratchet stared at him in frank surprise.

Grimlock grinned, baring many teeth.

"Angling for permission, are you?" Ratchet recovered swiftly. Never let it be said he couldn't give as good as he got. "_I've_ never minded threesomes and if you think he's cute I'd be happy to set you up."

Grimlock's smile disappeared. He observed in his usual grumbling tone, "Pit slag. Ratchet _scary_." His eyes narrowed. "You not share. Grim not want scrawny nervous glitch for mate, but you not share. You _lie_."

Grimlock was far more perceptive than he usually let on. Amused, Ratchet replied, "Me, Ratchet, _really _scary if any of you lot utter a word of this in gossip. All of you, _get_!"

At least Autobots obeyed orders better than Fang did. They headed for the door en mass, even Grimlock. Grimlock stopped in the doorway, however, and said over his shoulder, "Ratchet, are you sure you can trust him?"

Not a trace of the speech impediment in _that _question, Ratchet noted, even as his annoyance flared that Grim still didn't trust Fang. Grimlock had his reasons, but the constant paranoia was getting irritating. "Yes, I'm sure. Now get out of here!"

Grimlock exited with what looked like an irritated swish of his tail. You had to sort of know him to read the satisfaction in his body language. He didn't trust Fang, and he apparently thought he'd made some sort of point.

Ratchet wondered what the Primes whispered from _Grimlock's _Matrix.

_:That he needs a girlfriend,: _Vermillion Prime said to Ratchet, with a loud cackle of amusement. _:And that every time he thinks 'damn predacons' he needs to remember he technically is one now.:_

_:Hello, Vermin,: _Ratchet managed to respond calmly, as if he hadn't just booted half his combat routines in surprise. Of course, Vermillion knew he'd been startled by his unexpected voice, but Ratchet was proud that he'd kept his voice level.  
_  
:What, I am curious to know, would you have done if he'd taken you up on that offer?: _The ancient Prime asked. Vermillion sounded deeply, deeply amused.

Ratchet thought Vermillion Prime was a lot less like Optimus and a lot more like Sideswipe. That observation earned him a cackle of laughter. Ratchet said, _:I would have forwarded the proposition on to Fang just to see the Snowflake glitch out. - You got anything to tell me, Prime, or are you just here for the chuckles?:_

_:I was eternally grateful when the Matrixes accepted you lot, you know. Optimus is a wonderful mech, but he takes himself so seriously even inside his own processor that he's a bit boring. Between you and Grimlock and Rodimus, I don't believe I've laughed as hard over the last few weeks as I have in millions of years.:_

_:I'm glad I amuse you. What do you _want_?:_  
_  
:Healer Prime,: _Vermillion Prime said, sounding serious now, _:It would be nice if you treated me with the respect due my position.:_

_:Riiiiiight. You just admitted to giving Grimlock dating advice. If Primus himself ever deigns to speak to me, I'll polish off my manners. It'd piss you off if I called you 'sir'.:_

Peals of laughter from the ancient Prime made Ratchet smile. He liked Vermillion, and his affection only grew when the ancient Prime said, _:Healer Prime, you were accepted as a Prime due to your empathy, your strength of character and your leadership abilities. Tact is not actually a job requirement.:_

_:Thank Primus for that, or you'd have to fire half of us. What do you _want_, Vermillion?:_

_:Aside from some personal respect? I wish to plead to you to make sure that Sage's best interests are looked out for.:_

_:Vermillion?: _Ratchet said, surprised that the child was that important. With a sudden, growing, sense of anticipation he asked, _:Who is he, then?:_

_:A simple child.: _Vermillion's normally cheerful voice tone turned serious once more. _:He was something more, once. Ratchet, I did know him, personally, when I was young and he already had lived a life spanning several million years. He was the most selfless and humble mech I ever knew. I asked him once, however, if he had any selfish wishes. I was teasing, mind, but he answered me honestly.:_

Ratchet found he was standing very still. Who _was _the child?

_:He ... said he would like to return someday, after he died, and live an ordinary life in the society he helped create. To be a part of it, rather than an observer, an outsider ... In his first life, he was created into a time of chaos and savagery and madness, and he gave us the seeds to become one of the greatest civilizations ever to grace this reality. All he wanted ... the only selfish wish he had ... was to live someday as just another mech, and to enjoy the fruits of the world he had created. He was always set apart, always treated as a holy relic of a time long gone. He helped create our world, but he was never a part of our world.:_

_:He wanted to enjoy the fruits of his labor?: _Ratchet shook his head in disbelief. _:Who, Vermillion? Who is he?: _His eyes narrowed. _:The eighth Prime. Slaggit, he's been under our noses!:_

Vermillion laughed. _:No, the child is not the eighth Prime.:_

_:Then who is that Prime? I've been scanning every mech who comes in this facility for a Matrix.:_

Vermillion snorted. _:You can stop doing that.: _The ancient Prime seemed to think for a moment before adding, _:Actually, technically, Sage would be considered a Prime. Once you have been a host to a Matrix you do not lose the title even if you have passed the Matrix on to another. However, weren't referring to young Sage when we decided to tease you with that puzzle. Besides, if he had a Matrix, he'd be able to recover his memories from the Matrix's core and he would be no sparkling at all.:_

_:Can't you just give me a straight answer?:_

_:It's not nearly as much fun.: _Vermillion giggled. Ratchet scowled. Ancient dead Primes were not suppose to giggle like an overclocked Jazz. _:However, since you asked so nicely, he has the spark of one of the thirteen original Primes.:_

_:... Sent by Primus himself to lead our people from darkness.: _Ratchet breathed. Oh, the child represented such _hope_. They needed a child like that, a leader like that, someone that their people could truly rally around and follow. He could be the symbol that their world needed. And his memories ... if one of them carried his Matrix, he _could _be given his memories back.

Tartly, Vermillion snapped, _:I said I want you to look out for his best interests.:_

_:But we need ...:_

Vermillion had clearly been observing Ratchet's thoughts. He said sharply, sounding annoyed, _:You need no such thing.:_

_:... Vector.: _Ratchet repeated in disbelief, a guess fueled by a quick query of his own Matrix. Vector Prime was the only one of the thirteen unaccounted for. Though long presumed dead - at least in their reality - his body had never been found. He'd disappeared while visiting another, parallel, reality. He repeated, _:You're telling me Vector-slagging-Prime is here, with us?:_

_:Nice guess. And no. I'm telling you his spark is. Vector-slagging-Prime died almost a million years ago. The Decepticons found his ship in orbit around an alien star, his spark a bare flicker maintained on this side of the Well only by the hand of Primus, his Matrix gone before his death. His shell, his spark, were stranded there for millions of years.:_

_:Primus.: _Had he been human and a follower of certain flavors of Christian Ratchet would have crossed himself. As it was, he very nearly dropped to the ground, to one knee, to bow in reflexive humility. Only the fact that he was already seated, and he wasn't sure in which direction to bow, stopped him.  
_  
:Indeed. Primus.:_

Ratchet recovered his composure after a couple of system resets. _:Vermin ... Vermillion ... but what of our interests?: _He shook his head. _:I can do the math. We are perilously close to dying out as a people. If he saved us once, he could do it again. They started with _thirteen _people gifted by Primus with sentience, and the Allspark, and a horde of mechs with no more than machine language for an operating system that they had to civilize. From that raw beginning they built a society, a world, in a few scant generations. The spark gifts ... the spark gifts Vector must have ... oh, Primus. Primus. We need him so bad.:_

_:Ratchet, you do not need him. Not as a leader, and not even as a figurehead.:_

_:But ...:_

_:Optimus, Ironhide, Grimlock, Rodimus, Bumblebee, Fangface and yourself. Seven Primes. Seven heroes, leading the last remnants of our people to a new world, a new way of life. Seven who will lead us back from the brink of the Pit.:_

_:Then why ... why would Primus save him, keep him alive, I assume you literally meant that Primus intervened ... but if he's not needed ...:_

_:I cannot speak for Primus or his reasoning. However, I made him a promise.:_

_:A promise?:_

_:Yes, Ratchet, a promise. Would you like to see a memory I have of him?:_

_:I ... yes. Of course.: _

He expected a memory _file_. He didn't anticipate that he would to suddenly find himself standing, unobserved, in a room on Cybertron. He was _home_, in one pulse of his spark. Out one window he could see the spires of a Cybertronian city. On the opposite side of the room, Cybertron's sun was rising over the mountains. It felt incredibly real - he could smell the chemistry of Cybertron's thin atmosphere, feel the heavier gravity, and sense the cool bite of temperatures close to the freezing point of water. His internal heater kicked on, and his hydraulics adjusted to his increased weight.

Traffic noises hummed up from a street below. It was as if he'd suddenly been transported to the Cybertron he'd known and deeply loved before the war. Only when he looked closely did he recognize that, while the skyline was very different, but he could see the mountains beyond the city limits. Those were fairly unchanged, and he'd viewed them every day from his apartment a block from the Senate building and five minutes from the university, in those long-lost pre-war days. Iacon was his home, and he'd never expected to see it again.

_:When?: _he asked, when he could speak without fuzzing his words with static. It hurt to see it so very real, and to know this was an illusion. He knew, logically speaking, Iacon was gone. All that was left was a bombed-out ruin, the remnants of the famed towers now jagged, twisted, blackened stumps. Multiple nuclear strikes with the dirtiest weapons that the Decepticons could produce had left Iacon a radioactive no-go zone, hazardous to even hardy Cybertronian life.  
He could never go home. There was nothing to go home to.

He firmly told himself that this didn't exist, even though every sensor he possessed insisted that it was real.  
_  
:This is from a time about six million years ago.: _Vermillion said, then added in a rather too-controlled tone, _:It was my home too, Ratchet. We are not immune to feeling strong emotions, even when we pass on to the Well.:_

Two mechs stepped into the room, in the illusion that Vermillion had cast. The render was so detailed he could scarcely believe it. Renders could typically duplicate tactile and auditory information, but not temperature or scent or gravity. He wondered how Vermillion was achieving the last ... he couldn't conceive of a rational explanation. He clamped his plating tight to his body in a reflexive reaction to the unease this line of thought created. It was strange. Supernatural.

One of the mechs who had entered was tall, elegant, Optimus's height but that was the only resemblance. He was all golden armor and long limbs, elegant and lean, and Ratchet knew his alt mode was a sleek golden jet. Ratchet recognized him immediately, gasped, and then froze, half afraid the mech would hear him. It was only a memory, and the two figures did not react to his presence, but he felt as if he was in the very room with them.  
_  
Never _had he seen such a realistic holographic render. He could sense the faint vibrations through the floor as the big mech moved, could detect the trace exhaust products from his power plant, could feel a slight eddy of air as the ancient one walked past him. He had green optics, a face that was still and quiet, though not inexpressive: a small smile played around his lipplates, and his eyes seemed calmly amused. His wings were backswept and elegant, and Ratchet knew he transformed into a sleek fighter not unlike a seeker.

So realistic ... so very, very realistic.

Dryly, Ratchet commented to Vermillion Prime, _:Hnh. Bet you could give someone one hell of a nightmare if you wanted.:_

_:Can. Have.: _The ancient Prime snickered. _:The Fallen hated me.:_

_:Good for you.:_

_:Optimus has been less than pleased a few times too.:_

_:Good for you.: _Ratchet had wanted to smack their fearless leader upside the head with a clue bat occasionally. He was pleased to surmise that the Order had taken care of this need for him. The ancient Prime promptly responded to either his words or his assumption with a gigglefit that would have done a sparkling proud. Ratchet fought the urge to roll his optics. He was unimpressed by the snickering.  
_  
_Meanwhile, in the render, the ancient golden Prime was completely serious when he said to Vermillion's much younger image, "Vermillion, I must thank you."

"Not a problem, boss." In contrast with the golden mech's formal cadence, the holographic Vermillion's response was cheerfully informal. Ratchet wasn't the least bit surprised. "You looked like you needed a save, there."

The golden mech's lipplates tilted up with just a little more of a friendly smile. He wasn't unwelcoming of the other's casual cheer, but his own demeanor remained reserved. "Indeed."

Ratchet turned his attention briefly to the smaller mech, whose paint was a brilliant red shading towards orange. The young Vermillion was shorter than Ratchet had mentally envisioned. This was definitely a _young _Vermillion, before he ever became Prime. Aside from being about Jazz's size, his appearance suited his personality: cheerful, energetic, playful. He'd clearly added some height later in life, as most of the memories of him in Ratchet's Matrix and in the ancient history files that Ratchet had studied were of a taller mech.

His optics were as green as the Ancient One's, which was probably a deliberate choice as a sign of affiliation.

In the render of that time long ago, Vermillion had the raised insignia of the Iaconian Senate on his chest plate, with embossed modifiers indicating he was a high-ranking oathsworn servant. Even as Ratchet watched, Vermillion produced a polishing cloth from his subspace and made a twirling motion with his fingers. "Turn 'round, Boss. You've got scratches on your back."

The golden mech smiled a little more and did as he was ordered by his underling. Vermillion stretched upwards and attacked the marks with efficient fervor. "Spiral's a nitwit, Vector. You know that."

_Vector Prime_, Ratchet thought. The realization caused a rush of disbelief and awe. Even though he knew this was an illusion, he felt as if he was in the presence of that ancient hero.

"Spiral worries." Vector sighed to his servant. "There is nothing I can do to assuage his concerns, and some of them are valid. His method of presentation of those concerns is perhaps not ideal, but he does have a very good point."

"Still, he didn't have to express that point at such length."

"Which is why I thanked you for manufacturing an incident to draw me away from the meeting." Vector half turned to look down at Vermillion. Ratchet was surprised by the twinkle of amusement in those green eyes now.

"Hold still," Vermillion chided. "I'm almost done here." He was industriously buffing out nearly invisible scratches.

Vector ignored the request, and turned the rest of the way around. Vermillion took a step back, polishing cloth hanging from his hand, and gazed up at the ancient Prime. "Sir?"

"I just wanted to make sure you knew how fond I am of you," Vector said. "It is moments like your actions this day, when you act out of personal concern for me, that remind me why."

"Yeah, yeah, I know I'm your favorite." Vermillion seemed embarrassed by the praise. He shuffled in place. "Never could figure out why, but ..."

Vector corrected sharply, "You are not my _favorite_, inasmuch as your usage of that term would imply preferential treatment. I do not have a 'favorite' among the staff. Have I ever treated you differently than any other sworn to my service, despite my fondness for you?"

"No," Vermillion sighed, frowning. Now his embarrassment was a clearly lot more genuine. "No, you don't. I'm sorry. I .. it was wrong of me to imply that you do."

Vector touched Vermillion under the chin, urging him to look upwards and meet his gaze. Ratchet saw the first hint of a break in his poise, however, as Vermillion's posture shifted ever so slightly towards the defensive. The mech said, "However. Unlike many, I consider you my personal friend, Vermillion. Were it not ... if not for for who they think I am ... if I had another life ... I would ..." he trailed off.

The tall golden mech's self-assurance had _completely _vanished, making Ratchet want to laugh. He'd never expected in his lifetime to see Vector-slagging-Prime flustered. Very clearly he was, and he'd stumbled to an awkward halt, optics suddenly wide and startled. He apparently had no idea what to say, though both Ratchet and the young holographic Vermillion had a good idea of what he _meant_.

Young Vermillion's optics were wide and bright, but also dancing with merriment. He gazed up at his leader with awe. "... Vector Prime? What are you saying to me?"

Vector Prime shuttered his optics and did a systems check, centering himself and regarding his poise before speaking. He said, more coherently, "If I were another mech, I would ... have made my interests clear to you a long time ago. I fear that what I would like to say to you would be ... unfair. I do not ever wish to pressure you, or make you feel obligated by anything I want of you beyond the purely professional."

"Unfair?" Vermillion flared, sudden anger rising to the surface. "How do you figure it's unfair? What are you _saying_?"

"They think I speak with the word of Primus." Vector stepped away from Vermillion and walked to one of the windows. There, he stood with his hands behind his back, gazing out at the city. "They hang on my every word as if our God himself uttered it. I am a mere mortal, Vermillion, imperfect and flawed, with both gifts and weaknesses inherent in my Spark, as with any other mech. I was created with gifts that make me a good leader and a better researcher and explorer. Yet they do not acknowledge my flaws, only my strengths."

Vermillion folded his arms in irritation. "I get it. You like me, you're afraid if you make an overture they'll harass me about it. Slag that. You're too isolated, too lonely. Frankly, you need somebody. Not necessarily me, but someone."

"I do not believe that they will think _negatively _of you, though I suppose some may be jealous, and try to prove you unworthy. However, if I chose a partner," Vermillion bowed his head, "then I fear the majority of mechs will imbue traits upon that partner that he does not possess. Surely, the partner of Vector Prime must be as perfect as he supposedly is ... you would find such assumptions quite stifling."

Vermillion snorted. Ratchet could see that he wasn't taking the discussion quite seriously, perhaps because it was too much for him to process.

The younger mech said lightly, jokingly, "Nah. Such assumptions would only last until the first time I lost my temper and cursed someone out. You know me, Vector. Nobody would have illusions about my supposed perfection for long. They'd just have to deal with the real me - probably be good for the whole slagging lot of 'em, our whole world, to be reminded nobody's perfect." He made a flipping gesture with one hand, as if shooing away the concerns. "Nobody's _ever _gonna think I'm perfect."

Vector was very, very silent for a very long moment. Finally, softly, he said, "Because I am mortal, because I have the real desires and needs of a real mech, because I am very fond of you and think perhaps it is love and it has been a very long time since I have known anyone with the strength of character and the courage to be my partner... then I ask you, _would _you consider it?" He added wryly. "As evidence of my own imperfections, I am asking you this knowing that it will not be easy for you to be my ... lover."

The smaller red mech took a startled step backwards. He stared up at his leader, mouth hanging open, eyes wider than they had been before. "... Me? I didn't expect you to really _ask _for _real_. I didn't think you were serious about this ... I'm sorry, I thought you were flirting or something weird ... you don't flirt, I shoulda realized ... I'm sorry ..."

"You are one of the few people in this world who treats me as an equal," Vector said, quietly. Ratchet could see the nervousness in Vector's stance, but he was a medic, trained to look for subtle cues. He wondered if Vermillion could read the tension.

Vector continued, "I have suspected for a long time that you may feel love towards me. I wish you to know that the feeling is reciprocated, Vermillion. I ... ask knowing you will need to make sacrifices for this relationship. I ask this knowing it will not be easy for you, but ... I want you as more than a friend. I ... can see you were not expecting this. Perhaps you should think about what I am offering before answering."

He added, with a ghost of humor, "I still won't treat you with favoritism compared to the others, outside of our private lives."

_Definitely nervous, _Ratchet diagnosed. Vector probably had not been planning on propositioning - perhaps _proposing _might be a better word - his servant, but Vermillion's impulsive words had given him an opening.

Vermillion shook his head, suddenly, somewhat to Ratchet's disgust. If Vector-slagging-Prime asked you to be his partner, and you loved him, the answer you should give was pretty damn clear to Ratchet. However, the young mech protested, somewhat desperately, "Vector, _no. _It's not the sacrifice! I'd lay my life down for you, and what you represent, but be your _partner? _I'm not worthy!" The red mech stepped backwards again, tripped over his own feet, and went clattering to the ground with an enormous crash of metal.

Vector's expression stilled. He made a swiftly aborted movement to offer Vermillion a hand up, thinking better about reaching for the younger mech when his hand was halfway extended and Vermillion continued to stare at him in complete disbelief.

Ratchet couldn't read a thing about the ancient Prime's emotions now; the mech's famed reserve and dignity were very clearly in evidence, and were also probably a complete act. Ratchet pegged him as being a lot like Prowl, in that the only way you could tell he was truly upset was that he was showing no emotion at all.

He stood tall, cool, unexpressive, and asked in a voice that held no emotional modifiers, "That is your definitive answer, then?"

Ratchet thought if he'd been in Vector's shoes he'd have tried to do a little more convincing. However, Vermillion's fall and the noise it had generated were bringing guards at a run. Several large, heavily armed soldiers burst into the room without hesitation or invitation.

"I fell," Vermillion said, stiffly, to the guards, as they rushed to the pair. Vector now moved to offer him a hand up but two of the guards inserted themselves between Vector and Vermillion, one murmuring, 'Allow me, sir,' to Vector as he pulled Vermillion back to his feet. The other, not particularly discretely, stayed alert to any possible threat, with a special and blatantly suspicious focus on the servant. Vermillion was almost certainly known by the guards, but it was very clear that they trusted no one with Vector's safety, not even his most closely trusted servants.

Given Vector's legendary fighting prowess, Ratchet figured the guards were redundant, but as any good medic knew redundant systems were sometimes very necessary. Still, he was surprised by the swift reaction. Vector's famed energon sword, supposedly a gift from Primus himself, hung from his hip. He had cannons mounted on both forearms, a plasma knife strapped to one leg, and - if the legends were true - a near legendary ability to reformat his alt mode in mid fight, in a blink of an eye.

Why were they so paranoid? He didn't understand.

"My Prime, sir, what happened?" The biggest of the guards asked, sounding worried. "Did he assault you, or was there trouble?"

"No trouble," Vector said, "I trust Vermillion completely. He simply was surprised by something I said, and tripped. You may go."

"Yes sir," the guard said, dubiously. "My Prime, if you're sure there is no issue ..."

"None. I was having a private conversation with Vermillion, and would like to resume it."

It was a clear dismissal. The guards saluted, then left swiftly. When they were gone, Vector turned back to Vermillion, and said with a small smile, "They worry about me too much. You are trusted, and they know that, but their job is to be paranoid of everyone and everything."

Ratchet thought there was just the faintest hint of bitterness in those words, a ghost of resentment. That suspicion was confirmed when the tall golden Prime seated himself on a bench, and said in that same soft, calm tone to Vermillion, "Will you sit with me?"

"Sir?"

"Sit with me, please." Vector held a hand out to the younger red mech. "Just for a little bit."

"I ..." Vermillion blinked, but took the hand that Vector was offering. The Prime pulled him forward, and Vermillion squeaked in mild protest as Vector slipped his arms around him. "Your plating, sir, you have an audience with the senators later, and I'll scratch it ..."

_Good for you, _Ratchet thought, with approval, about Vector's actions. He had no doubt that Vector would let Vermillion loose if he really protested. Vermillion's objections didn't look like they were all that sparkfelt.

"Shh." Vector swept an arm under his legs and pulled him into his lap. This created a clatter of metal on metal and, inevitably, the door opened again.

Vermillion froze and for a terrible moment Ratchet thought he was going to start struggling. Vector, however, simply looked over Vermillion's head at the guard and said, in a tone that was _definitely _bordering on annoyed, "Please make sure nobody disturbs us, Silverstrut."

"I ... ah ... _YES _sir." The guard retreated rather hurriedly. By his poleaxed expression, this had not been a scenario he had ever envisioned.

Vector turned his attention back to the mech in his arms. "Shh. Relax."

"Sir, I'm just a servant, we can't, why _me? _You ... you could have anyone you want, I'm not ..." Vermillion still wasn't fighting for freedom from the older Prime's arms, but he was clearly ready to now. "Sir, the appearances, sir ... are you trying to _seduce _me?"

"I am not." Vermillion answered the last question with a slight slackening of his arms. "I ... believe you love me, though, is that not correct?"

_Slagger, _Ratchet thought, irritated against all logic, _Vector, you should have answered 'yes' - you might not be planning on 'facing the little glitch until he trips every breaker in his frame right now, but I'm betting that's in your plans. _

"But I'd never _act _on that love!"

"I thought you saw through the illusion others have cast around me," Vector tightened his grip again. When Vermillion started to speak, Vector interrupted him to add, "Shh. It's okay. I am not trying to seduce you, Vermillion. However, it has been a very long time since anyone has dared to, as you pointed out, to scratch my plating. If you love me ... will you indulge me in this, just for a little bit? Please?"

_Oh, for crying out loud! _Ratchet rolled his optics. _Just grope his damned data ports until he gives in. If he really wanted loose I don't think he'd be shy about telling you, not Vermillion ... mech hasn't known how to shut up since the day he was onlined._

Vermillion Prime cackled in Ratchet's mind, and Vermillion-the-servant from so long ago subsided, and relaxed, leaning into the tall golden Prime's chest. Vector held him close, arms around him, hands spread across his back. He leaned back and shut off his optics and just sat there for a few minutes. Finally, the ancient Prime spoke, "... this is not how I envisioned this admission to go, Vermillion."

"... But ... I do, I know you're just a mech, you've told me that, but this isn't ... I couldn't possibly ..." Vector stammered.

"Shh. I've heard, and I understand, your stance. I did not read you correctly. You were interacting with me as an equal not because you saw yourself as my peer, but because you knew it pleased me. It was all an act, albeit a very good one." Vector stared off at nothing, primary optics unfocused. "You will use that ability to act with such convincing realism to do great good in your life, I believe. There is no maliciousness in your spark, no evil."

The words had a ring of truth to them, Ratchet thought, but Vermillion squeaked some sort of protest that ended with, "... but I'm not your 'peer' and you asked me to be informal with you and I wasn't really faking it, I do like you, and ...!"

"Shhh." Vector stroked the other's fiery plating. "It's okay. I understand."

The ancient Prime's expression was terrible to see. Lonely. Bereft. Heartbroken. Ratchet again thought that he should have tried a little harder. In Vector's tracks, he _would _have seduced the little slagger - he would have turned the platonic embrace into a lover's clench, murmured reassurance and asserted his feelings until the mech in his arms believed his words were true. Once two people met mind to mind, Ratchet knew, it changed everything - and if the two loved each other, there would be no more confusion about their true feelings for each other. He knew better than most that this didn't magically solve all relationship issues in a twinkling, but he strongly suspected that young Vermillion simply didn't believe that Vector Prime had fallen in love with him.

Ratchet believed it. You didn't look that sparkbroken without there being true feelings involved. Plus, he could see the appeal. If not for millions of years of temporal distance and the obstacle of one of them being dead, and one neurotic predacon who'd never forgive him, he could _totally _see the appeal in Vermillion Prime. The ancient Prime made him smile.

_:Now that,: _Vermillion Prime responded, in Ratchet's head, _:Is one of the basic differences between you and me. You've never once doubted your self worth, have you, Healer Prime?:_

_:Not particularly, no.: _Ratchet purred, _:And you know, someday we _will _meet face to face when I join the Well ... it's not totally hopeless between us. If Fang and I don't work out ... some millions of years in the future when I finally kick off, we could always start something ...:_

_:Pit, Ratchet! You're truly scary, and just for that I'm going to make sure still you're alive when the universe dies of entropy.:_

_:Thank you, I try.: _Apparently, Vermillion Prime was not immune to teasing. Ratchet was absurdly pleased to detect a faint note of flusterment from the ancient Prime.

Vermillion-the-servant, meanwhile, simply looked confused, though by the way his hand slid up to rest over Vector's spark, Ratchet was pretty sure he _did _have feelings he didn't want to completely acknowledge.

_:Yeah, I loved him.:_

_:Dimwit. You shoulda groped _his _data ports, then.:_

_:Would you have dared if you were in my tracks? He was Vector Prime.:_

_:... Yeah. I'd have dared.:_

_:Yes, you probably would have.:_

Vermillion-the-servent had shuttered his optics and slowly relaxed into the Prime's grasp. Finally, he murmured, "I ... do love you, Vector. As more than just my Prime. But you _know _that. It's just that I'm a servant, and before I was a servant, I was an uneducated laborer."

"Do not forget that I, too, am a _servant_. I serve all of our people." Vector said, slowly, as his hands continued to stroke Vermillion's armor. Vermillion's optics remained closed. He seemed to be focused completely on Vector's touch.

Vector continued, speaking steadily now. He had been flustered earlier, but now he sounded calm. "You know, I just want to be one among many. I want friends, and family, and a lover. Children. I want to enjoy this civilization I helped forge ... and part of me feels it is selfish to wish so badly for such a life, yet it _is _what I want."

Vermillion started to speak, but Vector interrupted him to continue. "You should be far more than a servant. When I am gone you will have the funding to attend the best university and upgrade your form to whatever you wish to become, for you are wasted in your position now."

"When you're gone?" Vermillion planted one hand in the middle of Vector's chest and pushed back, sitting upright so he could look him in the optics. "Vector?"

The mech gave him a crooked smile. "Nobody lives forever, Vermillion. And I am the oldest of our people living."

"Feh. You'll probably outlive me. Particularly the way that the guards watch over you, and the way the medics obsess over you," Vermillion snorted, bringing his optics back online. Vermillion-the-servant suddenly looked at Ratchet and said softly, directly to him, "... I so wish I'd been right, of course, but it was not to be, Healer Prime. We ... lost him ... only a scant few years after this. I will never forget the wish he admitted to ... and though we were never lovers, I was very close to him. I know what he wanted."  
_  
_The vision faded out abruptly and a familiar voice called his name. "... atchet? Ratchet, answer me, slaggitall!"

First Aid's very worried features suddenly filled his view. First Aid was trying to hook a datapad into Ratchet's dataport, clearly thinking he'd glitched out. The younger, and normally mild mannered, medic growled, "Slaggit, you glitch!"

Ratchet realized his joints were locked tight, as if he'd been in recharge. He blinked, trying to figure out how he'd been unaware of First Aid's presence. Even if he couldn't have seen him, he should have felt First Aid touching him. He didn't move, assessing the situation, and not entirely sure that _this _was a real scenario. For all he knew, Vermillion was still screwing with him.

"Slaggit!" First Aid reached into his subspace, came up with a laser scalpel, and reached for the hinges of Ratchet's chest plating. Ratchet knew _that _drill - First Aid was clearly intent on cutting a path to Ratchet's processor the hard way, and uplinking to Ratchet's processor through one of the internal ports. Ratchet's external ports were locked tight under heavy-duty covers that he'd designed himself.

Ratchet drilled his staff mercilessly on the techniques, using the corpses of the dead, until any of them could get through an average warrior's plating in under fifteen seconds. Ratchet figured his specially reinforced plating might slow First Aid down for a few seconds at most. He wasn't inclined to wait and see if that was a holomatter First Aid or the real thing when there was a scalpel headed for his armor!

He caught 'Aid's hand with a swift grab, startling First Aid into a squeaky yelp. That noise, so unlike First Aid's normal calm competence, convinced him this was _real_. They stared at each other, First Aid looking more than a little frightened. Only when Ratchet was sure he could talk without sounding unnerved did he say calmly, "I am fine."

"_Fine_?" First Aid demanded, "You weren't responding, and your vitals were all strange! Hydraulic pressure too high, you were running your heater and it's eighty slagging degrees in here, and your were watching something I couldn't see!"

"I'm not glitching," Ratchet growled.

"You spent all night with Fang," First Aid snapped. Ratchet wondered how he knew that - then he spotted a frightened silent Prism in the background. _Prism _knew where he'd been, because she'd woken in the next room, and she was still here because he had volunteered to watch her. 'Aid added, "If you've caught a virus you may think you are okay and you are _not _... it could be fragging up your processor as we speak and, with all due respect sir, we _cannot _risk losing you!"

"... huh?" Then, offended, he growled, "If Fang tried to infect me with a virus, I'd _win_." He didn't let go of First Aid's hand until he added, "And I'm irritated that you mistrust my judgment in partners. Or my powers of observation. If Fang was secretly Unicron's First Disciple, I'd have figured it out by now."

First Aid pulled his fingers free, and glared right back, showing a rare flare of temper. "Fine. You were also in _Starscream_'s head yesterday. If you try to tell me Starscream couldn't match you byte for byte in processor power I will hit _you _with a wrench.." First Aid pressed his lip plates together in a thin, angry, frightened line. He added, "Optimus is on the way with Smokescreen and Elita."

Ratchet was pretty sure, at least, that Elita could take out his firewalls. Not that he'd disobey a direct order from Optimus Prime to submit to a scan. However, all of this was rather unnecessary. _:Vermillion, you made this mess. You'd better clear this up or I'll use my Matrix as a paperweight.: _

After a second, he belatedly realized just what Vermillion had _done _to give him that vision. He growled, "Slag! The Matrix has a direct link to my processor core and he used it to bypass my sensor input." Ratchet heaved himself to his feet and gave his subordinate a wary glance after he was standing.

"They don't usually do that, do they?" First Aid's voice held an annoyed growl that Ratchet figured he'd learned from the best, namely one older cranky medic. He definitely wasn't bothering with his best bedside manner; Ratchet was getting a dose of the same assertiveness that First Aid had learned to employ when dealing with the likes of Ironhide or Grimlock. However, with Ratchet's somewhat reasonable explanation, First Aid looked like he was relaxing a little. "Do we have problems?"

"It was a plea for my sympathy complete with surround sound." He tried to sound reassuring now that First Aid wasn't threatening to carve him up with a laser scalpel, but he suspected First Aid could tell he was shaken. Ratchet had not been aware that the Order of the Primes could hijack his sensors. He'd assumed Vermillion had simply cast a holographic render, but if that was the case, First Aid would have seen it too. First Aid obviously had seen nothing of the kind and Ratchet had been totally unaware of First Aid's presence.

Ratchet ran a hand over his face. He wasn't sure he liked _anyone _having that much power over his systems. He wondered if they could firewall his Matrix off a bit. It would be a good question for Elita ... the pathways that the Matrix used to sync with his memory core were hard wired, however, and the programming was probably part of his base machine language. It would take an interesting modification of his operating system to alter the level of access.

What he'd seen in the memory that Vermillion showed him, however, left him wondering wondered how things had turned out Vector and Vermillian. The information wasn't in his Matrix, though Bumblebee - who bore the same matrix Vermillion had - probably knew. He felt shaken, and suddenly very, very tired.

_:I will always regret that day,: _Vermillion said, quietly. _:He was very special he was to me. To all of us, really, but it was personal between was my friend, and I want what is best for ... what remains, the child reborn with his spark.:_

_:Sage.:_

_:Sage, yes. Brilliant name, by the way. Wheelie has the spark of a poet.:_

Ratchet sighed. He heard what Vector was saying, but he thought the bigger picture was what the child could mean to their people. _:Vector, if we could find his Matrix, you know we could restore his memories. The 'cons won't follow Optimus readily and Fang is going to have an uphill battle to keep control over his own side without alienating ours. Now, _Vector Prime_? they would follow. He could _unite _us, Vermillion.:_

_:I am shocked you would suggest that,: _Vermillion's tone turned genuinely angry. It was a cold, hard anger. _:You! You who have championed Ranger's right to exist. You, who just defended Sage himself from Aquaregia's misguided but well-intentioned plans for him. You would erase this child?:_

_:This is different,: _He responded, _more _than a little defensive. He knew it was a wrong answer even as he stammered, _:It's - it'd be for the greater good.:_

_:Would it?: _Vermillion snapped. _:You try to reformat that sparkling and you will find yourself ranked with the Fallen, Healer Prime, for betraying not only your own beliefs and your oath as a healer, but Vector's, as well, and for ignoring the very teachings of Primus.:_

It wasn't an empty threat. Ratchet rocked back on his heels, aware of First Aid's silent scrutiny. Shamed, he started to apologize, but Vector interrupted him.

Merciless, furious, Vermillion growled, _:Vector would be devastated by what you and your counterparts have done to our people with this ceaseless, senseless war. Everything he worked for and believed in is **gone**.:_

Ratchet snapped, _:- Slag take it, Vermillion, I'm sorry. I'm old, I'm tired, I've seen too damn much. The life of one child didn't seem to be too high a price to pay for unity. Call me a cold-sparked drone, but I've just lost too much.:_

When so many other millions of children had already died, ending one sparkling's existence didn't seem a high price. He had never raised a child himself, but he thought of all the sparklings who had been his patients, the younglings of friends, Optimus and Elita's children ... a whole _planet _of Nebulans ... the loss of one more life barely begun seemed scant price to pay to end it. He knew to heart of his spark that the Cybertronian people _would _unite around Vector Prime.  
_  
:You listen to me, **Healer **Prime. You can either raise the dead in the hope that one mech - who was nothing other than mortal - can solve the problems you as a race have brought down on your own heads. Or you, **Healer Prime, **can look that child in the optics and tell him **you **will build a future for him so that he may grow up and live a life that Vector always dreamed of. Vector Prime devoted his life to our people. You would honor him best by making sure that Sage can live the life that Vector wanted.:_

"I ..." Ratchet's vocalizer fritzed with static when he tried to speak aloud. He reset it. "Yes sir."

_:**Good. We understand each other.**:_

Vermillion's presence disappeared just as Optimus stepped through the door. Ratchet sat back down in the chair, covered his face with both hands, and sighed.

Make a better world for the sparklings. End the war. Rebuild. Create a future. A tall order indeed. Vermillion had said that between them they had all the strength and skills they needed. He found it impossible to believe that they could really _do _it without a miracle. He didn't believe in his spark that they could really engineer a peace, lay down their arms and rebuild from the ashes of the past.

That realization - his lack of faith in himself and his fellow mechs - shocked him through to his core.

He'd been operating under the cynical subconscious assumption that the war would last until there was literally no one left to fight. That they'd passed the point of no return long ago. Oh, sometimes he felt glimmers of optimism, but in his spark ... hope had _died_.

He glanced towards the room that held Fang, and felt almost dizzy when he realized what this meant in terms of his relationship with Fang. Fang was the _Decepticon _Prime. Peace was very much in Fang's hands ... and Fang gave him _hope. _Fang was restoring his dreams for the future.  
_  
_Optimus was kneeling beside him, hydraulics hissing and gears whining as he descended down to Ratchet's seated eye level. Ratchet met Optimus's concerned gaze and said gruffly, "I'm fine. I'll be fine, Optimus."

His leader's gaze was a little too knowing. Optimus said wryly, "Vermillion is not very subtle, is he?"

"Do you know about ...?" Ratchet asked. He was wary of even speaking this secret aloud.

"I have some suspicions." Optimus rose. "We should discuss this later. I believe that the Primes should meet urgently to determine who shall mentor the sparkling that Wheelie saved. We can share the information Vermillion provided with the others then, as well."

He nodded curtly. "I'll get Fang and meet you. Optimus - the Primes aren't always right."

Wryly, Optimus observed, "That goes for us _and _them."


End file.
